being babied by matt and having him use his soft raspy voice on me in the most mocking way possible while he sexually tortures me into submission would fix me
he gives me stupid brain Q_Q
matt murdock has you in his lap, flushed and aching, bare skin pressed to the silk of his loosened tie. he hasn’t even changed after work—white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, slacks creased and cool under your thighs.
your back’s to his chest, head tucked under his jaw, legs spread open across his lap. and instead of giving you what you begged for—his fingers, his cock—he lifts your hips and slides something else beneath you.
cold. smooth. unforgiving.
the rounded end of one of his new batons. reinforced. thicker.
you clench instinctively as he eases it in—slow, merciless. the sound you make is wrecked before it even leaves your throat.
“i know, sweetie,” he reassures you immediately, the rasp of his voice low in your ear. one arm hooks under your knee to hold you open, the other pushing the toy deeper. “it’s not what you were hoping for. but it’s still good for you.”
he adjusts the angle of the toy—working it in, dragging it out. he sets the pace, torturously slow.
“been fussy all day, huh?” he says softly, brushing his lips against your temple. “don’t think you’ve earned my cock tonight.”
he fucks you with it slow, mechanical, maddening—his pace steady and precise. every stroke angled just right to make you feel it.
“breathe,” he murmurs again, a free hand dragging slowly across your lower lip, releasing it from under teeth, your eyes screwed shut in effort. “you can take it. relax.”
you nod, helpless, trying to keep your hips still as he controls the rhythm—pressing in, pulling out, letting you flutter and shake around it without relief.
his free palm rests heavy on your belly. grounding.
“good,” he breathes. “just like that. soft. easy.”
your breathing starts to hitch. body tight, cunt dripping, teetering—
—and then he pulls it out. just presses the slick rounded end of it to your clit and starts to circle it—slow, unbearable arcs. teasing. patient. cruel.
“still with me?” he asks softly. kisses your temple like a reward when you start grinding into it, too far gone to care. “that’s it—you know what to do.”
you sob his name, your slick coating the toy, dripping down onto his slacks.
“see? still making a mess just the same, huh,” he chuckles, brushing your hair back.
and when you start really trembling—legs shaking, eyes welling, your body starting to fold in on itself—he cups your cheek, thumb brushing your lip.
“you want to cum?” he asks, gentle. “then say thank you. for the toy.”
you manage it, a sobby, desperate little “thank you,” and only then does he guide the baton back in, angle just right, hand releasing it so he can work your clit until you fall apart—hard.
your climax hits like heat lightning—sharp, aching, too much and still not enough—and eventually the toy slips, clattering to the ground, forgotten. but his fingers work you right through your climax, his breath grunting softly in your ear, palm warm against your lower tummy.
“shh,” he murmurs, steady, mouth at your ear. “i’ve got you. that’s it. you’re okay. just needed someone to take care of you, didn’t you?”
TW // smut, older Matt with younger reader (20’s ish although not explicitly said), unprotected p in v, mention of birth control, alcohol mention, dom!matt sub!reader, I think that’s it!!
This one is for @lazilyironogre , finally responding to ur req , I hope u enjoy !!
The dim light of the bar shone warm against his skin, the crowd of people dipping in and out seemingly curving around him as he occupied the space along the dark line of mahogany.
He was a handsome guy, undeniably so.
Captivating in a way that seemed deliberate, dangerous even. His posture was languid and open tonight in a way that seemed different than usual. You’d watched him from a distance these past few weeks, mesmerised as he sat as always rigid and alone, his hand choking his whiskey glass with such force it was a wonder to you that it had never cracked under his touch. Now though, he seems far more relaxed, still a little dangerous, yet mischievously so; charming, inviting, and oh so gorgeous.
God help you.
As he lazily swirls the amber liquid around in his glass, the barest hint of a smirk on his face, you recognise him for what he is.
He sits across the bar from you like a challenge.
Like a dare.
“Hey”, you call out smoothly as you slink over to his side of the bar, adopting a boldness afforded to you by the alcohol and the anonymity.
And maybe also the fact that you knew he couldn’t see you.
Your heart does a little flip that you can’t quite contain when he tilts his head in your direction, a knowing smile playing on his face, tugging up at the corners.
“I was wondering when you were finally going to come over”, he rumbles out, taking a small sip of his drink, the glass fogging ever so slightly around his lips.
Goddamn, he is sexy.
You play coy, giving a small, playful shrug as you lean against the bar.
“I was just leaving, actually”, you say breezily, but your brow furrows slightly as his head throws itself back, a smooth chuckle slipping out from his lips, his lips that for a moment you couldn’t pry your eyes from.
“Past your bedtime, sweetheart?”, he challenges and you can’t hide the way your mouth falls open in shock, an indignant scoff passing your lips.
“Wow”, you drawl, watching the mischievous smile that flickers across his face.
You kind of wanted to slap it off of him.
“Have you always been that condescending, or did that come with the old age?”
“Old age?”, he hums in amusement as his eyebrows raise up behind his glasses.
You shoot your eyebrows up in kind, a snarky little gesture you forget he can’t see. Yet, he responds like he can.
“Are you even old enough to be in here?”, he asks, his tone playful and conspiring as his head tilts towards your shoulder.
“What are you, a cop?”, you jest, and the look he gives you is almost guilty, a sheepish cock of his head giving him away.
“Mmm close. Lawyer.”
You let out a slow breath, the heat in your chest sharpening instead of settling. That figured. The quiet authority, the tension coiled just beneath his skin, the way he spoke like every word could win a case if it needed to.
A lawyer.
That tracked a little too well.
“So, come on” he murmurs, voice low and smooth enough to curl around your spine, pulling you back from your thoughts.
“How old are you?”
You tilt your head with a slow smile, meeting him evenly, determined to play his game, and play it well.
“Old enough.”
A moment passes as he studies you, a wild, humming tension, like a wire pulled taught and ready to snap.
“And you?”
The smirk that spreads across his face is different now. Less teasing, as glimmers of heady intent shine through. Something darker flickers there, the kind of shift you feel more than see, like the air between you has thinned, turned electric.
“Old enough.”
His words hang there, a shared and hazy understanding forming between you both, a line that neither of you care to draw down neatly. You watch him as he considers you, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips, the barely there sigh he releases as you bump your fingers against the inside of his thigh.
“I’m Matt”, he says smoothly, his hand extending towards yours.
You take it, exchanging your name in kind before your breath catches on his grip, warm and firm, his hands roughened in a way that seems unnatural for someone in his tax bracket.
“Well Matt…”, you purr lowly, your hand still in his.
“Do you wanna get out of here?”
He laughs again, a warm, low chuckle that has you glowing from the inside out.
God, that smile.
And then he straightens, deftly producing his wallet, absently tossing a couple of bills onto the counter with practiced ease.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
——————
He’s on you before the door even has a chance to shut.
Hands in your hair, at your waist, groping at your tits, everywhere, too fast and too much, unable to even catch your breath as he crowds you back against the wall, your back hitting into it with a thud.
“Fuck”, you whisper hotly, the word punched out on a sharp breath as he wrenches your neck back by your hair, lapping at your neck with his tongue and teeth.
“I know”, he murmurs hoarsely, his voice wrecked and rough, his eyes screwed tight behind his glasses.
“I know.”
He pulls back from you then, and the sight of him sends a thrill down your spine. His face wears the faintest flush, his hair wild from where your fingers had carded through it, and his formerly pressed shirt, a light sky blue that hugged him in all the right ways was now crinkled and untucked and begging to be ripped off.
He pulls you from that thought with a warning hum, predatory and sinful as he drags his tongue up the hot skin of your neck.
“Don’t even think about it”, he warns, his voice deceptively soft against the shell of your ear.
Soft in the way a lion treads soil before it rips you in half with its teeth.
