persephonewritessometimes

[persephonewritessometimes]

strike the match

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x college student f! reader

you fuck joel miller, austin’s fire chief, in your old room while your parents sleep down the hall.

tags/content warning: +18, mdni. f! reader. age gap. joel is 52, reader is 25. battalion chief joel miller. brief scene of attempted forced kissing (not by joel). reader wants that old man so bad. unprotected piv. creampie. wear protection please. dry humping. thigh riding. mouth covering during sex. oral f!receiving.

w/c: 9k

Hold the wide end of the cue stick with your dominant hand, palm facing up. Find the point where the stick balances, then shift your hand two or three centimeters back.

Form a circle with the thumb and index finger of your other hand.

You raise an eyebrow as you sip the espresso martini through a straw. Who knew pool could be this interesting?

Slide the cue stick through the circle and rest it over your middle finger. Set the outer edge of your hand on the pool table and—

Someone calls your name and you glance away from your phone, which is still open on a page titled “Pool for Dummies: First Steps,” just in time to catch the wide smile of one of your friends.

“Another round?” she asks, tilting her head toward your espresso martini. “Some guy just bought us drinks.”

Your glass is still half full, but you nod and agree, adding that the next one better come with a straw too. Free drinks are a no-brainer.

Once the waiter walks off with the order, your eyes drift again to the corner of the bar, to the pool tables surrounded by loud men downing tall mugs of frothy beer.

But you’re only watching one of them.

Your lips close around the straw again, and though your vision is slightly blurred at the edges, you stay locked in on the silver-haired man in his fifties, full beard and all, leaning against the wall with a cue stick in hand as he waits for his turn. He laughs at something his buddy says, and somehow, the drink tastes sweeter while you’re watching those broad shoulders under a plain black T-shirt and those strong thighs in faded dark jeans.

His turn.

He leans over the table, lines up the shot. His biceps flex, looking even bigger as he makes that typical forward-and-back motion before striking. His eyes are fixed on the red ball, until…

Suddenly, they’re on you.

Your stomach drops like you swallowed an ice cube. Still looking your way, brows slightly furrowed, he makes the shot. You don’t even have to follow the ball to know it sank clean.

His friend says something, and just like that, he looks away.

“Oh my God, stop flirting with the geriatrics,” your friend says, placing another espresso martini in front of you. “Adam wants to take you home. You know, the skinny blond guy…”

“The twenty-seven-year-old,” you say. “He’s a baby. And I bet he’s circumcised.”

“You’re twenty-five. What’s your beef with circumcised guys?”

You skip that question because there’s no polite way to explain your preference when it comes to pool cues.

“I like my men the way I like my cheese.”

“Old and stinky?”

“Aged!” you correct. “Y’all can keep your cheddar. I want my Gruyère.”

Your table erupts in laughter.

It’s your oldest friend’s birthday tonight, and you all decided to celebrate her twenty-ninth at Miller’s Bar, run by Tommy, an old friend of your dad’s, and his wife, Maria. Luckily, your summer break from grad school lined up with her birthday, and coming back to Austin is always worth it for nights like this.

And it’s not hard to imagine the kind of attention a group of girls in short skirts, high boots, and crop tops draws inside a traditional Texas bar.

You’re halfway through your espresso martini on your next sip, and for some reason, that reminds your bladder it needs attention. You excuse yourself and get up, though no one really hears you, and head straight for the bathrooms in the back of the bar, tucked at the end of a dim, nicotine-reeking hallway, where the air clings to your skin and the walls are hung with fading paintings of bulls, cows and longhorns.

Your bathroom mission is quick, mostly because it’s way too dirty to linger. Pee, quick reflection while perched on the toilet seat (layered in toilet paper), a bit of lipstick, a quick hair touch-up.

The music from outside, a Dolly Parton classic, fills the bathroom as you open the door, and it only takes one step into the dark hallway for you to slam into a wall of concrete.

“Shit,” says the wall.

Strong hands catch your shoulders and push you back, and suddenly your face is being tilted up by firm fingers.

“You alright?”

Black T-shirt. Gray beard. You blink, looking up, and your stomach flips again. He’s even bigger up close.

“Oww,” you whisper dramatically, touching your temple. Showtime. Anything to keep his hands on you a little longer. “I think I’ve got a concussion.”

“Doubt it. Looks to me like you’ve had a few too many.”

“You sure? Here,” you grab his hand and place it on your forehead. “Do I have a fever? What if you gave me a concussion?”

“Your fault for not lookin’ where you were going.”

You squint up at him again. He pulls his hand away and only now do you realize just how big it is and how thick his fingers are.

He’s raising an eyebrow, but there’s a hint of amusement on his lips that pushes you to blurt your name, offer a handshake, and say:

“How about I buy you a drink as an apology?”

The smile dies. He ignores your hand, pats the top of your head twice, like you would a puppy, and sidesteps you, saying:

“Go find someone your age, kiddo. Plenty of boys in there’ll want you.”

“I don’t want someone my age!” you call out after his retreating back.

“Too damn bad.”

He steps into the men’s room, and you feel your shoulders slump with disappointment. Would a lower-cut top have helped?

“When you think like that, feminism goes back twenty years,” your friend says when you repeat that exact thought to her. “He’s supposed to like you for your personality.”

“I don’t want him to eat out my personality.”

He walks past your booth and heads back to the pool area, and your eyes eat him up again, but then Adam, the allegedly circumcised boy, and his crew show up, cramming into your booth and blocking your view.

It’s hard, but you resist the urge to roll your eyes and order another espresso martini instead.

At some point in the night, you get fed up with the boys and their dumb incel-tier jokes, so you decide to leave. Your friends ask if you want company walking home, but you decline, even though your legs feel a little wobbly as you stand. You pay your part of the bill, say your goodbyes and make your way to the bar’s exit.

There’s a chilly breeze outside that raises goosebumps on your arms, and you shift your weight from foot to foot, leaning slightly against the wall as you dial your dad’s number.

It rings ten times and goes to voicemail.

You try again.

Voicemail.

“I don’t sleep until you’re home,” you mutter mockingly, repeating what they always say. “Bet they’re deep in REM by now.”

You’re typing your home address into the Uber app when the bar door opens again. Your eyes meet his.

“Changed your mind?” you ask, trying to sound alluring.

He closes the door behind him and looks both ways down the empty sidewalk before turning back to you with indignation.

“What the hell are you doing out here alone? Where’re your friends?”

“They stayed.”

“And they just let you stand out here by yourself?”

You ignore him, already over this conversation, and hit enter on the app. The fare loads. Shit. Twenty bucks to get home? That’s ridiculous. And the nearest driver’s twenty minutes away.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

“I’m not telling you where I live, stalker,” you mutter, eyes still on your phone.

“Five minutes ago, you were trying to buy me a drink.”

“So? Telling you where I live is crossing a line.”

“I ain’t leaving you out here alone.”

“Hey,” you spin to face him and point a slightly shaky finger in his direction. “You’re not responsible for me. I can take care of myself.”

He stares at your red-polished finger, then at your face, then raises his hands in surrender and walks past you toward the bar’s parking lot in silence.

Fine. Gotta love a hot guy who thinks he owns the damn world. Most exhausting type.

Alone again, you refresh the app a few times, and on the third, the price jumps from twenty to twenty-five dollars.

“Noooo,” you groan, leaning your head back against the wall to stare at the stars. Could you walk home? No… way too dangerous. And your high-heeled boots were not made for that.

The bar door opens again. You don’t look up to see who it is, and you don’t need to, because ten seconds later, there’s a hand on your waist. You jerk away, startled, trying to shake off the touch, but the grip is strong.

“Hey there, baby girl,” Adam says, way too close. You can feel his booze-soaked breath. “I got your message.”

His blown pupils freak you out, but it’s the fact that you can’t break his grip that makes your heart spike. You’re trying, but your espresso martini-filled body is sluggish. His hands feel like steel clamps against your dull reflexes.

“What message?”

“You wanted me to follow you out.”

“No, I didn’t. I just wanna go home. Let go.”

You try again. He holds tighter. Now he’s pressing his hips against yours. You push him, but every one of those espresso martinis slows you down.

“No need to make this so hard, baby girl. I saw the way you were lookin’ at me.”

“Let me go!”

Bile creeps up your throat and you swallow it down just to gather enough air to scream—

“Hey, kid,” a deep voice growls to your left, and your body nearly buckles with relief when he, Mr. Difficult, steps into view. He looks pissed.

“You back off her or you’re heading back to college five teeth short.”

Adam stumbles backward immediately, fear plain on his face. Mr. Difficult gives you a short nod, and you rush to him in quick steps, heart racing, tucking yourself beneath his broad frame like it’s shelter from the storm.

