Summary: Matt gets hot and bothered when you start touching his scars.
Warnings/Tags: 18+, MDNI, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), biblically accurate whiny Matt, scratching, scars, no choking but Matt puts his hand on your throat to feel you moan, mentions of past violence, sorta overstimulation.
"What happened here?"
Matt dragged his hand down your naked thigh, and a shudder overwhelmed his already overstimulated body as your fingers absentmindedly danced across his slick shoulders. He slowly raised his attention from where it had strayed between your knees, and his swollen lips parted with a shaky exhale.
"What?"
You cocked your head, and your warm cheeks pulled tight with a smile as you traced the same line again.
"Your scar," you said, idly stroking the skin. "I've never noticed this one before." He could hear your eyes shift back to his face. "What happened?"
A breathy chuckle left his mouth, and he hung his head, a lock of damp hair sweeping past his flushed cheek.
"It's hard to remember," he admitted, skimming his lips over the inside of your knee. "They've all started to blur together at this point."
You pressed your lips together in amusement, and your hands shifted to tickle his delt, tracing the silver lines littering the flexing muscle as he shifted above you.
"I like looking at them," you murmured as his mouth wandered back to your knees, the sound of your drumming pulse drowning out most of your audible sentiment. "I like looking at you."
"I like looking at you, too," Matt murmured, a smile splitting across his busy lips at your following giggle. His eyes flicked in the direction of your face, and he raised a brow. "Can I continue now?" he asked, already beginning to trail kisses down the inside seam of your thigh. You hummed in confirmation, but your hands continued to wander.
The warmth of your scent overwhelmed his senses as Matt lowered his face between your parted legs. Heat radiated from your parted folds, and the resounding sound of your hammering pulse had his eyes rolling back into his head. He took you by the ankles when your legs threatened to close, grounding himself as his thoughts grew hazy. Your body twitched with anticipation, and your breath hitched as his lips skimmed your slick skin. The sheets shifted beneath you as your shoulder drew together.
And yet, despite gripping your thighs as they quivered with pleasure, despite smelling your arousal as it flooded your slit, despite listening to the high-pitched noises as they freely left your parted lips, and despite sensing all other clear signs of your obvious, mind melting pleasure, you still managed to ask, "And this one?"
He blinked, and the sound of your steady voice had his working mouth pausing.
"What?"
A full laugh rumbled through your body, and he listened to the friction of skin against fabric as you relaxed back deep within the ruffled sheets. You brushed your thumb over a thick, raised piece of healed skin stretching from the tip of his bicep down to the junction of his elbow.
"This scar, Matt," you said, the sensation of your fingers sending goosebumps erupting across his upper body. "How'd you get this one?"
Matt's face contorted out of confusion—brows rubbing one another and nose wrinkling—and audible evidence of his perplexity escaped from his throat as he opened his slick mouth.
"You're still talking about the scars?" he asked, and the heat of your cheeks moved as you nodded. "Really?"
"Afraid so," you teased, and you must have noticed his face falter because you quickly added, "I'm curious!"
"But why now?" Matt asked. "I'm sort of in the middle of trying to do something with you, and you—" he began, frustration apparent as he shifted, "—and all you want to do is... is—what?" he asked, shadow swallowing you as he buried his anchoring hand into the sheets besides your head. "Listen to me talk about all the times I've been stabbed?"
It was difficult to differentiate between the beat of his own irritation-fueled, escalating pulse and the excitement of yours. One of your wandering hands smothered itself over his heart and the other cupped his heaving side, and the effect of your hot palms on his skin was immediate and obvious; his jaw fell open, his eyes practically crossed, and his entire body jolted under the touch of your nimble fingertips as you played his protruding abs like the strings on a guitar.
Matt couldn't hold back the strangled mewl that fell from his numb mouth as his dick twitched against the smooth skin of your belly.
"I thought you liked it when I touched you, Matthew," you murmured, and he grit his teeth at the clear amusement in your voice. "Do you want me to stop?"