You grab his face then, and to your surprise he lets you, the rough scrape of his beard rubbing against your lips as you moan into his mouth, your fingers dragging down the back of his neck, bumping into a thin chain.
“Take it off then”, you goad, and unbelievably he obeys, wordlessly and quickly toying with each button before tossing his shirt to the floor and…
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Your breath stalls entirely in your throat and you don’t bother trying to hide it.
You take him in, the warm, solid expanse of his chest, heat radiating from him even from inches away, the muscle that shifts and rolls subtly across his body as alive and responsive as the rest of him.
The rest of him that you can’t help but notice is covered with old scar tissue.
It’s curiosity that takes over you then, replacing that first flash of hunger as your eyes flicker over him, his head tilting low as if tracking your gaze. There are some that in a strange way are very beautiful, thin and pale and barely there, soft lines of silver dancing across his collarbone, his shoulder, his chest. There are others though that are nastier, slightly raised and sharp as they cut along his ribs, his side, and you’d wager his back.
They pull you in.
Under the hold of your attention, you find that Matt has gone still. Not tense, but certainly aware.
You break your gaze from his body to meet the dark red rim of his glasses, your hand lifting before you can think better of it.
“Can I?”
A ghost of a smile appears on his face then, softer than you’d seen him yet.
“You don’t strike me as the type to ask permission.”
You let out a soft huff, unsure how this moment had turned into something so undefinable, watching as his chest slowly rises and falls.
“What can I say, I contain multitudes”, you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your hand still hovering over his body, his warmth so inviting.
“Whitman”, he murmurs thoughtfully.
“I’m impressed.”
You blush just a little at his praise before he takes a breath, quiet and measured.
Maybe a little anxious.
“Just this once”, he says, his own hand lifting to move a strand of hair out of your face and your head tilts curiously.
“Hmm?”
“This. Tonight”, he gestures, his voice wavering ever so slightly, like he doesn’t entirely believe what he’s saying.
“What’s about to happen is a one time thing. Okay?”
Your sly smile returns to your face, a little mischievous as you watch his throat work around his own bargaining efforts.
“Sounds fair. Now, are you gonna let me touch you, or are you gonna keep talking yourself out of this?”, you tease and a soft huff escapes him before he once again wets his lips, a quiet anxious habit it seems.
“Go ahead.”
So you do.
Your fingers brush featherlight against his chest and his reaction is restrained, but immediate. You commit it to memory, how his body stiffens, not quite a jolt but you get the sense that in his younger years it might have been, his lips parting on nothing but a thick silence, any sounds held back in favour of ironclad control.
But he doesn’t pull away.
You press firmer, enamoured by his skin, smooth in some places, uneven in others. Your fingertips follow the path of one scar without thinking, the one at his side, and his breathing shifts; sharpens, but not from pain, you don’t think.
You trail upwards, your eyes catching the faint glint of the cross around his neck, the pendant resting square in the middle of his chest. You pass by the cool metal with your fingers, a smirk passing your features.
“I didn’t peg you for the religious type”, you murmur as his own hands skim up your sides, one hand finding the line of your jaw.
He smiles then, soft, and warm and genuine.
“What can I say”, he starts, a playful, somewhat amused lilt threading through his tone.
“I contain multitudes.”
A light giggle falls from your lips, something entirely different from the impression you’d been painting so far, something more intimate and dangerously real.
Suddenly brave, you lift your hand from his body, hovering for a moment by his face as you check for any hint of uncertainty or discomfort.
When you don’t find any, you slowly, carefully remove his glasses, giving him enough time to catch your wrist, to stop you if he so desired.
He doesn’t.
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you counsellor?”
The hand cradling your jaw corrects its hold just a little, tilting your head exactly where he wants it. Your eyes soften a little as the gaze of his hazel eyes falls just past your nose, watching the way the competing colours shift and melt in the light.
Restless and a little elusive, just like him.
“Trust me”, he starts, and the funny thing is, you do.
“You haven’t seen anything yet.”
——————
The pace he set was brutal.
Furious.
Maddening.
And god, you needed more.
You feel like you’re on fire as he pounds into you from behind, your jaw slackened and parted open, wild and breathless moans punching out of you as he fucks himself deeper into you, always deeper. He was everywhere it seemed, this intoxicating, reckless presence that you craved somehow, and you know that it’s wrong, dirty even, but you can’t bring yourself to stop, to care.
You needed more.
You needed Matt.
“Fuck! Don’t stop, please don’t stop”, you beg, your voice muffled somewhat by the pillow he’d forced your face into, your words slurring out in borderline unintelligible sobs that had him biting his lip to keep the sounds of his own pleasure from spilling free.
His arm wraps like a vine around your front, hoisting you up, your back flush against his chest, the warmed metal of his cross digging lightly into your flesh as he mouths at your neck, his other hand slithering up to hold it firmly in place.
A thrill shoots down your spine as his lips travel up to your earlobe, nipping and sucking lightly as you whimper and grind into him.
“That’s it, my good girl”, he murmurs hotly into your ear as he bullies his cock into your soaking folds.
“You take what I give you.”
A sharp cry flies from your chest as you begin to chase your high that seems so in reach, so tangible, so close that you ache with the need to come for him if only he’d let you.
My good girl.
You could be, you think. You wanted so badly to please him, to be good for him, and in some fucked up way, to belong to him.
“Matt, please- please, I’m right there”, you breathe out into his skin as a tight band knots in your stomach, warm and tugging and driving you half insane.
“Oh I know, sweetheart”, he croons, his voice like velvet and fire as he paws at your tits, toying with your nipples mercilessly as you arch beneath him.
“You think you deserve to come, hm? Think you’ve been good enough?”
Your mind sounds off like a warning bell, a panicked, deafening alarm spreading all throughout your body.
He wouldn’t, would he?
When you don’t answer him, he digs his fingers into your jaw, a rough jolt that tells you he wants a response and he wants one now.
“I- yes, yes!”, you stutter out on a desperate wail, anything resembling shame or composure a long forgotten thing.
“You want it?”, he whispers hoarsely, your whole body throbbing with need as his movements slow.
“Beg me.”
God, that did it.
You desperately try to rut into him, but he holds you in place, his strength shocking you even now.
You know better than to deny him what he wants.
“Yes, I’ve been good enough, please Matt, please!”
He hums softly, the vibration making your skin tingle before he shoves you back down into the pillow, fucking into you relentlessly.
Your mind falls away from you then, the world blurring and tilting as you take him all the way into you, moaning and panting into the pillow, little lines of drool escaping as you try your hardest not to scream. You begin to shake then, your body wracking with pleasure, building and dragging you upwards into the stars, into heaven, as the relief of your orgasm finally crashes over you.
You realise, a little burst of pride warming your chest, that he’s not far behind. With stamina, the likes of which you’ve never seen, he just keeps going as droplets of sweat trickle down his forehead, his hair a sweat damp and dishevelled mess as he fucks into you.
With the last of your energy, you meet his movements, your hips rolling up into his and helping him along as he finally starts to show cracks in his armour. His barely there grunts dissolve into the softest pants, breathy and reverent as you give him what he needs.
“I’m- I’m gonna-“, he starts, his hips stuttered and frenzied as he involuntarily picks up the pace, his bed groaning with the force of him.
“Do it!”, you cry just as recklessly, suddenly entirely grateful for the birth control you were on as you shove your hips backwards into his cock, clamping around him like a vice.
“Please God, just do it!”
And just like before he complies, a desperate moan tumbling from his slackened mouth, noisier than you thought he could be as he spills into you, the stuttering pulses of his warmth making you shiver as you took everything he had to give.
You don’t remember falling asleep, or him wrapping his arms around you. And if anyone asked, Matt certainly didn’t remember drifting off to the sound of your heartbeat, or the kiss he’d pressed into the side of your neck when he knew you were already gone to the world.