“These cameras,” he says, pointing to the ones mounted on the bar’s exterior, “I’ll have those tomorrow. Sexual harassment? I hope you don’t have a scholarship.”

Adam starts to say something, probably begging not to be exposed, but you don’t hear it. You’re gripping the man’s forearm, and he’s guiding you toward a black pickup parked between the shiny little cars of the boys still inside the bar.

In silence, he opens the passenger door and waits for you to climb in: slow, one foot on the step, the other in, legs together, finally settled. Then he shuts it and walks around to the driver’s side. For a moment, you feel like Bella Swan hopping onto the back of that weird guy’s bike in New Moon.

He gets in, shuts the door, and takes a deep breath before saying so firmly you don’t even think to argue:

“Give me your address. I’m taking you home.”

Defeated, you tell him. Only then does he start the truck and pull out of the bar’s lot.

“You know that guy?”

“I know his name’s Adam, but I don’t know him. Don’t even know his last name. He’s a friend of a friend.”

“Goddamn criminal little punks,” he mutters, rolling up the windows and turning on the heat when he notices you’re trembling, even though the cold has little to do with it. “You alright?”

“I’m… yeah. I think so. Thanks for stepping in.”

He keeps driving, and you use the quiet moment to steady your breath and your hands. The streets of Austin are empty, ghostly, barely any cars out, and your mind wanders for a second. Maybe it’s time to finally sign up for that self-defense class your dad kept telling you to take back in Houston.

You wedge your hands between your thighs to warm them and settle into the seat. You pretend not to hear when Mr. Difficult’s phone rings and he answers:

“Miller,” he says flatly. Someone talks on the other end. “What the hell happened to Jesse? Tonight’s his shift, not mine.” More silence. Then Miller, his newly revealed last name, curses under his breath and snaps, “I’m on my way.”

He hangs up and makes a sudden, hard right, jostling your body and making your eyes go wide.

“Are you kidnapping me?!”

His frustrated sigh fills the cab.

“You’re way too damn annoying to be kept in captivity,” he grumbles, accelerating. “They need me at work and I can’t drop you off first. It’s urgent. You’ll wait for me.”

“I can call another Uber.”

“You ain’t calling an Uber drunk like that.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because,” Miller says through gritted teeth, eyes on the road, “it’s literally my job to protect dumbass civilians who walk themselves into danger. I swore an oath. Now zip it.”

Civilians? Swore an oath?

Five minutes later, you get your answer as the wide property of the Austin Fire Department fills your vision, the U.S. and Texas flags flapping hard in the night wind. Miller drives through the open gate and parks beside the building.

“Come with me.”

You follow, still dazed, clacking behind him in your high-heeled boots. He doesn’t check if you’re keeping up, just walks with long, fast strides, and when he reaches the covered part of the station, three mustached men in full gear look at him like he’s the second coming.

The rest of the crew is further back, checking one of the trucks. They’re all huge.

“Chief,” one of them says. Chief?

“We need you. We got a call on—”

“Where the hell is Jesse?!” Miller practically growls. The three of them look at each other, shrinking a bit despite all standing well over six feet. “He think he’s back in school? What if I’d been drinking tonight? You’d go on a call short-handed? Hell of a teammate, that one.”

You’re only noticed when Miller turns his head toward you and calls out again:

“Come on.”

You do, still quiet. The firefighters tear their eyes off him and look at you, and yep… there it is. Raised brows, head-to-toe glance, lingering a bit too long on your skirt, and an open flirt-ready expression.

Miller shuts that down real fast:

“Eyes off, punks. I’ll be down in two.”

You give them a sheepish smile, but what you really want to say is: Yeah! That’s right, punks! Eyes off!

With a little bounce in your step, like a kid who just got praised by the teacher for their stick-figure drawing, you follow Miller up the stairs, metal steps creaking beneath you both.

Upstairs, you find the firefighters’ break room: a big dining table, a flat-screen TV, leather couches, and a kitchen tucked in an attached nook. You glance away from the wall of photos just in time to catch Miller stepping into his bunker pants, still over his jeans, and pulling the suspenders over his shoulders.

Shameless, you watch the whole thing while having a revelation. Yeah, now you get why firefighters are in every cliché fantasy ever. If Miller climbed into your window wearing that gear, you’d one hundred percent say something ridiculous like, “Here to put out my fire, officer?”

Next comes the heavy coat, and you can already see the sweat forming along his hairline as he zips and buttons everything up.

“Wait here for me. There’s coffee, water…” he gestures vaguely around the room, clearly in a rush. “Bathroom, running water, all that. Won’t be long.”

Before you can say anything else, he grabs his helmet and gloves and jogs down the stairs, pulling the Nomex hood over his head as he goes.

Moments later, the siren roars through the station, and as it fades into the night, it becomes nothing more than a ghostly hum at the back of your mind.

You sit on the couch, staring at the white wall with your hands tucked between your thighs. A firefighter. The chief.

Have you accidentally wandered into one of those steamy books you secretly read before bed? Or are you still sitting on the toilet in that grimy bar bathroom, hallucinating on espresso martinis?

The TV’s on. The news is covering a convenience store fire, result of an electrical short. Flames rage against the dark Austin sky, the interior swallowed by orange heat, yellow police tape keeping the crowd away. Thankfully, the store was empty when it caught fire.

Firefighters are en route, the reporter says, visibly relieved, and you curl onto your side on the couch, hands folded beneath your cheek, watching the broadcast.

You blink a little slower this time, and then everything goes dark.

“Were you trying to flash your panties to everyone in here? Damn short skirt.”

That’s the first thing you hear when you come to, groggy, as something is gently draped over your legs. You crack one eye open to find Miller carefully placing a leather jacket that smells like men’s cologne across your thighs. Only then do you realize just how comfortable you’d been lying there, considering the length of your skirt.

He keeps adjusting the jacket until everything’s covered. There’s no judgment in it. No irritation that you passed out like that. Just care, obvious in the way he pulls and tugs at the edges without ever letting his fingers brush your skin. And that, somehow, disorients you more than if he’d called you a name or scolded you outright.

“You’re back,” you mumble.

He shoots you a sidelong glance. His cheeks are smudged with soot and ash, his hair sweaty and tousled. The jacket’s gone, his suspenders hanging loose by his hips.

“Yeah. Didn’t die.”

“Thank God,” you murmur, eyes falling shut again. “What a waste that would’ve been.”

He clicks his tongue, exasperated.

You hear footsteps moving away, and peek through one eye to see him heading toward one of the adjoining rooms, tugging off his soaked black T-shirt in the process. The sight of his broad back makes your mouth go dry, especially with the reminder of what that body does for a living. All that strength. All that control.

Before the thought can spiral, other firefighters filter into the room, looking just as worn out as Miller.

“You the chief’s new girl?” one of them asks in a low voice, clearly trying not to be heard by said chief. He looks suspiciously like Bradley Bradshaw from Top Gun.

“No. He doesn’t want me.”

That earns you a burst of chaos. Whistles and chuckles like a group of teenage boys, not grown men who just came back from a fire call. Someone at the back yells, “I do!” and you ignore it, because you don’t kiss babies. Not when there’s a fire chief with a back like that about to drive you home.

You sit up on the couch, keeping Miller’s jacket across your lap, and glance at the coffee carafe they’re passing around.

“Can I have some?” you ask, motioning toward it.

They scramble like it’s a competition: who’ll pour, who’ll carry it over, who’ll get that sweet little “thank you” you sing out.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Miller says as he reappears, now in a fresh T-shirt bearing the Austin Fire Department logo on the chest and a clean face to go with it. His silver hair is damp, slicked back. He points at you. “Up. Let’s go.”

You rush to finish your coffee, burning your tongue in the process, and set the cup down to join him, still holding his jacket.

“I don’t know who’s been in contact with Jesse, but tell him he’s off the rest of the week. Maybe a seven-day suspension will help him get his shit together.”

One of them steps forward. “Chief—”

“That’s not a request, Lieutenant, that’s a decision. You boys need to learn the weight of the oath we swore.”

Silence.

Miller’s voice sharpens. “Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Miller places a hand on your shoulder and guides you forward. You walk ahead of him, down the stairs and out to his truck in silence.

“Tell me your address again,” he says once you’re both seated, looking worn out.

“You’re the fire chief.”

“Battalion chief,” he corrects, starting the engine. “Address.”

You tell him. He starts to drive. You watch him for a few seconds, then say:

“That was hot. The way you chewed them out? Extremely hot.”

“What’s with your thing for older men?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” you exclaim, and Miller rolls his eyes. Still grinning, you explain, “It’s not a thing. I just prefer older guys because they actually know what they’re doing. It’s not a crime.”

“How old are you?”

“You gonna judge me?”