"No," he said quickly before snapping his jaw shut and hanging his head. "Don't."
"Then tell me about this one," you said, and he felt the tip of your finger encircle a prominent scar on his lower ribs. A whine left his throat at the sensation, and he struggled to keep his answer steady.
"Bullet," Mat bit. "'Just grazed me. I—" he began, but the words fell out of his wide open mouth as you palmed his twitching pec. "I can't remember who shot it."
He felt your hand wander from his side, and you repositioned your arms to rest over his shoulder, your fingers continuing to explore the expanse of his quaking back.
"You've got a lot over here," you murmured as he managed to slowly lower himself to his elbows. His hips moved at their own accord, smothering his dick between his own quivering stomach and yours. Matt had to bury his face in the crook of your neck to muffle his groans as you poked and prodded at his back. "You should watch your back more often."
"I'll keep that in mind," he grunted only for his entire body to seize as you dipped two fingers into the cavern of muscle that trailed along his spine. You hummed and followed the wide scar all the way down to his lower back which arched into your touch. His hips twitched out of instinct, and Matt moaned as his dick pulsed.
"What happened here?"
"Jesus, woman," he whined, fisting the sheets beside your face. "Knife—no—hook," he said, swallowing. "It was—uh—Japanese mobsters—the Yakuza."
"Did they catch you by surprise?" you asked, and his breath hitched as you dug your fingers into the superficial skin. "'Seems like it was deep."
"It was," Matt wheezed, audibly out of breath. "It was very," he murmured, and thrusted his hips against your stomach, desperate for friction, "very deep."
Your fingers danced over the healed-over skin, gently massaging the growing ache in his tense muscles.
"Do any of them still hurt?"
He huffed into your neck, and his jaw felt like it was permanently hinged open.
"That one does sometimes," he murmured into your skin, lips wet with his own saliva and your slick, "but it's better when you—" he tried, and his back arched like a cat's into your palm, his dick bobbing against his stomach "—when you touch it like that."
"Maybe I should touch you more often," you said, and his eyes rolled back into his head as your hands flattened out across his lower back and sunk his hips into yours. The tip of his dick ground into your folds under the pressure of your hands, pushing roughly against your slit for somewhere to go before clipping your hole and slipping inside in one swift motion.
Matt's entire body shuddered, already overstimulated as he wetly moaned your name in your neck. You hummed, and your smile brushed the shell of his ear. "It seems like you enjoy it when I touch you, Matthew."
No longer able to think clearly with the horny haze fogging up his mind, Matt's hips moved on their own accord. His own slick, trembling skin slapped against your composed hips, and his cock chased its own high while the rest of his body found overwhelming stimulation from your prodding fingers. Every swipe, smother, and stroke of your hands had his body jerking and twitching like a man possessed.
Matt desperately mouthed at your pulse, and he swallowed around the pound of your heartbeat to muffle his whines when the signs of your whittling composure flooded his senses; your breathing had grown erratic, the rise and fall of your hips threatened to fall out of time with his own rhythm, and the most wonderful sounds vibrated the box deep in your throat.
"Matt," you gasped as his hand reached up to rest around your throat. A strangled cry left his wide open mouth as your vocal cords hummed like electrical wire beneath his palm, the signs of your need overwhelming his system. Your hands grasped his shoulders to ground yourself as his pace began to falter. His mouth moved against your neck, but he couldn't form words. "Oh, Jesus, Matthew."
The noises fell freely from his mouth as he felt your slick legs lock around his tilted hips, and your hands desperately clawed at his back for something to hang onto. Matt's entire body convulsed as your nails dug themselves deep into his middle back and dragged themselves all the way back up to his shoulders. And as your body seized around his, the pressure inflaming the burn of the long scratches marring his back, for a moment, Matt swore he saw God. His hips chased the internal pleasure as a hot, white, overstimulated shock overwhelmed him, and his dick jerked within your mutual release.