It was nothing, the way he made you breakfast that next morning, or how you went another round or two. It was inconsequential that you both kept finding excuses for you to not leave yet, every inch made towards the door dragged back by a mile, lured in by the sound of his voice or the feel of his hands.
And all too quickly, you both conceded that just this once had turned into just once more.
ddba matt is SO daddy like SO DADDY. i want to be his little girl and i need him to take care of me and baby me and i want him to wrap his big strong arms around me while i cry into his hard chest WAAAAAAA
A/n: thank you so much to @upended-jellyfish for helping me come up with this 🥴😵💫 I think @bunmurdock @pupmurdock @lambmurdock and @sharkymurdock will especially appreciate it too
Genre: smut adjacent?
Summary: Matt helps you fix your posture for good.
Warnings: disciplinarian!Matt, bondage, face slapping, posture correction in the fun way, Mean!Matt (I surprised myself with that tbh)
Other tags: in the new apartment :/, chest hair 😋,
Word count: 1.5k
You don't mean to slouch. You really don't. It just... Happens. But Matt notices. Of course he does. So he does what any loving boyfriend would do. He tries to help.
"sweetheart, you're slouching"
"no I'm-... How did you know?"
"I can, uh, I can hear your breathing. It's kind of labored."
"oh... Alright, thanks." You say as you straighten up.
For a while, he'd remind you like that. Polite, soft, helpful. Then he starts to get a bit tired of it the longer it goes on. He'll just clear his throat while putting a hand on your back. From there, it turns into putting one hand on your lower back and the other on your upper chest, then pushing. It's quick, and automatically gets you to straighten up.
"quit slouching, it's not good for you."
"alright, dad."
"I mean it, kid."
After a while of that, he still catches you slouching sometimes. He'll just flick the back of your neck, and you catch the message. He's just trying to help. And to your favor, you have improved.
Just not enough.
***
He had a rough day. The client was a laidback asshole who was lying left and right, with no respect for Matt or anyone else on the legal team. It pissed him off. Rubbed him the wrong way.
As he walks home, he can't help but be annoyed still. He enters the elevator, going all the way up to his top-floor apartment. He walks in the door, only to hear you slouching. He can hear you typing something on your computer, which is usually when you slouch anyway. He lets put an exasperated sigh, tapping his cane on the floor to get your attention.
"Matty? What's wrong?"
He says nothing, taking off his coat and his jacket. He folds up his cane, tapping it again on the table as he sets it down. He makes his way over to where you sit, cool and composed with measured steps. He still doesn't say anything as he reaches over and closes your laptop.
"hey! What the he-"
Smack
"Posture." He practically growls in a low, gravelly voice. Letting out a tired huff as he tugs his tie off, he quickly undoes the knot in the silk before gagging you with it, tying a tight knot behind your head.
You were still trying to process the slap, your cheek still stung and he had caught you completely off guard. You snap out of it when Matt throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, starting to carry you towards the bedroom. You start to protest, words not being an option due to the tie in your mouth.
Your next best option is physical protest, so that's what you go with. You squirm and kick and hit, which only earns you a smack on the ass so hard that you feel it even through the clothes you're wearing. You gasp out in pain and wriggle some more on his shoulder, but he can smell the truth. He can smell how wet you are, he heard your heart race.
He tosses you on the bed unceremoniously, quickly crawling over you both to avoid you getting up, and to start undressing you. You know that you could realistically give him the signal and he'd stop dead in his tracks. Just tapping that certain rhythm you agreed on. But youre in the mood to play along, so you do. You struggle against him, which is conveniently helping him undress you. Only once you're stripped bare does he get off of you, pressing a large hand to the center of your chest and holding you down.
"Stay." He commands as he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, like you're some mutt he found on the side of the road.
And like a dog, you listen. But that doesn't stop you from glaring daggers at him while he rummages one of his drawers for something. You expected a lot of things, but his white Muay Thai ropes was not one of them. The blood on them was no longer the deep crimson they were on that night, implying that he'd washed them since then.
"turn."
You do.
He uses one rope to secure your arms behind your back, wrists to elbows. The other goes around your neck, then connects to your arms, arching your back slightly.
"That's good fucking posture." He growls, tugging on the ropes to jostle you into a kneeling position, facing the foot of the bed.
"do you know what you sound like when you slouch? I can hear your lungs being compressed and squeezed." He starts as he gets off the bed, the mattress silently raising. He walks around to where you're facing, popping the first two buttons of his shirt to reveal his salt and pepper chest hair. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, the other resting on his hip.
He has a 'what am I going to do with you' expression on his face as he speaks again, pacing back and forth.
"not to mention that your back pops like goddamn bubble wrap when you finally stand up. You know that's why you have back pain, right?" He says expressively as he paces, the hand that ran through his hair now waving around and making gestures like he's in court.
You let out a whine around his tie, only for him to take two steps forward to slap you across the face again and grab your jaw right after.
"don't interrupt me. I'm not done." He says dangerously.
"I tell you time and time again to sit up straight, kid. But you just don't listen to me! All I'm trying to do is help you and you just. Don't. Listen. It feels like I'm babysitting you at this point." He huffs, taking a deep breath that was supposed to calm him, but only floods his nose with your scent.
"seriously?" He scoffs, stopping in his tracks.
"are you seriously getting off on this?" He asks, almost incredulously.
You whine and squeeze your thighs together, trying to hide your scent and relieve some of the ache between your thighs.
He steps forward and wrenches your legs open, and as if the waft of your scent wasn't enough, he runs his fingers through the mess between your thighs.
"do you really expect me to touch you, kid? After that? I'll tell you what, I have had a shit day at work today. I am not in the mood for you to be brat on top of it all. If you wanted something tonight, the least you could have done was act like a human being rather than an animal."
You want to cry. You're soaking wet, drooling onto the silk sheets and not with your mouth. You can feel your heartbeat in your clit like a drum, and you know he can sense it too. He takes another deep breath, jaw tensing and brows twitching.
"you are going to stay like this for an hour. Then I'm going to untie you and we will go to bed. Nothing else will happen outside of that. And so help me god if I see you slouching again after tonight, I won't be so kind."
You couldve cum just from that.
"do you understand me? Or did you go stupid like you always do when I don't touch you?"
You frantically nod, humming an affirmation around his tie, which is now soaked in your saliva.
True to his word, he leaves you there for another hour, your back forced into a perfect posture just waiting for him while he takes a long shower to decompress from the day and even treats himself to putting on the one lotion he can actually stand on his skin.
When he returns, there's still a bit longer left, but he ignores your whimpers and whines. You tried once to grind yourself against the sheets, but that was quickly shut down by him gripping your hair and pulling your head back.
"you said you understood me. I didn't give you permission for this. Last warning."
You whimper and nod, forcing your hips to still. After your hour is up, he starts to untie you with such tenderness that it confuses you for a moment. He tosses the ropes aside, massaging your arms and checking your neck for any signs he can pick up of strain or discomfort.
"nothing hurts?" He asks softly as he removes his tie from your mouth.
"no, Matty... I'm okay..." You assure him equally as softly despite the fact that you are still more turned on than you've ever been.
He nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He can tell you're still so turned on, but he told you he wouldn't touch you, and always keeps his bedroom promises. So he removes the sheet that you dripped onto and he grabs a spare blanket. You both crawl into bed, and you cling to him like he wasn't berating, degrading, and slapping you just an hour earlier. Because despite it all, he wasn't wrong.
any thoughts (and prayers) on erectile dysfunction older!matt? not necessarily full on but like… his life style choices on top of heightened senses must come crashing down on him some time in some way, right? can’t be all sunshine and rainbows for him (is it ever )
I LOVE THESE SORTS OF QUESTIONS, LET'S DO IT.