“Seriously?” Miller stops at a red light even though the streets are deserted. It’s well past three a.m. “You’ve said all kinds of crap tonight, and this is what you’re worried about being judged for?”

“Because then you won’t wanna kiss me.”

“I’m not gonna kiss you either way.”

“See? That’s discrimination.”

“You still drunk?”

You think about it. Your vision’s clear now, no blurs at the edges. That weird rush in your ears is gone. The coffee and the nap did wonders.

“I’m not,” you say, turning in your seat to face him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, like he’s afraid to admit you’re even in the truck with him. Finally, you say, “Twenty-five.”

“I’m twenty-seven years older than you.”

The light turns green. He drives.

“That just sounds like motivation to me,” you say, watching the way his thumb tightens around the leather steering wheel for half a second, his only reaction. “Are you married? Dating? Secret vow of celibacy?”

He shakes his head. No to all.

“My women need to be at least forty. That’s my cutoff.”

“Totally fair. Women in their forties are delicious,” you say, giving him a thumbs-up. “But there’s always an exception, right?”

“No. Not with you.”

“Am I ugly?”

“You know damn well you’re not. Those boys at the station were practically undressing you with their eyes.”

A Cheshire cat smile spreads across your lips.

“You noticed? Look at you, paying attention,” you tease, but he doesn’t respond, and you know your limit. You stop pushing. “Okay. You don’t want me. Got it. I’ll stop.”

Silence. His forearms have so many veins. You bounce your leg, restless, and because you can’t shut up, you say:

“Thanks for taking care of our city, Chief.”

More silence. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a deep laugh fills the space between you, and the sound makes you melt right into the seat.

“You’re really somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

“Oh God,” you groan. “You’re gonna make this harder if you call me sweetheart.”

“What’s the difference with older men, anyway?”

“Fishing for an ego boost?”

“Forget I asked.”

“No, no, wait, sorry,” you say quickly, folding one leg under you and straightening like you’re about to give a TED Talk. You’re not wasting this moment. “Okay, listen, I lost my virginity in college—”

Miller rubs a hand over his face. “Too much information.”

“—and it was awful!” you go on, like he didn’t interrupt. “I didn’t finish. I told him that, and he said it was normal. So I slept with another guy, and that sucked too. I tried to settle because I thought that’s just what straight-girl life was.”

Somewhere in the universal rules of womanhood, there’s probably a clause that says never trauma-dump on a man. No man is different. But now that your mouth is open, it won’t stop.

“So I went out with this guy.”

“A guy,” he repeats, leaning slightly to check the passenger-side mirror.

“I think he was forty-two at the time. Miller… was addictive.”

“I can already imagine why.”

“Mhm.”

“But that’s not a rule. Not every older guy knows how to do that.”

You resist the urge to ask if he’s talking about himself.

“Haven’t had any bad experiences yet.”

The car goes quiet for five more minutes. You recognize the avenue you’re on, which means you’re probably only ten minutes from home.

“Have you always been a battalion chief?”

“I transferred here four years ago. Before that, I was a commander in Seattle.”

“So that’s why I didn’t know you. When you came, I was still in college,” you say mostly to yourself. “Got it. You like it here?”

“I’m from here. Tommy’s my brother. I left for Seattle twenty years ago.”

“Tommy from the bar?!”

“Tommy from the bar,” he confirms.

Mouth falling open, you lean back in your seat. Makes sense. His last name is Miller.

“Wow. Tommy’s friends with my parents,” you process the information bit by bit. “You’re Joel.”

“Mhm.”

“Joel Miller.”

“Yes.”

“I remember he used to talk about you all the time when he came over,” you say, because it’s true. Everything was Joel. Apparently, Joel had been his savior when they were kids. “He must be happy you’re back… and as battalion chief, no less.”

It’s subtle, but the line between Joel’s brows eases just a little when you say that last part. Other than that, he doesn’t react much.

“Family’s family,” he replies simply.

You reach your parents’ street and direct him to the house. Joel parks in front of it, and you notice all the lights are off, the windows dark. The porch light is on, and you know the key’s tucked inside the lilac flower pot.

You unbuckle your seatbelt as you say,

“Thank you so much for the ride. I’m sorry if I pushed too much and made you uncomfortable.”

You open the door to get out. Joel says,

“Close that door.”

Your hand freezes on the latch. Joel’s pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes down. After a beat, you shut the door and sit back in your seat.

The console light dims.

You give him a moment because he looks like he’s wrestling half a dozen battles inside his own head.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says quietly, rubbing his hands against his jeans. “I just don’t think I’m what you really want.”

“I think I’ve made it pretty damn clear you’re exactly my type.”

“Sweetheart, no offense, but this feels more like some drunk little adventure you’ll laugh about with your girlfriends tomorrow.”

If there was even a drop of alcohol left in your system, that sentence burns it out.

“Just because you’re older?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level. “Come on, Joel. That’s crap. Yeah, we’ve got a big age gap. But I told you what I like and why I like it.”

“Because you wanna be the wild friend?”

Your eyes go wide in disbelief. Your cheeks flare with anger, and you decide you’ve had enough. You reach for the door again, and the next second, a large hand covers yours and pulls it closed.

“Okay,” you murmur, still staring at his hand on top of yours, frozen. “Now I actually think you’re gonna kidnap me.”

“Shit,” he mutters, and he’s way too close. “Sorry. If you wanna get out, you can. I just… I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

“So what’s this whole speech for, then?” you turn your face toward him, and now you’re only inches apart, since he leaned over to shut the door. “You don’t want me. I get it. I’m a big girl. I don’t need a speech.”

Joel looks from you to your house, scanning the darkened façade, probably noting the lights all off. When his eyes return to yours, there’s a new kind of resolve etched into his face.

“It’s gotta stay secret,” he says. No wiggle room.

Your breath starts coming just a little heavier.

“I won’t tell a soul,” you promise immediately.

“Not even your friends.”

“What’s the big fear?” you ask, half-teasing, though there’s a flicker of real curiosity beneath it. “You married?”

“Hell no. I’m just the brother of the guy who’s friends with your dad, and I guarantee he wouldn’t want some fifty-year-old sniffing around his little girl.”

“I’m twenty-five,” you repeat, but your voice wavers a bit as Joel leans closer. “It’s not up to my dad who I get involved with.”

“Good for you,” he says, like he couldn’t care less, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck. “Still damn young.”

“And yet, I’m gonna be your exception.”

He squints, confused, until it clicks.

“Oh. Right. The first twenty in my rulebook.”

You lean in, ready to kiss him, but Joel holds you still with his hand at your neck, like he’s waiting for something.

You say what he needs to hear:

“Won’t breathe a word about what you do with a younger girl in front of her house.”

“Good. That stays between me and God.”

He pulls you in, and the second your lips meet, you’re gone, falling into that familiar place you’ve always adored with older men.

Your brain short-circuits and Joel takes the lead in everything. His hand moves from your neck to the base of your skull, tugging you deeper, and he’s the one to part his lips, the one to tilt just right so your mouths fit like it’s a damn movie scene.

Your fingers slide into his hair, thick strands slipping between them, as you sink further into the seat. He follows, body hovering over yours. The moan that escapes your throat when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips is honest. The one that comes when he finally kisses you with tongue, though just as real, is so drawn out it makes your cheeks burn with the fear he might think you’re faking.

God. That kiss.

“It’s a crime to keep that kind of kiss from me,” you whisper breathless, chest rising and falling in quick bursts. Joel kisses your bottom lip, your jaw, drags his mouth down your neck. The ceiling of the truck blurs as he finds your collarbones, and you arch into him to give him more room. “Joel—”

His tongue meets the skin of your chest and you thank every higher power that your neckline’s just deep enough for him to reach the dip between your breasts. The ache between your thighs tightens, that telltale pulse of being soaked hitting you all at once.

“More,” you whisper, tugging his hair, just enough to let him know you want another kiss.

He gives it to you. One hand on your waist, the other on your neck, he kisses you again, and this one’s filthy from the first second, now that you both know exactly how to move together. You press harder into his hands.

“You can’t be this polite,” you murmur. “Aren’t you gonna slip your hand under my skirt?”

“Boundaries,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut when you trail kisses along his jaw, rough with beard stubble. There’s still a faint trace of sweat and smoke from the earlier call, and you should probably care about that, but you don’t.

“No way you’ve got boundaries still holding steady in that brain,” you say. You watch his face up close as you take his hand and guide it down from your waist to your thigh. He opens his eyes at the heat of your skin and keeps them on you as you lead his hand higher, higher… right to the hem of your skirt. You pause. Ask: “Can I?”

He swallows hard.

He’s the one who moves now, sliding his hand beneath your skirt, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing like he means it, hard enough to make you giggle. His fingers find the lace of your panties where it sits snug between your cheeks.