It sounded like he was underwater, and only the thunderous, slowing pulse of your heartbeat broke through his waterlogged ears. His whine was muffled as he slowly pulled his hips from yours, his core quivering and his thighs trembling, and he lazily reached up to wipe the mess of drool from his lips as he raised his head.
One of your hands cupped his jaw, and your thumb smeared the remaining spit on his lips.
"What's this one from?"
Matt hummed as your voice broke through the obstruction in his ears, and he leaned into your palm as your thumb passed over his top lip to follow the ridge of an old scar. An exhausted chuckle ripped through his spent lungs.
"You really are somethin' else," he grumbled, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. You grinned against him and lazily threw your arms around his neck, brushing the fresh marks lingering in his skin.
"I think you might've given me some new scars," he murmured, rolling his shoulders back. Goosebumps erupted across his body as you tickled the fresh area of sensitivity.
what if reader is really trying to go somewhere but dex wants them so stay, so they do and a little later if dex is asleep or distracted, they leave and spend a little too long at the place they're at. and when reader finally comes home dex is SPIRALLING and almost in tears because he thinks he's a problem for reader... my clingy man
𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄. 𝜗𝜚 dex.
r e q u e s t e d ♡
What was meant to be only a quick trip stretches into hours, and when you finally return home you find your boyfriend unraveling, panic and shame spilling out as he’s convinced your absence means you’re slipping away from him.
It wasn’t supposed to stretch like this.
A couple of hours, that’s all you’d promised, a birthday drink, a handful of hellos, maybe a toast or two before slipping back out into the night. That was how you’d rationalized it when you pulled on your jacket and stepped out, leaving your phone behind on the counter like a deliberate act of rebellion. Freedom in the shape of silence.
The apartment you walked out of had felt controlled and still; the place you’ve landed now feels like the opposite. Bass ripples up through the floorboards, the kind that sticks to your ribs and makes your blood beat in time with the music. Your friend’s laughter rings out somewhere behind you, the sound splintered by the press of bodies and chatter.
You’ve lost track of how many drinks you’ve accepted, only that the glass in your hand keeps changing shape, a highball here, a coupe there, always refilled before you’ve even realized it’s empty. Time moves soft and blurry, gold and warm and careless. You know the city outside has slipped into late night, but you’re still tucked in this pocket of noise and neon, thinking vaguely about slipping away but not yet making the move.
Before this, your boyfriend had spent the whole evening trying to anchor you with him. Dex had a way of making even soft words feel like weight; stay, don’t go, just stay here with me tonight. You’d nodded at first, the way you always did when his gaze went glassy with panic. Yes, you’d stay. Yes, it could wait. Yes, you were his.
But later, when his attention had snagged on something else, you slipped out. You didn’t even risk shoes with laces, just slid into your boots, jacket half-zipped, and let the door click softly behind you. He would wake up if you waited for sleep to take him. He always did, as if your absence was some low-frequency sound only he could hear.
The city air had felt electric after that, like it knew you were running from something. This party wasn’t even special, but you couldn’t bring yourself to bail. Your friend’s birthday, the invite you’d said yes to months ago, you told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That Dex would settle, that he’d calm down, that you’d only be gone a couple hours.
Now the hours have stacked up. The bar’s energy has dulled. Laughter thinning, glasses half-empty, people pulling on coats, calling cabs, ducking out into the cold. And suddenly the thought of Dex is there, unignorable, coiling low in your stomach; not just him, but the way his eyes would track you when you slipped your keys into your bag, the way his hand would find yours like a question he couldn’t stop asking.
You glance toward the door, the night feels heavier now. It’s late enough that he’s probably awake, pacing, thinking. You should probably go. You’re sure of it in the same way you’re sure of the bitter taste on your tongue, the ache in your temples, the smear of sweat at your collarbone.