Honestly, yeah I can see it. This man is in his 40s and while yes, absolutely it's a fine as fuck peak condition 40s, he's still older. His body isn't going to work like it used to.
This is especially true when like you said, he has his continuing lifestyle of late, late nights, not enough sleep, high amounts of stress and anxiety, regularly getting hit over the head, just sheer exhaustion. This man is tired, his body hurts, he's depressed, and he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Plus, those senses occasionally leave him way, way too raw for touch.
So sometimes?
Yeah, sometimes he's just not going to be able to get there, no matter how many mind-body tricks he knows, no matter how much he tries to force it.
On a day where he's not doing bad, days when he's just incredibly tired, he's still going to try, especially if you get your hand or mouth on his cock. Then comes his embarrassed groan, almost a whine from him when he realizes what's happening. A low snarl and a snap of his hips would come next, an attempt to shake off the exhaustion, to drive himself into that good feeling, because your mouth feels amazing on him even if he's still soft, of course it does, it's just not enough. Sometimes you can get him there if you keep at it, patient and steady, using the tricks you've learned work well on him when combined with your mouth - fingers curled just right behind his balls, soft little licks at that spot under the head, tweaking at his nipples, even offering up the taste of yourself on your fingers. Until he finally comes, still only half hard, breathlessly moaning out a relieved, 'thank you, fuck, sweetheart, thank you!' and god, do you feel fucking amazing knowing you managed to drag his ass up that cliff no matter how long it took.
Other times, once it becomes clear that's not happening, he'll haul you up onto the couch or bed with him, find his way between your legs because he'll be damned if he leaves you wanting. He's got his mouth, his hands, and he's never afraid to yank open your toy chest and find something to fill you up on those days he can't manage.
But on days where the world is too loud, when his skin buzzes and his mind won't stop racing and his body hurts, well, there's just nothing. And what's worse? It'd be actively unpleasant for him to try, even for a masochist like him. Eyes clenched shut, a sharp hiss through his teeth, the bad kind, not the good, and that's as clear as any red light.
I think it would really bother him and leave him a bit insecure at first, maybe even enough that he'd try to hide it if he could. There's a whole lot of thoughts and fears tangled up in it - fear of getting older, fear of his body failing him, lack of control, lack of being able to please you whenever he wants (something he very much enjoys doing). But I think, I think as long as you made it clear it didn't bother you, that you understood, that there wasn't anything wrong with it - Matt, you're in your 40s and you regularly get about 5 hours of sleep at night and are frequently injured, it's ok for your body to tap out sometimes - and what's more, worked with him to find fun ways around it (vibrators, anyone?), then he'd find his way around to acceptance. Especially because unless that man's willing to give up one of his two jobs (Deviling or Lawyering) so he could get more sleep and heal up, I don't see his levels of stress/anxiety/injury/lack of sleep dropping any time soon.
Tags: Smut, Oral fixation, sexual grooming. Written with DDBA Matt in mind.
A/N: A blurb for my oral kink, as I didn't have time to get a full fic on it out for kinktober :( A quick thing I wrote on my phone during my break, so apologies for typos.
Oral training with Matt Murdock is more than just how often he shoves his cock down your throat.
It's slow conditioning. Casually and consistently moving things near your mouth - a spoon at dinner, his thumb when he brushes it close enough to your lips, a piece of candy or a drink - praising you each time, until your mouth instinctively falls open for him without thought or hesitation. It's Matt encouraging your oral fixation, giving you toothpicks or lollipops, straws, or pen caps to hold in your mouth until you’re always craving something between your lips.
It's routine. When you're getting ready for bed, brushing your teeth, Matt approaches, taking you by the jaw with a firm, unyielding touch that keeps you perfectly in place. He moves methodically, taking your toothbrush from your hand to scrape and clean your tongue, pressing your mouth open wide, and coaxing you to stick it out farther. The scraping of the bristles going back far enough activates your gag reflex, making your eyes water. Your soft guttural retching fills the bathroom as Matt pushes the limits of it each time. Twice a day every day, taking a mundane routine and transforming it into a training ritual.
It's reinforcement. Regular inspections where Matt runs his fingertips along each of your teeth and works your tongue, testing the muscle by making you push against the pad of his thumb and swirl it around his digits in specific patterns. It's choosing popsicles for your dessert and breath-play sessions to train your lung capacity that last so long you lose track of time.
It's your therapy after long, stressful days. You can come home to Matt sitting on the couch, still in his work suit, and without having to say a word to him, his legs will spread, and he will beckon you over. You drop your bag on the floor and walk up, kneeling right between the offered spot so you can just mindlessly mouth at his crotch, licking and sucking him through the spit-soaked fabric as his bulge starts to swell. Matt just puts a hand through your hair, keeping your head in place, cooing at how everything will be alright as long as your mouth is full of him, like it's supposed to be.
Sure, he loves having you at work, a content cocksleeve under his desk, warming him with your mouth while he thumbs through case files. Yes, of course he adores you in his room, on your back in bed, with your head bent at the perfect angle off the side, so that when he rocks into your mouth, he can feel the way his cock stretches your throat when he wraps his hands around it.
He will never not love the feeling of sliding into your wet, warm mouth, but the intimacy of training you, knowing both your needs and your potential, knowing he can craft you into his perfect set of holes, is the closest thing to divine Matt believes he will get.
Pairing: Matt Murdock x President’s Daughter!Reader
Chapter Summary: On his way to work, Matt bumps into a ghost from his past that turns his world upside down.
Chapter Specific Warnings: DDBA Spoilers!, (past) major character death, Angst, allusions to politics, allusions to past heartbreak, Matt is going through it
WC: 3.8k
A/N: Hi! If you haven’t read the author's note for this series, here is a quick summary: this story takes place both in DDBA Season 1 present and College!Matt past. The majority of the following chapters (not including this one) are basically a very lengthy flashback. After that, I will jump back into DDBA canon. The only twist to this reader insert is the fact that I will be using a fixed last name; everything else will be left as neutral as possible so you can immerse yourself in it. Also, I felt like the whole college timeline in Daredevil was a bit confusing, so I did a whole Reddit deep dive and decided that for this series, Matt and Foggy already met in undergrad and then moved on to law school together. Seems like there are conflicting opinions on it, but it was never explicitly stated, and some of the years mentioned in the show don't make a lot of sense to me, so for the sake of the plot, I'm establishing my own timeline. Also, our girl Kirsten makes a little guest appearance here and there. Anything else? Oh yeah, have fun!
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A breeze far too cold for September wafts through the streets of New York City. Then again, every day for the past year has been colder than the last.
When the cherry blossom trees began to bloom in early March, their scent burned like acid on his tongue. He always loved how they offered a stark contrast to the green grass in Central Park, and even though Matt couldn’t see them, he loved listening to him ramble on about their unparalleled beauty as if he couldn’t imagine anything better.
When he walked the cemetery again after a year had passed in a mere sixty seconds, the autumn rain froze into daggers, cut him open, and left a bottomless, bleeding pit where his heart once was.
The pain and guilt have made a forever home in him. He let them eat away until all that was left was a pile of rotten flesh, and now the beauty he’d come to appreciate means nothing anymore.
Time and time again, Matt finds himself standing on that godforsaken rooftop in Hell’s Kitchen, in his daydreams and his nightmares. Because Foggy Nelson died, and there is no world or universe in which he can live without him. He haunts him.
The wind brushes through his hair and seeps through the thin fabric of his new coat as he taps his cane along the sidewalk. He can taste the scent of cheap coffee from the café a few blocks down the street, and somewhere, someone is selling expired hot dogs to passersby.