“No one’s out here,” you murmur. Your hand finds the thick bulge in his jeans, and you raise your brows at him. “Can I make you come?” you ask, giving just the faintest stroke, enough pressure to make the denim feel good, not rough. “Please. Want me to take my panties off while I touch you?”

Joel clenches his jaw. Moves his hand from your ass to the front of your panties, cupping your pussy fully, probably feeling the heat radiating for him. You spread your legs as much as the car seat allows, giving him space to explore, all while trying to slip your hand inside his jeans to—

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head like the effort to say it physically hurts. You pull your hand away instantly at his no, but raise an eyebrow, waiting for more. “No. Not here. I’m not about to come in my jeans like a goddamn teenager.”

He pulls his hand back from between your legs, taking a steadying breath.

“Not here,” says again.

God. You could cry.

“Okay,” you say instead because you’re an adult and you respect a no. “Alright. Okay.”

“Go on. Get inside.”

But before you do, you raise a finger.

“Can I suggest something?”

You’re not quite sure how you manage to convince him, though that alone would be something worth bragging about, but somehow, you do. You talk Joel into parking a little farther down the street, just to be safe, and into sneaking in with you through the back door, because the front one’s too damn noisy.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist as you guide him through your dark house. A stop in the kitchen for a glass of water. A pause in the living room to make sure no one’s there. Then the stairs. One step at a time, silent. His brown eyes find yours every time you glance back.

And then Joel Miller is in your bedroom and you’re locking the door.

With his hands on his hips, he looks around: at the old band posters from when you were eighteen and just starting college, at the lilac bedsheets covering your mattress. The curtains are cracked open, letting in the pale glow of the moon and the streetlights outside, casting his silhouette in silver while you kick off your boots and socks and toss them aside.

“Prove to me you’re not drunk,” he says low.

“You want me to do a four?”

He keeps staring. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, lifting your right leg and crossing it over your left thigh, making the shape of a four with your legs.

“You’re so old,” you mutter, reaching ten in the count. “I already told you I’m not drunk. You know that perfect little buzz? That’s all I’ve got.”

“Enough to not regret this in the morning?”

“Regret you? Only if I were out of my mind.”

The plush carpet cushions your sore feet as you walk toward the bed. He just watches you. Watches as you climb onto the mattress, toss the pillows to the floor, and lie back on your elbows, looking straight at him.

One raised brow. A wordless well?

Joel looks up at the ceiling, like he’s saying a silent prayer, then bends down to remove his boots.

“You think you can stay quiet?” he asks, stepping closer. He mutters, “Refuse to come in my jeans like a damn teenager, but here I am sneaking into your house like one.”

Joel stands at the foot of your bed. You smile at him, about to unbutton your skirt, but he’s faster. His hands slip under the fabric, tugging your panties down your legs and tossing them aside.

You realize what he’s about to do when he plants one knee on the bed and starts lowering his head between your legs, but you stop him with your foot against his chest.

“You don’t have to,” you say quickly. You’ve been out all night with your friends. Sure, you showered before leaving, but still… it’s been hours. “It’s okay, I don’t need—”

“I do. I want to,” he murmurs, and the way he brushes your foot aside like it weighs nothing sends a wave of heat down your spine. Now both hands are on your thighs, spreading them gently. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

He waits for a sign to stop. You don’t give it.

A smile curls his lips.

“Yeah. Stay quiet and let me enjoy it.”

The hands that were holding your thighs now push your skirt up, the leather bunching around your hips. Then Joel’s large frame lowers, and his mouth finds you.

Your head falls back as his warm tongue slips between your folds with torturous precision, the sound of his spit mixing with your slick making your stomach tighten, and you have to practically bite down on your bottom lip not to moan. He grabs your hips, pulls you toward his mouth, and my God… he really wanted this.

Joel seems to be patiently gathering every drop of your arousal with his tongue, like he’s not in any rush, not until he’s good and ready to start licking your clit, his lips closing around it and sucking, slow and steady.

A moan nearly slips out, but you manage to turn it into a shaky exhale.

Your leg gives a little and you can’t hold yourself up on your elbows anymore, so you lie all the way back, legs splayed around his broad shoulders.

You glance to the side, clutching the sheets beneath you as you start, slowly, to ride his face. The mirror on your vanity catches everything, still cluttered with makeup you’d used while getting ready, and now it reflects the way Joel’s body covers yours, one foot still on the floor, your skirt bunched up, the outline of him pressing hard inside his jeans. You lower your right leg and catch a glimpse of his jaw working as he eats you out, desperate, beard slick with your arousal.

“Good?” you ask sweetly, fingers threading through his silver-streaked hair as your eyes meet. He can’t answer with words, but his eyes speak volumes, and he definitely grips you harder when you teasingly say: “You fifty-somethings really know how to eat pussy.”

Joel’s no exception.

You only pull him up because you want to kiss him again and because you obviously want him out of that fire department t-shirt. He peels it off, revealing a broad chest covered in dark hair that radiates strength.

Joel helps you slide your skirt off, and your mouths meet as you wrap your legs around his hips.

“I probably smell like smoke,” he murmurs.

“Just a little. More like sweat. And it’s delicious.”

Another smile. He’s on a roll.

“You’re insane,” he mutters, lowering his hips. The friction of his cock, denim-rough, grinding against your clit makes you whimper. He catches it. “Feel good?”

You nod. Joel watches you, then dips his hips again, and the seam of his jeans hits just right. You nearly come undone.

“Again,” you whisper.

He listens. Joel makes sure not to hurt you with the zipper, but grinds down hard enough, at just the right angle, to knock the air from your lungs. Your clit throbs under the pressure, the rough rub of the denim, and the solid heat of his cock beneath it only makes it more intense.

He licks two fingers and drags them between your legs just to give you a little extra slick, enough to keep it from turning raw, and keeps rocking into you. You hadn’t planned to come, but you also can’t stop it, not when that feeling keeps rising, rising, until—

It bursts, a sweet sharp rush that spreads from between your legs through every inch of you, and Joel keeps it going, those slow, steady grinds that don’t overwhelm but won’t let the afterglow slip away either.

You place a hand on the waistband of his jeans, gently stopping him.

“You need to fuck me. Now.”

“Urgent?”

“Mhm. So I can come again.”

“You’re so damn direct,” he mutters, clearly amused. Then he leans over and says, “Arms up.”

You obey. He takes off your top, and it’s you who unhooks your bra, now completely naked. Joel watches as he strips off his jeans and boxers, and when he’s bare, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look.

Thank you, God. Uncut.

You look up at him.

“Come here.”

Joel climbs onto your bed, his knees sinking into the soft lilac sheets, and settles between your thighs. Together, you shift higher up the bed until your head rests on the lone pillow left on the mattress.

“Might come too fast,” he warns, and you believe him by the way his cock is rock hard as he guides it to your entrance.

“I don’t mind.”

“Sure you don’t. You’re an expert in old men.”

The head of his cock pushes in with a wet sound that shuts your mouth. You bring your fingers down between your legs, starting to touch yourself again in slow, careful circles as Joel eases into you. He’s gentle, taking his time, eating you up with his eyes, and once he’s fully inside, his body covers yours.

You feel the soft press of his belly against yours, the hair brushing your skin, the weight of him, and it’s enough to stir you back up. Joel draws his hips back and fucks you, and the sound that escapes your mouth is nearly inhuman. Your eyes fly open, meeting Joel’s startled ones, and before either of you can react, his big hand covers your mouth.

“Quiet,” he says, then thrusts again.

You grip his wrist with both hands and wrap your legs around his hips, taking the rough, perfect rhythm of his thrusts — thankfully quiet, the bed doesn’t creak — as his thick cock drives deep into you, raw and goddamn delicious. Joel presses his hand firmer against your mouth to muffle you and clenches his jaw. The trimmed hair at his groin drags over your clit with every thrust, his balls slapping against your ass, and your eyes squeeze shut. You don’t even have the strength to keep touching yourself.

Joel goes again, once, twice, three times.

“Fuck,” Joel breathes, voice rough and shocked, sweat trickling down his neck. You feel a pulse inside you and then a warm rush spreading. “Fuck, fuck… I was supposed to pull out and—”

“It’s fine. Really,” because it is. You’ve never understood the drama around guys coming too fast. To you, it’s a compliment, as long as you’re properly taken care of. You repeat it, not wanting the afterglow to turn tense for him. “It’s okay.”

You pull him close and press a soft kiss to his lips, your fingers running through the softer strands at the nape of his neck.

“I had a vasectomy,” he confesses suddenly, lips still against yours, like the thought just occurred to him and he needed to reassure you.