You weave through the last cluster of friends, a soft smile and a clumsy goodbye hug for the birthday girl. “Happy birthday,” you smile, and she laughs, oblivious to the weight in your chest. Outside, the air hits you like a splash of cold water, sharp against flushed cheeks and the remnants of a drink too many.
You call a cab with unsteady fingers. Every step toward the waiting vehicle pulls at your stomach, a low, constant twist. Dex. Dex at home. Dex pacing the apartment, voice muffled through walls that aren’t really walls when your mind can hear him in every creak, every sigh.
You left your phone deliberately, and it presses at the back of your skull: no tracking, no calls, no “where are you, what’s happening?” It was the only way you could leave, the only way to breathe outside of his orbit for a few hours. But now that distance curls around your chest, a gnawing panic, because you can’t know how much he’s twisting in the apartment, what loops he’s running through in your absence.
The cab door shuts. Rain has started, spitting in ribbons across the windshield, and the driver hums low music you barely hear. You slump back into the seat, the warmth of the car a small, temporary reprieve, but the dread coils tighter as the city lights blur past. Every red glow, every flicker in the rearview mirror, whispers he’s awake, he’s awake, he’s thinking of you, he’s spiraling.
Even as the cab drifts forward, carrying you closer to him, closer to the moment you’ll see the fallout of your absence, you can’t shake the tight knot in your stomach that’s been growing since you stepped into the night. The storm isn’t outside, it’s waiting for you at home.
The cab tires hiss as it slows to a stop. You step out, a little unsteady, the alcohol in your system tugging at your balance and nudging your chest into a faster rhythm. Each step toward your building feels heavier than the last, every footfall dragging your stomach down with it.
By the time you reach the door, your palms are slick, heart hammering as if it already knows what’s waiting behind it. You pause, take a long, deep breath, letting it shiver out of you slowly, and then push the door open.
Dex is already there, blocking the threshold before you’ve even taken a full step inside. His chest is tight, shoulders coiled, jaw clenched so hard you can see the line of it under his skin. “Where the hell were you?” His voice is almost shaking with emotion, and then it cracks, the kind of anger that comes from fear and betrayal rolled into one.
Your stomach drops. He’s mad. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers curled like he wants to reach out and grip you, but something in him tells him not to, that he can’t risk hurting you.
You open your mouth, start to explain, but he slams the door fully shut behind you with enough force to rattle the frame. The sound echoes, a punctuation to all the dread you’d been carrying in the cab. “You said you’d stay,” he snaps. “You fucking said! And you left! You lied!”
His eyes flicker over you, wide and frantic, pupils blown, as if searching for the version of you that promised him safety; the version he feels like he lost. His chest heaves, shallow, ragged, like he’s trying to suck in air. You can see it in the glossy sheen of his eyes, that shimmer that teeters on the edge of tears, and the way his hands shake, loose at his sides, twitching, like he’s trying to catch something that’s already gone.
“How could you do this to me?” His words are jagged, tearing themselves out of his throat before he can soften them. “You said you’d stay. You told me you’d stay. You fucking liar.” It’s more than just being gone. It’s betrayal. It’s the feeling that the person he relies on, the person he trusts, isn’t really there, that you had to lie just to get away from him. You watch him reel, fists curling and unclenching like he can’t hold onto anything, not even himself.
You can see the thought-process behind those eyes: I’m too much. I always ruin things. I’m a problem. They’re leaving me because I’m broken. You weren’t gone that long. You weren’t trying to hurt him. But his mind doesn’t measure in minutes; it measures in stakes, in safety, in the impossibility of holding onto someone who disappears, even briefly.
You open your mouth, his name, an explanation, you’re not even sure what, but he cuts you off before you can form it.
“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t start with excuses. You left your phone here on purpose.” His eyes flick to the table where your phone still sits, screen black. “So I couldn’t reach you. So I couldn’t stop you from…” He swallows hard. “…from leaving me.”