The city sounds much like a broken record to him now. Cars honk, people argue, and the morning news play on repeat in brownstones all over the city, one device always a millisecond behind the other, and it never fucking stops. Everyone is screaming, laughing, or crying, but never louder than the fading heartbeat replaying in his mind.
The prayer card in his left-hand pocket weighs like a ton of bricks. Matt sometimes touches it just to make sure it’s still there. He puts it there in the morning, takes it out in the evening, and rests it on his nightstand when he sleeps. And when he wakes up in a cold sweat, his throat sore from the screams of anguish that have become second nature to him, he feels for it until his fingers find the Braille they put there just for him.
He hasn’t moved on. How could he? Moving on would mean he’d have to acknowledge the truth, and then he would have to feel everything all over again.
He still remembers how the blood felt on his hands, his knuckles cracked, and his suit drenched with it. He still remembers how the air felt so much colder, and what it sounded like when Ben’s body hit the pavement. The night was eerily quiet then. Though it wasn’t the blood or the rage or the tears mixing with the copper on his tongue that he focused on, he focused on the one thing that was there until it wasn’t. He followed the sound of Foggy’s heartbeat until it was gone, and then he screamed.
If Matt acknowledged that—if he allowed himself to let the agony out of the cage he stuffed it in—it would surely kill him. Karen left, Foggy is dead, and Matt doesn’t know what’s left for him to fight for.
There is only so much suffering a person can take before they lose themself.
The wind ebbs and picks up speed again. He breathes in, just for a moment, to taste the weight of the oxygen, but as the air fills his lungs, the gentle cocktail of jasmine, roses, and peonies with a hint of something entirely unique suddenly wraps a noose around his neck. The scent is so unique that no two people have ever smelled the same, and his senses start to burn with the familiarity of it all.
The first time he smelled it was his first year of law school. A soft breeze carried it across the lecture hall, incomparable sweetness clinging to salty skin and caressing his nose, and he got addicted before he knew what it meant or who it belonged to, even.
Sixteen years.
It’s been sixteen fucking years.
Matt’s dress shoes scrape over the asphalt underneath his feet as he comes to a sudden halt in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, knuckles turning white around the handle of his cane. He must be hallucinating, he thinks. His mind must be conjuring up old, bittersweet memories to bury the new ones, but then he hears it.
Your voice used to remind him of the softest silk. He would always compare it to the first rays of sunshine in spring as they whisked the cold away, painfully so sometimes.
He never thought he would hear it again, neither the sound of your voice nor your heartbeat. The one that sped up whenever he made you laugh. The one he once fell asleep to like a lullaby, and the one that started racing almost as fast as his own whenever he touched you. But for every good thing he had with you, his heart shattered into a million more pieces when he lost you.
The world around him disappears in the fog, and his senses zero in on you. You are approaching the limousine parked on the side of the street, smiling as you bid your thanks to the man holding the door open for you. Your head turns left, just to let the wind brush the hair out of your face, but when you see him, your heart stutters.
Disbelief settles into the frown creasing your forehead. “Matthew?” you say oh-so-softly.
He tilts his head in your direction. Matthew. The sound of his name from your lips cuts his skin like fiberglass.
Matt whispers your name in turn, trying to convince himself that you’re real—or perhaps he is trying not to. Maybe he’s trying to convince himself that you are nothing but a fragment of his broken imagination. It would be kinder, he thinks, if you weren’t real.
That is, until you whisper again, “Yeah, it’s me.”
He doesn’t remember how many times he would lie awake at night, praying to hear you say, It’s me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But he knows God wasn’t listening. Even in his wildest dreams, you always end up leaving, and his happy endings turn into a nightmare.
You’re too real, and that hurts more than when you were gone.
“Hi,” you breathe. You even put on a smile for him.
“Hi,” Matt’s voice cracks. He’s not sure if you heard it. “What’re you–”
“Oh, I’m just–” You point everywhere and nowhere. “I’m just passing through.”
“Oh.”
“On my way to DC.”
“Right,” he says.
Of course, you are.
The nostalgia makes you weak in the knees. He has wrinkles now, a beard, and he is wearing a coat made out of the finest cashmere that, some time ago, he wouldn’t even have thought about buying. His once rectangular glasses have been replaced by round, dark-rimmed, and red ones. They are different, but they suit him.
You’ve always thought this shape would suit him so much better.
The Matt Murdock standing before you carries himself with such grace, it’s almost hard to believe he was ever shy or awkward to begin with. And yet, staring at your reflection in his glasses, you can almost see his unfocused brown-and-green eyes looking right through you. Those eyes, that voice, that laugh—you would recognize them anywhere.
His eyes, once open windows to his soul, were only for you to see through. You could have stared into them forever. But there is a wall where those windows used to be, and he is so much colder now.
You clear your throat before asking, “How are you?”
Matt stutters. “I, uh, I’m good,” he says. But good has never looked worse.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I just… I wasn’t expecting to run into you. That’s all.”
“Well, I wasn’t expecting to run into you either. Especially not here.”
He exhales a scoff. “Why? Because I’m still in New York?”
You shake your head. “Because you’re not in Hell’s Kitchen,” you say, and the scars on his heart start bleeding again.
Foggy.
Karen.
Daredevil.
A year ago, his life fell apart like an elaborate house of cards. All the good he had made for himself out of all the bad he had been through turned to ashes that night, and the rain washed it down the drain.
Hell’s Kitchen is not what it used to be. It serves as a reminder of a life that ended in a bloodbath, of having his heart ripped out of his chest over and over again. The city reminds him of his father, of Karen, and Elektra, and the happiness he lost. It reminds him of losing the one person who held him through it all—of losing Foggy. And it reminds him of you.
Matt left it all behind in the hopes that a new life would somehow take the pain away, but running away has never solved much of anything.
New York feels tainted, yet when Karen decided to leave for San Francisco, he could not bear to do the same. No matter how hard he tries, he can never fully let go of the city that raised him, and so he moved away, but never too far.
Matt taps his cane against the ground once. “Senator, huh?” he asks, though he is still as awful at deflection as he is a liar.
He overheard the news on his neighbor’s radio a few months ago when he was drinking a glass of whisky on the rooftop of his apartment.
At first, he tried telling himself that it wasn’t you they were talking about. When that didn’t work, he returned to pretending that not being able to touch you meant that you were gone, and you were never coming back. You were dead to him because that thought has been kinder to him than the truth. But you were never really gone, were you?
Your fingers brush over the delicate enamel pin on your jacket, the same way they once ran through his hair. “Yeah,” you say. “It’s been a hell of a year.”
Matt forces a smile, tipping his cane toward you. “Well, congratulations.”
Again, your heart flutters. “Thank you.”
“Yeah.” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I mean, I know it’s always been your dream. To make a difference. So, it’s nice you got what you wanted.” But Matt can’t quite swallow the bitterness in his statement.
You’re quiet for a moment, retreating into your shell as you try to find the right thing to say. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, at last. It’s a loaded two-word sentence, yet not nearly good enough for the sorrow that hangs in the air between you.
“For what?” he asks.
“Foggy.”
It hits him like a bullet straight to the heart.
Your voice quivers, then cracks. “I, uh, heard about what happened to him.”
The anger in his veins burns red, hot, traveling through his bloodstream like an unrelenting parasite, and it stings like a thousand paper cuts soaked in alcohol.
“I am so sorry. He was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, and he didn’t… He didn’t deserve what happened to him.” Your throat tightens. “I know how much he meant to you,” you say. “I know how much you loved him. If I could–”
“No!” His self-control shatters. “You don’t get to do that,” he snaps. “You don’t get to tell me you’re sorry. It’s been a year.”
He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. It has that quiet edge to it that makes every word shake just slightly, yet feel like a thousand deadly papercuts.
“If you actually cared about him, about me, you would have called or texted, or–” He swallows. “You would have been here when it mattered.”