“Great. I’ve got an IUD. Though we probably should’ve talked about this before, huh?” your hands slide down his sweaty shoulders. “Think you can get hard again?”

“Give me a minute.”

“Okay. Pull out.”

Joel shifts back, kneeling between your legs and wrapping his hand around the base of his cock as he slips out of you. You watch his softening length, slick with both of you, and wonder for a second why the hell you like that image so much. And even more… why the feeling of him dripping out of you turns you on.

“Sit there,” you tell him, nodding toward the headboard.

Silently, like a good student, he does exactly what you asked, leaning back against the headboard, his cock now fully soft resting on his thigh.

You crawl over on your knees, slipping between his legs to straddle his right thigh that feels solid under you, the thick hair tickling the insides of your thighs.

“How sensitive are you right now?” you ask, dragging a finger slowly along his cock, the head still tucked away. Joel jerks his hips back, pulling away from the touch. You lift your hand and arch a brow. “Okay. Got it. Very. I could try sucking you hard again.”

“Suck a soft dick?”

“Why not? I wouldn’t mind.”

“Alright. But I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

You rest your arms on his shoulders and lean in. “Okay. I respect that.”

Joel gives you that look, the one older people always get when they’re a little impatient with your ideas or mouth, but you know it’s not about you. He seems like the kind of man who grumbles about everything. Besides, the impatience doesn’t match the way his hands move across your back, soft and slow, up and down.

You say, “I was gonna learn pool just so I could play with you tonight.”

“Yeah? You learn anything?”

You pull back just enough to lift your hands. With your left, you pretend to grip a cue, and with your right, your thumb and index finger make a ring.

“Now I know how to hold a pool stick.”

Joel’s lips tug into a half-smile.

“You’re left-handed,” he notes, and you lower your hands again, nodding. His grip returns to your hips. “Well done. You should’ve come, by the way. I might’ve let you win.”

“You’d never let me win.”

“I’m softer than I look. And,” he cuts himself off when he notices your smirk, “if you make a joke about my soft dick, I swear I’ll have your name on a wanted poster by tomorrow.”

“I don’t get why it bugs you so much. Come on.”

You say that just before leaning in to press your lips to the pulse at his neck. Joel tilts his head slightly, giving you space, and you pepper kisses there, then across his shoulder. You press your chest to his, and his hands grip you tighter.

“Bet the single women in this town chase you down,” you murmur, arms around his neck. “And… the married ones too?”

“No comment.”

“Austin’s most wanted bachelor.”

“The divorcé,” he corrects.

Oh? You pull your mouth away from his neck.

“How long?”

“Five years.”

“Good. Tomb’s been sealed.”

He laughs against your mouth when you kiss him, but soon cups your face to kiss you properly, exactly the way you’re asking, even if you’re not saying a word. His kisses are so addictive, it’s strange to you. There’s something about Joel that turns a kiss into full-body contact. He kisses and touches you, strokes your cheek, your back, pays attention to what you need.

And he reads you well, because his hand slips between your legs.

“Lift up a little,” he says, and you rise onto your knees, no longer sitting on his thigh. His fingers slide between your folds, gathering the slick there. Joel lets out a low grunt, and you watch the way his cock gives a tiny twitch. “Let me eat you out again.”

Ah. Yes. But actually…

“Can I try something else?” you ask.

That’s how Joel, with lips slightly parted, ends up watching as you settle back down on his thigh, right over the thickest part, your legs spread wide.

You almost feel shy the first time you grind up against his thigh with his eyes on you. Your whole body shivers, breath catching in your throat, and you steady yourself with your hands on him. You’re so wet, from yourself and from him, that the movement is easy. Heavenly. The hair on his thigh adds just the right amount of friction on your clit, and it nearly sends you reeling.

“You like that?” he asks, genuinely curious, and you, dry-mouthed, nod your head. You grind again. Whimper.

“Been neglecting this pussy, huh?”

You shake your head. Joel touches your body, running his hands along your sides, gripping your waist. The next time you grind down, he helps, his biceps flexing, guiding your rhythm. Forward. Back. The muscle of his thigh tensing under you, his skin slick with your wetness.

He watches you, sees how close you are and how hard you’re biting your lip to keep quiet. Immediately, his thumb presses to your bottom lip, freeing it from your teeth, and he slips it into your mouth. You meet his gaze as you suck it in, hands clutching his arm, hips faltering in the next few rolls.

When you come, Joel lays you back on the bed, spreads your legs, and slides back inside. He’s not fully hard, but it doesn’t matter because he fits, thick and slow, and the way he stretches you prolongs your orgasm so sweetly it nearly breaks you apart.

You feel him stiffening more with each thrust, and as he grows harder, he goes deeper.

“Fucking perfect,” he breathes into your ear, biting your neck. “You’re driving me outta my mind.”

Your smile wavers when, after a few more thrusts, he slips out and lies beside you, then shifts you onto your side and pulls you back against his chest. He drapes an arm over your chest, grips your thigh with the other, lifts it over his hip, and slides into you again. His movements pin you, keeping you from doing anything but taking it when his fingers find your clit again, even oversensitive as it is.

Your whole body shakes.

“Joel—”

“Come on, baby. I know you’ve got one more in you.”

You try to jerk your hips away from his fingers as he rubs harder, faster, but there’s nowhere to go, and Joel doesn’t relent. He holds your thigh, keeps you open for him, slowing his thrusts just enough to drag it out. You grab the arm draped over your chest, twist your hips, and it’s almost too much.

Almost.

Because right before it crosses the line, you come. And then you go limp.

“Can I keep going?” he asks. “Want me to pull out?”

“No. Just… stay off my clit.”

The kiss he presses to your damp temple sounds like an “okay.”

You reach back, fingers slipping into the sweat-damp strands of his hair, and feel his ragged breaths against your neck as he keeps moving inside you. His next orgasm takes longer, but somehow it still only lasts a few seconds, and leaves you leaking all over again.

When it’s over, your ears are ringing, his body is hot behind you, and your heart won’t stop pounding.

Goddamn.

Thanks for your service, Chief.

You can’t stop staring at the top-left corner of the peach pie.

It’s not broken, exactly. The crust in that corner just sank a little lower than the rest, and it’s driving you nuts. You rotate the pie dish so the pristine edge faces front, hiding the flaw.

“Pie?” you offer with a smile as sweet as the amarena syrup your mom made, holding out a slice to the father and two sons approaching your stand.

Today is the neighborhood charity fair where your parents live. It happens every six months in the town square and has been around for maybe a decade. The goal is to raise funds for local nonprofits. Neighbors donate pies, sandwiches, roasted meats, inflatable toys for the kids. The whole thing.

When you were fifteen and a painfully annoying teenager, you thought wearing an apron and handing out pie was humiliating. Ugh, mom. Charity is soooo lame.

Ten years later, here you are: uneasy, borderline neurotic because the crust of the pie you helped bake has a deformed corner.

The father and sons leave with their slices in little styrofoam containers and colorful forks. You glance around.

Your mom is helping out at one of the roast beef sandwich booths since someone called in sick last night. Your dad’s at his own stand, trying to sell fishing gear, though bamboo hooks don’t exactly draw crowds.

Farther down the square, you spot the fire truck. Your heart does a little skip, part nerves, part excitement. The fire department’s on site for safety, at least for the first couple hours. But you haven’t seen Joel yet.

“Any pie here sweeter than you?”

You turn toward the front of your booth and find the fireman who looks like a knockoff Bradley Bradshaw. He’s wearing an Austin Fire Department tee, aviator shades, and a grin that’s way too… youthful.

Still, you smile back.

“Definitely. I’m pretty sure the pie also knows the number for the AFD’s misconduct hotline.”

“Kidding.”

“And because of that joke,” you say, grabbing three styrofoam containers, “you’re buying three slices to support the cause.”

He doesn’t even protest. Quietly, he waits as you cut the slices and hands you the money. You thank him with a sugar-sweet smile and a blown kiss.

Once he walks away, your eyes sweep the square again. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

And there’s the fire, staring at you from across the plaza, arms crossed under the shade of a tree. Joel’s in the same black Austin Fire Department tee, and you see his eyes dip briefly to read the name stitched onto your pink apron.

The Sweetest Bite.

That barely-there smile curves his lips.

You grab a styrofoam plate, cut a generous slice of pie, and pull five bucks from the back pocket of your denim shorts, dropping the bill into the flower-covered tip jar your mom set up.

Then you toss the apron onto the counter and ask your dad to watch the stand for a few minutes.

Joel doesn’t even see you approaching. He’s surrounded by three women asking what it’s like “to be responsible for a city like Austin.”

“Such a hard-working man,” you say, slipping in between two of them to hold out the pie. “Fresh, warm cream pie. A little thank-you for protecting the city.”