The apartment is a mess, papers half-crumpled on the floor, a chair knocked over, a glass on its side. Dex, who alphabetizes his cereal boxes, whose entire morning ritual is a clockwork loop of order and repetition, standing in the middle of chaos like a man in a wrecked boat.
His voice cracks on the next sentence. “Am I too much? Is that it? Am I—” He gestures vaguely at himself, a broken, jerky motion — “—a problem? Did you need to get away from me that bad?” He laughs then, but it’s a hollow, brittle thing. “You had to sneak out. Like I’m some - - some monster you have to tiptoe around.”
The words spill out faster, overlapping, the way panic does when it’s been caged too long. He doesn’t pause for you to answer. He doesn’t seem like he could. His thoughts are too loud; you can see it in the twitch of his hands, the rapid dart of his eyes, the way his shoulders hunch as if bracing for a blow.
“You can’t just… vanish,” His voice rises as if he’s running out of air and words at the same time. “I thought —- I thought I could .. I thought you—” He stops, biting his lip, shaking his head. His eyes flick to the floor, then back up at you, glossy, frantic. “Do you even want me here?”
“Of course I do,” you say immediately, trying to slip beneath the roar in his head. You step closer, slow enough not to spook him, and your hands find his wrists, warm palms closing gently over skin. “Hey—Dex. Look at me. Right here. Breathe with me.”
He jerks once under your touch, as if he wants to pull back, but doesn’t. His chest rises fast, shuddering, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching like he’s chewing on the panic. You slide one hand up his arm, to his shoulder, thumb moving in small, grounding circles. “In and out. That’s all. Just in… and out…”
“I—” His breath catches. “You lied to me. You promised. And then you were gone. I was—” his voice cracks, and the rest dissolves into a half‑choked sound. His hands twitch toward you, then stop, then twitch again like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to hold on.
“I know,” you whisper, leaning in until your forehead almost touches his, until he can’t escape the calm you’re building. “I’m so sorry, Dex. I messed up. I shouldn’t have left like that. That’s on me.” Your thumbs press lightly into his pulse points. “You’re not too much. You’re not a problem. I love you. I’m here.”
He inhales sharply, but this time it’s softer, like something cracking open instead of tightening. You guide his hands up, pressing them against your chest so he can feel your heartbeat under his palms. “Here. Feel that? I’m not going anywhere. Just breathe with me. In…”
His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, clutching, still shaking but following the rhythm you’re giving him. “…out,” you murmur, keeping your voice a tether. You repeat it until his breath starts to stutter less, until his eyes flicker shut and the glossy panic gives way to something smaller. You stay right there, touch and voice both steady, holding him while he shakes, whispering over and over, “I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.”
His eyes open, and a scowl comes like a flash of lightning. “You smell like alcohol,” he observes, half‑hoarse, half‑accusation. The words aren’t loud, but they cut, riding on the tail end of his panic.
You let out the smallest, unsteady laugh, not mocking but soft, “Yeah,” you admit gently, brushing your thumb across his temple. “I had a couple. Birthday party, remember? But I’m here now. With you.”
His jaw works, trying to hang onto anger but slipping back toward panic, his shoulders rising high, high, high. You guide him with your hands, coaxing him toward the couch, not pushing, just a steady pressure backwards until he sits. He goes down stiffly, still clutching your shirt, but he’s sitting.
You kneel in front of him, one hand still at his wrist, the other moving up to cup his face, palm warm against his cheek. His skin is fever‑warm, and your thumb strokes the corner of his mouth where his scowl trembles. “Stay with me.” you inhale slowly, exaggerated, so he can see the rise of your chest and mimic it.
He tries to copy you. There’s a flicker, anger dissolving into hurt, hurt dissolving into fear. “Don’t—” he starts, voice breaking, “don’t do that again.”