“I paid my respects to his family,” you try to defend yourself, but Matt only chuckles—bitter, broken.
“Right, and what did you tell them?” he asks. “That you went to college together? That you were his friend? Did you also happen to tell them that you left sixteen years ago and haven’t talked to him since, or did you leave that out?”
“Matt–”
He cuts you off, “He was my best friend. Mine! And I won’t get to see him again. So, you don’t get to tell me you’re sorry when you spent the past sixteen years pretending we were already dead!”
He rips your heart out and shreds it. And the worst part is, he’s right.
You want nothing more than to reach out, to touch him, but your hands fall weakly at your sides because you can’t. He’s too far away, and it’s killing you.
“You’re right,” you whisper, yielding. “I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
Matt shakes his head. “Don’t be.”
“Can we just… Can we talk? Just for a minute, please?”
It takes everything in him to ignore how utterly broken you sound, the desperation in your voice even more familiar than the sound itself. You don’t try to hide it, and he doesn’t want to care, but it tugs at his heartstrings anyway. You’ve always had that kind of effect on him. Right now, though, he loathes it.
Matt lowers his head, sighing at the ground beneath his feet. He can feel you staring, and it hurts.
“You know, I should go,” he says. “I’m already late for work, and this isn’t… This isn’t a good idea.”
You catch him by the arm when he tries to brush past. It’s a reflex, pulling him in, but the moment you touch him, he recoils.
“Please,” you beg, and if the asphalt weren’t so cold, you would have fallen to your knees. “If you’d just give me a chance to explain–”
“It’s been sixteen years. You made your choice. I moved on. Foggy moved on, and now he’s dead. None of that has anything to do with you,” he says, “so just… drop it!”
Every word from his mouth whips you across the face and tears into your flesh like harsh leather.
He pulls away. “Good luck in DC, Senator.”
And you watch in horror as he slips through your fingers again, his words so cold and brutal that you no longer recognize him as the man you fell in love with all those years ago.
Far too much time has passed for your excuses to mean anything now. You can explain, but you can’t fix this. You know that as much as he does, maybe even more, but it hurts just the same.
Matt can still hear the clear thumping of your heart long after he has walked away. In this mirror dimension he’s trapped in, it is all that exists to him. He tunes it out, but there it is again. You are everywhere, even when you’re not.
You stand in the same spot for a little while longer, teeth digging into your bottom lip to stop yourself from crying. He can smell the faintest hint of copper in the air, but then you plaster the cracks in your façade and pull yourself back together. Just like that, as if nothing ever happened.
You could be falling apart at the seams, but you would never let it show. Because that isn’t what you do.
As you’re climbing into the car, one of the men asks, “Who was that, ma’am?”
You don’t miss a beat. “He’s no one,” you answer.
The motor roars to life. Matt tilts his head. Thud, thud, thud, your heartbeat fades, further and further away until it is gone entirely. The iron fist around his heart releases its hold, and he can finally breathe again. Though when he inhales, your scent still lingers.
You’ve dug your teeth into him. One hit of you and suddenly, the world, his world, is back to revolving around you.
Every time he closes his eyes, he finds himself back in the old halls of Columbia University. He was twenty-three then, not a dollar to his name, a devoted Catholic who had faith in the future and the system because he believed in the greater good. Until you walked into his life, and every branch creating paths for his future rotted from the inside out.
Matt walks the entire way to Murdock & McDuffie on autopilot. His cane bumps against the door, and for a moment, he struggles to find the handle. Kirsten is already standing by the fancy espresso machine she insisted on getting, her heart beating steadily as she pours herself another latte, and he takes the window of opportunity to charge toward his office.
She calls out before he can get even halfway there, “Matt?”
He stiffens.
“You alright?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he says, “just need a minute. Excuse me.”
He’s burning up inside, sweat soaking through his dress shirt underneath his suit jacket and cashmere coat, but his skin remains cold to the touch. The memories he had long locked away in a vault inside his mind start to break free from their shackles, and the glass that stores his emotions threatens to overflow.
The smell of espresso reminds of the cheap coffee he and Foggy once pretended was the best damn thing they’d ever tasted because they could not afford much more. There was no expensive O’Melveny whisky or homemade dinners on the table (except for Thanksgiving and Christmas with the Nelsons), and hardly any privacy to go around in their tiny student apartment, but they were happy.
You were a spoiled boarding school brat who’d never had to count a dollar in her life. Of course, you didn’t choose to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth; God knows Matt didn’t choose to be the son of a boxer who got paid to lose, either, but you both took what you were given and made the best of it.
When he met you, he saw right through you. He never thought he would; to him, people like you had all been the same for the longest time. You were the first to prove him wrong. He grew up as far from privilege as you grew up from living hand to mouth, and he couldn’t have cared less for it.
That silver spoon in your mouth had always been so painfully empty to the point that all you could swallow was resentment. It was one of the reasons why Matt fell in love with you, because you didn’t believe you deserved to be loved, and he’d suffered enough loss to believe the same. You were both products of the love you hadn’t received, and that made you as human as one could be.
He was your home the same way you were his, but the last time he got to hold you, you left him a broken mess that Foggy had to put back together because, unlike everyone else, he never dared to walk out on him.
Until he died, and Matt had to learn the hard way what it was like to be alone again.
The empty mug on his desk, left from the night before, goes flying off his desk and shatters against the floor of the office. Cold coffee splatters all over the glass wall; it smells so much tangier now.
Matt swallows a yell, almost as deafening in the back of his throat as the crash itself. Then, for a moment, quiet settles in.
Kirsten bursts into the room not long after. “What the f–” She glances at the mess, then back at him.
He straightens his tie, or maybe he’s loosening it.
“What the hell happened?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” he says.
She closes the door behind her. “Bullshit! C’mon, sit down. I’ve gotta clean this up before you cut yourself.”
She guides him to a chair before fetching a handful of paper towels from the first drawer of his desk. He opens his mouth to object, but nothing comes out.
It isn’t until the floor, the wall, and his pants are clean, and Kirsten has the shards safely stuffed into the trash, that she asks again, “Mind telling me now what’s going on with you?”
“It’s nothing,” Matt insists.
“Matt.”
“I’m fine. Just had a rough day, that’s all.”
“It’s 9 am,” she tells him. “The day hasn’t even started.”
“I know, I–” He sighs. “I just lost it, I’m sorry.”
“Apologize to the poor mug.”
That finally elicits a chuckle from him.
Kirsten takes another tentative step forward. “It’s okay to miss him, you know?” she says.
Again, he sighs. “I know.”
“If you want to go home for the day, I can–”
“Nah.” Matt waves her off with a forced smile that neither of them believes. “I’m good,” he says.
She doesn’t buy it, not one second of it, but she knows it is futile to keep pressing him for answers when he doesn’t want to give them. So, she simply pats his shoulder. “Alright, well, whenever you’re ready, I’ll be in the conference room. We’ve got a new client coming in,” she says. “Take all the time you need. Preferably not more than an hour, though.”
He snorts, running a hand over his beard. “Alright. Thanks.”
The door opens and closes with her leaving, and in his newfound solitude, he is left wondering again; wondering why you left, wondering why Foggy had to die, wondering what his life would have been like if you’d stayed, and wondering why, after all these years, Matt had to run into you now.
He reaches into his left-hand pocket. The prayer card is slightly crinkled, but the Braille underneath his fingers is clear as day.
In Loving Memory of Franklin Nelson.
He hates that this is all he has left.
From across the room, he can almost hear him say, “You’re an idiot.”
A sad chuckle rumbles through him. “Yeah,” Matt murmurs, “I know.”
It’s not fair that after all this time, even after all that has happened, there is not a bone in his body capable of hating you. God knows he tried.