Joel looks from the pie to you. Your smile grows even sweeter. When he takes it, the women scatter.

“You got an endless supply of short shorts like that?” he asks, not even pretending to start eating. His eyes stay on the pie. “Cream pie.”

“My favorite,” you reply. And, about the shorts: “It’s summer in Texas.”

“Right,” he says to both.

You glance around. No one’s near. One of the other firefighters is tossing rings at a carnival booth.

“You should come to the barbecue at my place after the fair. Tommy’s going and I can ask him to invite you.”

“I’m not going’ to your house.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not buddying up to your parents. You’re out of your mind?”

“I don’t want you to be friends with them. I want you to sneak up to my room when no one’s looking.”

“No,” he says flatly, like the conversation’s over.

A few hours later, that victorious little grin creeps across your lips as you see Tommy walk through the back gate of your house.

And right beside him, carrying a cooler of beer, is Joel Miller.

[persephonewritessometimes]

Obsession

possessive!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You don’t even really like Bucky Barnes — he’s grumpy, kinda mean, and totally clueless about how you feel. But damn, he’s so hot it’s driving you crazy. Every time he walks in, all you can think about is what it’d be like if he just took you right there. You try to play it cool… but yeah, that’s not happening.

word count: 6021

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, masturbation, dirty talk, degrading, praising, desperation, fingering, teasing, PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex and he talks through it, breeding, overstimulation, oral (m receiving), possessive behavior.

A/N: i’m horny, okay?…

You don’t have a crush on Bucky Barnes.

That would imply affection. Admiration. Maybe even a little emotional investment.

You don’t have any of that.

What you do have is a deeply inconvenient, soul-destroying case of lust. A constant, throbbing ache between your legs every time he walks past. A full-body reaction to the way he stretches, or leans on the counter, or wears those fucking grey sweatpants like a goddamn weapon.

It’s chemical. It’s hormonal. It’s not personal.

Because Bucky Barnes is grumpy. Bucky Barnes is quiet. And Bucky Barnes has absolutely no idea that he’s the reason you can’t go three days without needing to fuck yourself stupid.

Like right now.

He’s just standing there in the kitchen, back to you, broad shoulders stretching that worn black Henley like it’s a second skin. His hair’s short now, freshly trimmed at the nape, the kind of cut that shows off the sharp line of his jaw, the back of his neck.

You’re staring. Again.

You don’t mean to. But he makes a little grunt when he stretches — just a tired noise, nothing sexual — and you nearly whimper like a kicked dog. Instinct. Pavlovian response.

And he doesn’t notice. Not even a flicker of awareness as he pours his coffee and walks out, oblivious, muttering something about the mission report.

You just stand there, holding a spoon, clenched thighs and flushed cheeks like you’ve just been fucked by the idea of him.

It’s getting worse.

Like, medically worse.

You’ve gone from horny to feral to clinically unwell, and it’s all because of one man.

One grumpy, emotionally constipated, vein-poppingly hot man who can’t say a sentence without sounding mildly irritated. Who barely even looks at you unless you’re in the way. Who definitely doesn’t like you — and yet somehow owns your nervous system like a fucking landlord.

And it’s not fair.

Because he’s not even nice to you.

He’s short with you in meetings. Scoffs when you crack jokes. Gives you that look when you say something mildly reckless on a mission — like you’re exhausting. Like you’re annoying.

But then he’ll do something that ruins you completely. Like grunt your name low and gravelly when tossing you your gear. Or casually push you out of the line of fire with one big, rough hand and say, “Watch it, sweetheart,” like you’re some dainty little thing.

You pace your room that night, ranting to no one.

“I don’t even like him,” you mutter, folding laundry with violent purpose. “He’s so rude. He never smiles. Doesn’t talk to anyone unless he has to.”

Your shirt gets yanked onto a hanger too hard. You nearly snap it.

“And he doesn’t even like me. Not even a little. I’m just some girl who laughs too loud and gets in his way and—oh my god, I would let him ruin me.”

That’s probably the most honest thing you said all week. You’d let him manhandle you. Throw you over his shoulder. Rail you into the mattress like a war crime. That arm? The metal one? You’ve thought about it. God, you’ve thought about it so much it’s starting to feel like a sin.

You can’t help it.

You collapse onto your bed, still in your T-shirt and underwear, legs kicking uselessly against the sheets. Your body is hot — too hot. Your skin prickles, stomach twisting tight with the sheer need of it.

You shouldn’t do it.

But fuck it — you do.

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties like second nature, no hesitation. You’re already soaked — of course you are. One fucking grunt from Bucky in the kitchen and you’ve been like this all day, wound tight and throbbing.

Your fingers slide through the slick heat of your folds, and your hips twitch. You let out a soft, breathless whimper, biting your lip like it’ll help.

It doesn’t.

He’s all you can think about.

Bucky, with that low rasp of a voice. Bucky, sweat-slicked and panting, muscles straining above you. Bucky, staring down at you like you’re a mess he likes making.

You rub lazy circles around your clit, teasing yourself, letting it build slow. Letting the images crawl behind your eyes:

His hands gripping your thighs, spreading them open.

That cold metal arm wrapped around your throat, holding you in place while he pounds into you, relentless and filthy.

His voice in your ear, rough and possessive —“You been thinkin’ about this, sweetheart? Been touching yourself like a needy little thing?”

Your fingers move faster.

You arch into the mattress, breath stuttering, hips chasing the pressure. Your other hand slides up under your shirt, finds your breast and squeezes hard, tugging at your nipple.

“Fuck,” you whisper, squirming, already so close it’s pathetic.

You imagine his hand — that hand — between your legs. Imagine him shoving your panties to the side with those cool, precise fingers and just… watching you squirm. Watching you come undone with that unreadable expression of his, like he’s filing it away for later.

You imagine him making you come like this. Telling you you’re not allowed to stop. That you’re gonna do it again, and again, until you’re crying.

Your thighs start to shake.

You gasp, pressing harder, grinding down. Your toes curl, muscles tensing, pleasure tearing through you like lightning — sharp, wet, overwhelming.

You come hard, moaning into your pillow, breathless and ruined, hand still trembling between your thighs.

And then?

You lie there. Sticky. Hot. Unsatisfied.

Because no matter how many times you make yourself come, it’s never enough.

Not when it’s him you want.

Not when it’s Bucky fucking Barnes.

———

You’re minding your business. Truly. Peacefully. Drinking your stupid little smoothie, scrolling through intel reports on your tablet, trying so hard not to think about last night and the shame spiral that followed.

You’re in the common room, feet tucked under you, hair up, living a clean and quiet life.

The front door hisses open. Voices filter in—Sam laughing, Nat muttering something dry, Steve’s boots heavy on the floor.

And him.

Bucky.

You don’t look up at first. You don’t need to. You can feel him. Like some sixth sense activated just by his presence, like the air itself is different when he walks into it.

But then you do look up and you regret it immediately.

He’s just back from the field. Tactical gear still clinging to him, black shirt soaked through with sweat in that way that makes it stick to every hard line of muscle underneath. The sleeves are tight around his biceps—dangerously tight—making it look like the fabric’s seconds from giving out under the strain of his arms.

His hair’s damp, just messy enough to be criminal, a few strands sticking to his forehead. Dog tags resting against his chest. Black cargo pants slung low on his hips, clinging to his thighs like they were custom-made by someone with your exact problem.

He’s flushed from exertion, a little dirty, jaw tight like he’s still coming down from combat.

And he doesn’t notice you. He just walks past, arm flexing as he drags his glove off with his teeth.

You actually—physically—have to grip the edge of the couch.

You squeeze your thighs together so tight your eyes almost roll back. Your smoothie is sweating in your hand, condensation dripping onto your leg, and it’s the least of your problems right now.

Because that man?

That man could rail you into next week with the anger he carries in his shoulders alone. You’d let him wreck you in the debriefing room, up against the wall, still wearing that gear and not saying a word.

You’d tear those tactical pants off with your teeth.

And he just keeps walking. Oblivious. Like he’s not singlehandedly dragging you through the gates of horny hell.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, heart hammering. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He pauses for half a second like he might’ve heard you. Glances over his shoulder—just once.

And then he’s gone, down the hall.

You stare at the door for a long time, smoothie forgotten, thighs still clenched like your life depends on it.

You need help. You need prayer. Exorcism. A cold shower.

Or maybe you just need him to ruin your entire existence.

You barely make it back to your room.

Your legs are shaking. Your mind’s a blur. All you can see is him—sweaty, panting, muscles strained beneath that black t-shirt. His arm flexing, the curve of his jaw, those goddamn tactical pants hugging every inch of thigh like a threat.

You lock the door behind you with trembling fingers.