His voice cracks on the word “again.” His breath still comes too fast, shoulders rising and falling under a weight you can’t see. “If I’m—” he starts again, but the words knot, break, tumble out anyway. “If I’m too much, just—just say it. Don’t sneak out. Don’t lie. Don’t make me think—” He pauses like coming to terms with a harsh truth. “You wanted to get away from me. You did want to get away from me, didn’t you?”
You press your palm firmer to his cheek, thumb stroking a slow circle over his skin. “I didn’t leave because of you. I wanted to be there for a friend. That’s all.” You keep your eyes on his, not letting him slip away into the gaps of his own thinking. “I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m here now.”
He swallows, his expression flickering between anger and desperation. “Promise?” It’s a child’s question asked in an adult’s voice.
“I promise.” You brush his hair back from his face.
He clings tighter, then tighter still, a low sound caught in his throat, following your hands when you shift. You start moving through the apartment because it gives you something to do, because you can feel the mess pressing on him as much as his panic presses on you. A glass tipped over on the counter. Papers scattered, pens knocked to the floor. It’s all out of character for him, and you know it’s feeding the spiral.
You pick up a bottle. A book. A pillow from the floor. He follows you, magnetized, hands brushing at your elbow, your back, as though he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loses contact. “I just…” he mutters behind you, “…don’t want to lose you. I can’t.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you say softly, stacking dishes, tossing stray wrappers, your motions slow so he can watch. “I’m cleaning up. We’re resetting. Breathe with me while I do this.”
He nods, a jerky little movement, shadowing you step for step. He’s still angry, you can feel it, but underneath the anger there’s only fear. Fear that if he looks away from you, you’ll dissolve.
“Kiss?” The word is small and uncertain between you. It’s not a demand, not even a question in the usual sense; it’s a plea, soft and childlike, the shape of a need he can’t dress in anything tougher. His fingers hover at your sleeve, not tugging, just waiting.
You lean in and brush your mouth over his. His hands loosen a little at your sides, then clutch again, like he’s checking that you’re real. “I love you,” you affirm against his lips, and then another kiss, until you feel his shaking start to ebb.
When you finally move to finish tidying the last bits of the room, he trails after you, eyes never leaving your movements. The apartment quiets as you set things back in place, and then you turn to him, palm out. “Come on,” you say softly. “Let’s get you changed.”
He follows you back to the bedroom without a word. You help him peel off the sweat-damp shirt, the fabric clinging to his back. He doesn’t look away, even when you’re focused on buttons and zippers, as though a blink would risk losing you. You find him a soft tee, clean shorts; he lets you guide his arms through the sleeves, his movements pliant but shaky.
The sheets are cool when you lay him down. He immediately reaches for you, palms sliding to your hips, pulling you down with him before you can straighten. His eyes are locked to yours. “Stay,” he whines, the word half a breath, half a command.
You settle beside him, threading your fingers through his hair. “I’m staying.”
He presses his forehead to your collarbone, arms cinched tight around your waist, his heartbeat thudding against your ribs. You feel the tremor still inside him, the way he fights closing his eyes, lids fluttering but never dropping all the way. His gaze keeps darting up at your face, worried you’ll sneak out again.
“Sleep,” you coax, brushing his temple with your thumb. “It’s okay.”
He shakes his head minutely, nose brushing your skin. “If I close my eyes, you’ll leave.”
You don’t try to argue. You’ve already learned what that does, words against a storm only scatter into noise. He won’t believe you right now anyway. Instead you exhale slowly, the sound soft against his hair, and let your palms slide beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers finding the heat of his back. Skin to skin. He inhales sharply, not in surprise but in relief, muscles shuddering under your hands as if you’d just turned on a light in a locked room.
His breathing stays uneven. Yours isn’t much better. The alcohol still fuzzes the edges of everything, and closing your eyes makes the ceiling tilt, but you do it anyway, palms splayed over the plane of his spine. Neither of you speaks. He holds you as if that will keep you from dissolving. You hold him as if that will keep him from breaking.
You don’t tell him it’s okay. You don’t tell him you’ll stay. You just stay.