Matt misses the way it feels to be with you, to smell and to touch you. And he yearns for you. He has no choice but to remember—remember what life was like when he was yours, and you were his, and that was all he’d thought he would ever need.
But that was sixteen years ago.
Like all good things in life, it was never going to last. You were a disaster waiting to happen, the calm and the storm, and he let it happen.
summary: matt finds a new way to loosen eager!reader up.
words: 3k of gross porn with no plot okay.
tags: ddba!matt (dom, slightly mean), heavy intoxication, oral (m!receiving), some choking/gagging, thigh riding, wet & sloppy kissing, piv, degradation, praise, breeding. eager!reader who is mostly nonverbal.
dedicated to @lambmurdock and @jellyfishmurdock. gif by @faithbetryin.
the door unlocks with a quiet click, and you’re already moving before it swings open, bare feet padding across the floor.
he’s home.
matt steps inside. the scent of him is distinct—the crisp bite of his cologne softened by warmth, a trace of sweat mingling with something deeper, something unmistakably him—the lingering ghost of his day spent in court. a war fought in words instead of fists, but the same brutality thrumming under his skin.
“come here, sweetie.” his voice is warm, rich, and deep, but there’s something wry curling at the edges, amusement at how quickly you’ve come to greet him. like a puppy.
he sets his cane and briefcase aside, and then his hands are on you, catching you as you all but jump into his arms. you’re naked, pressed to the solid heat of him, your bare skin soaking in every bit of residual warmth from his day.
“eager,” he murmurs against your temple, a hint of reprimanding. his lips find yours and you sigh into him, hands grasping at his jacket, your lips parting for him before he even has to coax them open.
matt tastes like bourbon and the city. something heady and thick, the bitterness of old liquor still clinging to his tongue as it slides against yours.
“missed me, huh?” his hand cups the back of your head.
your hands slide down, over the firm planes of his stomach, over his belt, until your palm cups the bulge at the front of his slacks.
his grip tightens.
you let out a small sound of surprise, breathless as he pulls you closer, as he walks you back a step, then another. there’s a bite to his touch now, a shift in the way his mouth moves against yours.
he breaks the kiss with a soft, amused hum, his hand patting your bare bottom. “you wait for me like this?” he asks, voice thick with something between fondness and amusement.
“mhm,” you whine, baby-soft.
and he knows what you want, your hand still placed insistently over his cock.
he chuckles, dry.
“come on. to the couch.”
heat licks up your spine at the command, and you don’t even hesitate. you turn on wobbly legs, making your way over. he settles into the cushions with an ease that’s almost lazy. obediently, you kneel between his legs. your body hums with anticipation, mouth watering before he even touches you.
he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, his other resting on his lap, thumb stroking at your chin. “eager, aren’t we?”
“wanna cum, matt,” you whimper, impatient having waited all day like he’d asked.
he hums, seemingly contemplative, tapping your cheek twice. “then you have a job to do first, don’t you?”
“and we go slow. ah-ah, hands in your lap.”
“go on.”
you duck your head, letting him guide you forward with a hand in your hair, your lips parting as you nuzzle against his growing cock beneath the fabric. you mouth at it softly at first, dragging your tongue over the intoxicating shape of him.
matt hums. his fingers tighten, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds like ‘—good for me.’
you tilt your head up, chin pressing against him. your mouth parts, lips open, pink tongue resting there like an invitation.
he unfastens his belt with one hand, the metal clinking softly. his cock is half hard when he frees it, flushed and thick, the tip gleaming. your stomach tightens at the sight, and you instinctively start to reach—
his hand yanks your hair back, softly.
“ah-ah. what’d i say.”
his grip loosens, rubbing small circles against your scalp like an apology, but his voice stays firm. “in your lap.”
you obey immediately, folding them neatly in front of you, thighs squeezing together as you breathe through the ache of needing to touch him, needing to feel him.
and then he’s guiding himself to your lips, pressing the swollen head against your tongue. you immediately suckle, greedy, like it’s instinct.
he groans, low in his throat, hand tightening in your hair.
“god—”
but you don’t want to go slow. you want him now, want him deep—
his grip tightens suddenly, pulling you back just an inch, just enough to make you whine, blinking up at him with glazed, pleading eyes.
he smirks.
“eager thing,” he murmurs, and then he taps the head of his cock against your tongue, light, patronizing. “slow down. or this is going to be over in thirty seconds.”
his tone is even, patient, but you can feel the tension in his body, in the way his muscles cord under his skin, the way his breath shudders slightly when you swirl your tongue over the tip.
he lets you sink down slowly, guiding your movements with a firm grip in your hair, controlling how much you take, how fast, how deep. at first, he’s merciful, letting you adjust, letting you savor the weight of him on your tongue. but it doesn’t last.
his pace picks up, and suddenly he’s using your mouth the way he wants, the way he needs, pushing you down, holding you there until your throat flutters wet and constricts around him, then pulling you back up only to do it again.
“there we go,” he croons, dark.
your nails dig into your thighs, knuckles white. he’s panting above you, abs tensing, there’s a little stutter in his hips when you swallow around him.
and then, in a moment of desperation, you forget yourself—you reach up, fingers grasping at his thigh—
he yanks you off with a wet, obscene pop.
you cough wetly, drool slicking your chin. his cock glistens with your spit, a trail of saliva connecting to your lips.
he tuts, shaking his head slowly, thumb wiping the mess from your cheek before gripping your jaw.
“hands.”
your hands fly back into your lap.
“and—breathe, sweetheart.” a pause. then, more amused, “so desperate you forgot to, huh?”
“messy thing,” he mutters, almost in awe, with praise. “but you’re trying so hard for me.”
you lean into his touch, nuzzling against his palm, pressing small kisses to the base of his thumb. he chuckles, shaking his head.
he allows you forward again, your mouth closing around his cock again.
you take more and more of him until your throat tightens, until your breath catches. he groans, the sound deep and approving, and then his grip tightens, guiding you down further, until your nose brushes the well-groomed base of him, until he can feel your throat fluttering—wet and tight—around him.
and then as if speaking about you partly to himself—
“you can take more. relax.”
he says it like fact, not encouragement. like he knows your limits better than you do.
your throat protests, gagging as you try to take more. you whimper, the noise muffled.
he holds you there. just for a moment. just long enough for your lungs to protest. he groans dark, ragged, wild.
you spasm around him, pleasure sparking at the warmth of his approval, at the weight of him on your tongue, at the way he moves you—slow at first, letting you adjust, but then—
—and then his hips roll up, forcing you to take more, forcing you to gag on it, and you gasp, hands flying up on instinct, grasping at his thighs for leverage—
he yanks you off with yet another wet pop. you sputter saliva this time.
“maybe you need a little help relaxing.”
his voice is smooth but there’s something underneath it. something that makes your stomach clench with anticipation.
he reaches for the glass sitting on the side table—a deep, amber whiskey, rich and smoky.
“take a sip.”
you hesitate, just a second. but then he’s pressing the rim against your mouth, tipping it just enough for the first taste to roll over your tongue. the burn is sharp, spilling heat down your throat in one searing rush. you cough, blinking against the sting as the fire spreads through your chest.
his cock slides nudges your lips, a silent command. you open up, still dazed from the whiskey burning its way through your blood. your mouth is slick, your throat relaxed, but your head feels light, your skin hot, every nerve humming.
when he pulls you up again, the rim of the glass is waiting at your lips.
matt hums, low, approving when you sip and cough again. “swallow. there you go.”
but he’s listening. the quick flutter of your pulse beneath his fingers, the way your throat flexes, adjusting. his grip slides to your jaw, thumb pressing just below the hinge, feeling the way your muscles tighten, relax.