You don’t even bother taking your clothes off properly—just shove your hand down your shorts as you collapse back onto your bed, legs spread, head spinning.

He looked so good.

Your fingers slide through your folds, already wet, your body acting like it’s been starving for him. Like it’s been waiting all day, all year, for a glimpse of that man so it can break down on command.

You rub your clit in tight, needy circles, moaning quietly.

Your eyes flutter shut.

You picture him over you, sweaty and still in gear, that black shirt pushed up just enough to show the cut of his stomach. You imagine his voice, low and rough, right next to your ear—“Couldn’t even wait, huh? Needed me that bad?”

Your hips buck, thighs shaking, pleasure building fast and desperate.

“Fuck—Bucky,” you gasp, breath catching.

You don’t hear the quiet footfalls in the hall.

Don’t hear the door next to yours click shut.

Don’t know he’s just gotten back to his room.

But he hears you.

Bucky stops with one boot halfway unlaced.

He frowns—still half in mission mode—until he hears it again: a faint whimper through the wall. A soft gasp. Then—his name. Muffled. Almost whispered.

His blood goes still.

He steps closer to the wall, heart suddenly pounding, every nerve pulled tight.

Another moan. Higher this time. Desperate.

He can hear the rhythm now—quiet, wet sounds, a bed creaking slightly with every movement. You’re touching yourself. Saying his name. Whimpering like it’s been torturing you.

His mouth goes dry. Something low in his stomach twists.

He shouldn’t listen.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.

You don’t know he’s there—don’t know you’ve already ruined him. That he’s standing on the other side of the wall, jaw clenched, cock straining against his pants, while you moan into your pillow and come with his name on your lips.

———

The next day, you tell yourself you’re fine.

You look fine. You act fine. You sit in the common area with your laptop open and a mug in your hands like a picture of peace. The night before? Never happened. The hand between your thighs? The breathy moans into your pillow? The orgasm that left you limp and half-ashamed?

A delusion. A private, pathetic delusion.

Until he walks in.

And your entire body remembers.

Bucky enters like it’s nothing. Like he’s nothing. Joggers low on his hips, black T-shirt riding up in the back, hair damp from a shower and curling just slightly around his ears.

You look up instinctively.

And he looks right at you.

Your breath catches. Your stomach drops. He holds your gaze for half a second—half a second too long—then nods, casual as ever, and heads to the kitchen.

No hello. No smirk. Nothing to suggest he heard the way you moaned his name with your fingers stuffed between your thighs like you were starving for him.

He doesn’t say a word.

You try to refocus, try to look at your screen and breathe, but your eyes keep flicking back.

He’s moving around the kitchen now, calm, quiet, efficient. Forearms flexing with every movement. The joggers cling when he crouches to grab something from a low cabinet, and your mouth actually goes dry.

Your thighs squeeze together.

He knows.

He has to know.

But he’s pretending like he doesn’t, and it’s driving you fucking insane.

You don’t even want to like him. He’s grumpy and rude and dismissive. He doesn’t flirt. He barely talks. He exists like a thundercloud with muscles and you still want to cry from how badly you want him.

And now he knows.

Now you’ve moaned his name with a hand between your legs, and he’s seen you since and said nothing.

You want to crawl into the floor.

You want to jump him.

You want him to ruin you until you can’t even say your own name.

He walks past you again with a cup of coffee, eyes flicking toward you—slow, heavy, unreadable.

And this time?

You swear there’s a hint of a smirk.

He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee, that black mug dwarfing in his gloved hand. The steam curls around his face, catching the light, and he’s just staring at nothing—completely unreadable.

Until he speaks. “Sleep okay last night?”

You freeze. Your heart flatlines. Then kicks into overdrive.

You glance up too fast, trying to act casual, but your grip on the mug betrays you—tight, white-knuckled.

“Yeah,” you say, blinking. “Why?”

Bucky shrugs. Sips again. His face is all calm, cold stillness. Like he’s discussing the weather. Not like he heard you moaning his name behind the paper-thin wall like your soul was leaving your body.

“Nothing,” he says, low and even.

You swallow hard. Try to hide the heat crawling up your neck.

You stare at him. Waiting for something. A look. A smirk. A single flicker of anything.

But he gives you nothing.

Just turns back toward the hallway, casual as ever, coffee in hand, like he didn’t just dangle a loaded gun over your head and walk away.

And as he disappears down the hall, your thighs press together again.

You’re so fucked.

———

You try to sleep.

You really, really do.

You toss. You turn. You fluff your pillow. You kick the blankets off and pull them back up. You stare at the ceiling and beg your brain to stop replaying the way he looked in that shirt. The way his voice dropped when he asked about your night. The nothing he gave you like a damn grenade and walked away.

It doesn’t stop.

It won’t stop.

You squeeze your thighs together for the fifth time in twenty minutes, but it only makes it worse. Your whole body’s aching—burning. Tight with the need that’s been building for the entire day.

You glance at the door. You know you should get up and lock it.

But you don’t. Because you’re tired. And turned on. And pathetic.

“Fuck it,” you whisper, dragging your hand under the sheets. “I’ll be quiet.”

You bite your lip as your fingers slide down, already warm, already soaked. You work slow at first, trying to stay silent—just enough to relieve the pressure. Just enough to breathe again.

But then your mind starts drifting.

To him.

Always him.

Bucky in the gym, sweat-slick and scowling. Bucky walking past you post-mission like a walking sin. Bucky pressing you into your mattress with that big metal hand wrapped around your throat, voice rough in your ear—“You’re so fucking loud for me, baby.”

You gasp. Then whimper. Soft. Barely audible.

But he hears it.

He’s in his room again. Reading. Trying to pretend like he didn’t spend all day imagining the look on your face when he asked about your sleep. Trying not to picture your hand between your thighs again.

And then he hears you.

Again.

A muffled moan, breathless and aching, like it’s being pulled out of you against your will.

He stands without thinking.

Crosses the hall with quiet, deliberate steps. His pulse is steady, but something low is stirring—something primal. Something possessive. The kind of heat that doesn’t burn—it consumes.

He stops outside your door.

Closed. Not locked.

He doesn’t even knock.

The handle turns with the softest click, and then—

He steps inside. The door shuts behind him with a quiet snick.

You don’t hear it.

You’re on your back, one knee bent, your hand buried under the hem of your shorts. Your head is tipped back against the pillow, mouth open in these soft, gasping little whimpers as you chase the edge, hips twitching, breath fogging in the dim light.

You have no idea he’s there.

Not until you hear him speak.

“Didn’t I just ask if you slept okay?” The voice—his voice—cracks through the quiet like a whip.

You bolt upright.

Everything inside you lurches, heart ramming against your ribs, a violent rush of heat and panic rising through your chest like you’ve been caught in a fire. Your hand yanks back from your shorts like it’s been scorched, and you scramble to pull the blanket up, dragging it over your thighs as your breath shatters.

Your eyes fly to the source of the voice.

And there he is. Leaning against the door like he’s got all the time in the world. Arms crossed. One brow slightly raised.

His expression is unreadable—casual, maybe—but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Something dark. Something hungry. Like he’s taking inventory of every inch of you in one glance.

You can’t move. Can’t think.

Your heart’s thudding like a drumline, and your cheeks go hot, burning as your stomach flips over itself in full-blown horror.

You can still feel your arousal—sticky, heat pressed between your thighs, your pulse fluttering in places he’s not even touched.

“Bucky—” you croak, throat tight. “I—what are you doing—how—”

“The door wasn’t locked,” he says flatly.

Matter-of-fact. Like that explains everything.

And it kind of does.

You just sit there, still clutching the blanket to your chest like it can undo what he saw. As if it can erase the sound of you moaning into your pillow while your fingers worked yourself over to the thought of him.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.

He just watches.

Like he’s curious. Patient. Like he’s giving you a chance to dig your own grave or shut up and let him lower you into it.

You look at him and it hits you how big he is. Broad and solid, filling the doorway like a wall. The black t-shirt is stretched across his shoulders, tucked into his pants just enough to show the lines of his waist, and that goddamn metal hand is flexing at his side like it’s already made its decision.

And still… he doesn’t leave.

Your voice breaks trying to fill the silence. “I didn’t mean— I thought I was quiet— I didn’t know—”

“I heard everything.”

That shuts you up.

His voice is calm. But it’s not soft. Not gentle. It sinks into your gut like a stone, and your thighs squeeze together before you can stop yourself—before your body betrays you again.

You look away. You can’t look at him. Not when you’re like this—hair messy, skin flushed, caught in the act like a filthy little secret with your want written all over your sheets.

He moves. Not quickly. Not harshly. Just decisively. Like this is inevitable. Like he knew the moment he opened that door that he wasn’t going to leave until you were ruined.