“good girl,” he croons, tilting your chin up. “breathe.”
you exhale shakily, warm and tinged with whiskey. he catches it, head tilting slightly, inhaling deep. he knows exactly how much has hit your bloodstream already, how it’s settling into your limbs.
not yet.
his cock drags against your parted lips. your breath stutters, but you take him deeper, no jittering, no clumsy struggle. just your lips sealing around him, the wet heat of your mouth drawing him in, deeper, deeper—
he exhales sharply, grip flexing against your scalp. “that’s it.”
another breath of air. another sip.
then he’s guiding you back down. the taste of whiskey still lingers, coating your tongue, blending with the salt of his skin, the deep musk of him.
he keeps feeding you. keeps fucking your mouth. his rhythm stays slow, but the weight of him presses deeper, nudging against the back of your throat.
another breath of air. another sip.
until—
hic.
your throat spasms, a sudden jolt, and your whole body tenses involuntarily. you choke, a wet, desperate sound, and his grip tightens immediately, yanking you back just enough to keep you from losing it completely.
he listens. assesses. tracks the way your muscles have slackened.
then he exhales sharply through his nose.
you’re at your limit.
he sets the whiskey aside. you blink up at him, lips slick, pupils blown wide. his palm cradles your jaw, tilting your chin up, thumb pressing lightly against your throat, feeling your pulse hammer under his touch.
“proud of you.” his voice is softer now.
—
your head lolls, time slipping, shifting. the heat changes—no longer burning, but pooling low, pulling you under.
you moan, before you realize you’re sitting astride matt’s bare thigh, your hips rocking helplessly against the hard, warm muscle beneath you.
“there you go,” he murmurs, voice rough like gravel. his palms slide slowly up your sides, calloused thumbs dragging against your skin, making you shiver. “easy does it.”
matt’s chest is bare beneath your grasping fingers, muscles slicked lightly with sweat, the thin sheen catching the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the window. his breath fans warm across your collarbone, mouth pressing open, hungry kisses along the curve of your throat. his tongue drags lazily against your skin, leaving hot, wet trails.
“that's it, sweetheart, keep moving just like that,” matt murmurs roughly against your jaw, chuckling softly. his calloused hands roam over your body with unapologetic roughness. his fingers dig into your hips, controlling your rhythm, dragging you forward then back, helping you ride his thigh in slow, torturous strokes.
“messy,” he says, amusement lacing his voice. you inhale deeply, dizzy from the scent of him—the crisp, fading spice of his cologne mingled now with sweat, whiskey, and a sharp, masculine heat that’s uniquely matt.
his thumb drags roughly over your nipple, rolling it and you jolt against him, thighs squeezing tighter around the solid muscle of his thigh. matt chuckles darkly.
“feel good, baby?” he whispers, tone playful. “grind a little harder.”
he punctuates the tease by sliding his hand down, thumb swirling slowly—achingly slowly—around your puffy clit. you sob his name.
“good girl,” matt whispers, breath brushing your mouth now, lips close enough that you can taste him already—bourbon and salt.
your fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails leaving faint marks in their wake. matt’s throat bobs visibly when you say his name. his silver cross glints faintly, catching your eye as his pulse visibly thrums in his neck, an oddly hypnotic rhythm that matches your pounding heartbeat.
you moan into his mouth, and then he’s kissing you, hard and deep, tongue sliding into your mouth. you’re pant against him, tasting the whiskey and him.
“open up more,” he orders softly. “give me that tongue.”
his kisses turn filthier, sloppier, tongues sliding messily, sharing air and saliva in languid motion.
his cock remains achingly erect against your thigh, flushed dark and slick with precum, twitching slightly whenever you move, smearing wet heat against your skin. you moan softly, almost dizzy from how badly you want him, how desperately you crave him filling you.
“matt—” you whisper, your voice rough.
his beard scratches gently against your skin. you whine softly into the kiss, hips grinding down harder, wetter, messier against his thigh, slick smearing everywhere as you chase the friction desperately. he pats your bottom in reassurance.
“soon. i promise.”
his palms slide roughly over your ass, kneading, pulling you tighter against him, until your swollen clit drags deliciously against his thigh. you’re so wet, slick smearing onto his skin, every movement sending sharp jolts of pleasure through your thighs. your breaths mingle harshly, sloppy kisses punctuated by panting, gasping.
“come on, sweetheart,” matt grunts against your mouth. “ride like you mean it—make me believe it.”
“m-matt,” you babble, hips stuttering.
then suddenly, you’re in the air—his hands gripping beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, his strength an unshakable force even as your limbs go boneless. you let out a strangled gasp, thighs spreading around his waist as he maneuvers you exactly where he wants you, hovering over his cock, the swollen head pressing right against your entrance—so close, so close, but not enough.
“you want this, don’t you?” his grip tightens at your waist, fingers digging into overheated skin, holding you there, keeping you on that unbearable brink. his voice is so steady, so controlled, so infuriatingly patient despite the way his cock twitches beneath you.
“tell me, y/n. use your words.”
you whimper, clinging to his shoulders like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded. your whole body is pleading for him—every nerve singing, every muscle drawn so tight you think you might break if he doesn’t fill you now.
“please,” you sob, desperate, voice breaking as you writhe in his hold. “please, matt—need you inside—now—pleaseplease.”
the growl that rumbles from his chest is low and wrecked, his restraint snapping.
he thrusts up, driving into you in one rough, unrelenting motion, forcing you to take all of him at once. the stretch is instant, a deep, overwhelming fullness, punching the air from your lungs as he buries himself to the hilt.
you cry out, your body locking up, pleasure detonating like fire licking up your spine. the coil inside you snaps violently, your orgasm crashing over you, white-hot and unrelenting. you clench down hard around him, the spasms ripping through you in sharp, overwhelming waves.
matt doesn’t let up.
his grip on your waist tightens, holding you down against him as he grinds deeper, forcing you to feel every inch of him while you shatter. his hips roll up and up, dragging out every pulse, every aftershock.
“fuck,” he grits out, voice strained, control slipping, his hips snapping up harder, grinding against that devastating spot inside you that sends another wrecked, broken cry spilling from your lips.
he thrusts again, deeper, and then he’s gone—his body locking up beneath you, fingers bruising into your waist as a sharp, guttural groan rips from his chest. you feel him jerk deep inside you, spilling into you hot and thick, burying himself as deep as he can go while pleasure rips through both of you.
—
the world filters back in slowly—your skin fever-warm, your breath mingling with his, your body still trembling in the aftershocks of pleasure. matt holds you through all of it, broad palms smoothing over your back, tracing slow, grounding patterns into your skin.
his chest rises and falls beneath you, deep, steady, anchoring. outside, his city hums—greenpoint’s quiet streets thick with the scent of late-night takeout, the distant rumble of a motorcycle slicing through the stillness. the east river laps at the docks, a steady metronome beneath the occasional buzz of passing cars.
then, a soft kiss to your temple.
“you with me?” matt murmurs, voice raw, worn down by pleasure but still so gentle.
you hum sleepily, nodding, but his fingers tip your chin up, waiting.
“yeah,” you murmur, voice hoarse. “yeah, ‘m here.”
his hands roam, softer now—tracing your spine, checking you, mapping you all over again.
“c’mon, sweetheart,” he whispers. “let’s get you cleaned up.”
you groan in protest, clinging to him. “don’t wanna.”
he huffs a quiet laugh. but he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away.
you nuzzle into his throat, pressing a lazy kiss there. his breath hitches, but his hands stay steady, one sliding into your hair, thumb stroking absently.
“you’re warm,” you mumble. “don’t need a bath. just need you.”
another deep inhale, another slow exhale.
“alright,” matt murmurs. “let’s stay like this a little longer, then.”
and so you do—wrapped up in him, safe, sated, time slowing to something softer. outside, his city keeps moving, slow and unbothered, streetlights flickering against old brick. but here, in his arms, the night stretches out like it belongs to you.