He crosses the room in two slow steps. Sits on the edge of your bed, right next to you. His thigh brushes yours, warm and solid, and your breath hitches—your entire body tensing as his presence crowds the air.

Then his hand—the metal one—reaches out.

He takes your wrist. Your fingers are still damp. Still twitching from where they were buried between your thighs. He stares at them for a second, then meets your eyes.

“Touch yourself.”

You blink. “What—”

“I said touch yourself,” he repeats, a little lower this time. “Show me.”

Your heart slams. His grip stays locked around your wrist, not forcing—but not letting go either. He doesn’t need to threaten. Doesn’t need to beg.

He’s already heard you fall apart for him.

Now he wants the show.

And fuck—your body obeys before your brain can stop it.

You shift beneath the covers, breath shaking, eyes wide as your hand slides back down, slipping under the waistband of your shorts.

Your skin’s hot. Everything throbs and you’re soaked.

Shame prickles in your chest, but it’s drowned by the way he watches—focused and still, his hand still gripping yours like he owns it.

You let your fingers find that spot again, slick and swollen, and you shudder.

“Fuck,” you whisper, breath catching.

His voice cuts through it. Soft. Direct. “You’ve been touching yourself thinking about me?”

You nod, cheeks burning.

“And now you can’t stop, can you?” he murmurs. “Poor thing. You want me this much, baby?”

You let out a tiny, broken sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—and press harder.

His metal thumb strokes over the inside of your wrist, slow and thoughtful, like he’s testing your pulse. You’re so wet your fingers glide without resistance, your hips moving on their own.

“Messy little thing,” he mutters. “God, you’re desperate. Didn’t even lock the door.”

His flesh hand moves too now—reaching up to push your hair from your face, tilting your chin toward him.

“You wanted to get caught, didn’t you?”

You shake your head, but your body betrays you—back arching, thighs tensing, rhythm faltering as your orgasm creeps up again, fast, tighter than before.

He sees it. Feels it. And he knows.

“You gonna come for me?” he whispers. “Right here, baby? With my hand around yours and your pussy soaking your sheets?”

You sob his name and he finally leans in—breath warm against your cheek.

“Good girl.”

Your fingers slip again—rhythm stuttering, body caught in that maddening edge.

He watches you falter. Watches your mouth fall open, brows pull together, your thighs start to shake with the pressure of holding yourself there. So close. Too close.

And that’s when he moves. His grip on your wrist tightens just enough to make you freeze.

“Let go,” he says.

You whimper. “But—”

“I said let go.” His voice leaves no room for argument.

You obey. Your hand slips from your shorts, fingers slick and trembling, and your chest rises in short, desperate breaths as he shifts closer.

“Bucky—” you gasp.

But he’s already there. His fingers slide between your folds—just one, at first, cool and unreal, brushing over your clit in a slow, torturous circle. Your hips jerk like you’ve been shocked.

“God,” you moan, clinging to the sheets, “fuck—”

“So sensitive,” he murmurs.

His eyes are locked on your face, hungry, focused—like he’s memorizing the way your mouth falls open for him, the way your lashes flutter when he presses a little harder.

You can’t stop the sounds you make.

You’re already too close—too much—your body wired tight from teasing yourself for nights and thinking of him, only him.

One metal finger dips lower—in now, slick and slow—and your breath punches from your chest.

Your hips grind into it, chasing it like you’re starving.

He fucks you with it slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Watching you unravel inch by inch.

“You’ve been dreaming about this?” he says, voice like gravel. “Getting off to the thought of my hands on you?”

You nod helplessly, fingers clenching around the sheets.

Another finger slides in.

Your body wails for it—so full, so good, the metal stretching you just right—and your thighs tremble, back arching as your orgasm builds so fast it almost hurts.

“Then come for me,” he growls. “Right now. I want to feel how tight you get when you finish.”

You choke on a cry.

And then you fall apart.

Hard.

Your walls clamp down around his fingers, body convulsing as the wave hits you—sharp and electric—shaking through your entire frame with a loud, wrecked moan that echoes in your room.

His hand doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it—slower now, drawing it out, holding your body steady with his free hand while you tremble and sob and drip around him.

You don’t know how long it lasts. You just know you’ve never come like that before.

Not in your life.

Not until him.

You’re still gasping, thighs twitching, brain static from how hard you just came—but he’s not done with you. Not even close.

His fingers slip from you slow, drenched, and he brings them up to his mouth, sucking them clean without taking his eyes off you.

Then?

He smirks.

That low, dangerous smirk you’ve only ever imagined. Dreamed about. Touched yourself to. And now it’s real.

“You’ve been thinking about me so much,” he says, voice thick with heat, “I bet you want to feel my cock, huh?”

You don’t even answer. Can’t. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out but a broken moan.

He laughs. Dark. Rough. “You fucking slut.”

He stands. Hands go to the waistband of his pants.

Your breath catches, watching.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to.

The black tactical pants slide down slow over those solid thighs, revealing the outline of what’s beneath—thick, heavy, hard. You feel your whole body clench at the sight.

He steps out of them, shirt already discarded somewhere between your moans, and he’s standing there now in nothing but black briefs—soaked at the tip.

And holy fuck, he’s big.

Your lips part, staring. You want to drool.

He notices.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “Look at what you’ve been aching for every night.”

He pulls the briefs down—slow, shameless.

His cock springs free, thick and hard and flushed at the tip, veins running along the length like something out of a wet dream. You whimper, thighs pressing together reflexively.

“You wanted this inside you so bad you couldn’t keep quiet,” he says, climbing onto the bed again, crawling over you until his weight cages you in. “Moaning my name with the fucking door unlocked.”

Your body arches up to meet him.

“Please,” you whisper.

He fists his cock once, dragging his head through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance.

You’re still sensitive. Still pulsing.

“Is this what you want?” he growls, notching the tip right against you. “Want me to stretch you open and fuck the brains outta that filthy little head of yours?”

You nod, desperate.

His cock sits heavy in his hand, the flushed tip glistening as he slides it through your slick folds again. Over and over—up and down—until you’re squirming beneath him, hips chasing every motion like you can’t stand another second of not being filled.

But he doesn’t give in. Not yet.

He drags the thick head over your entrance, slow and deliberate, just barely nudging inside before pulling back again.

“Fuck—Bucky,” you whimper, body arching.

“You’re soaked again,” he growls, almost to himself. “You got this wet just thinking about my cock?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. Not for him. He taps your clit once—sharp and teasing—and your whole body jerks.

“Say it.”

Your breath catches. “I—I thought about it every night,” you gasp. “I wanted it so bad. I still want it. Please, Bucky—”

He groans, low and ragged. The tip of his cock presses at your entrance again. Just a little. Just enough to make you feel the burn of it—how thick he is, how your body tries to pull him in even as he holds himself back.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, circling your hole with maddening precision. “How much your pussy needs me?”

You moan, desperate. Hands clawing at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you can hold onto.

He grins. “Needy little thing.”

Then he pushes. Just the tip—slow and thick, stretching you inch by inch.

Your mouth falls open. Breathless. Wide-eyed.

“Oh my—fuck,” you cry.

He pulls back.

You sob.

“Patience,” he mutters, teasing your entrance again. “Wanna feel you beg for it.”

“I’m begging,” you gasp. “Please, Bucky—please, I need it, I need you to fuck me—”

His mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cry as he thrusts in deep—all the way—filling you to the hilt in one thick, devastating stroke.

Your back arches. Your vision whites out.

“So fucking tight,” he growls against your mouth, rolling his hips, grinding in deeper. “Fuck—you were made for this, weren’t you?”

He stays there for a moment—buried inside you—his cock stretching you open so wide it burns in the best way, hips pressed flush to yours. You can barely breathe, your body trembling with the shock of just how full you feel.

Then he moves. A slow pull out—just a few inches—before slamming right back in.

You scream. Not from pain. From everything. The pressure, the friction, the heat of his skin, the weight of his body pinning you down like he owns you.

“Goddamn,” he hisses, his jaw clenched tight. “You’re fucking dripping around me.”

Your nails dig into his back.

He starts thrusting—hard and fast, hips snapping against yours with brutal rhythm, the head of his cock dragging over every sensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly where to hit.

And all the while, he talks.

“Been thinking about this tight little cunt every night since I got here. Didn’t know it was mine to take.”

You moan—choked and desperate.

“You wanted it so bad, didn’t you? Wanted me to catch you with your legs spread and fuck you like the filthy little cock-drunk slut you are.”

“Y-Yes—please—” you’re a mess beneath him, eyes wet, mouth open.

He grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, forcing you to look up at him.

“Look at me,” he growls. “Don’t you dare look away while I fuck your pussy.”

You blink up at him, dazed. And fuck—he looks insane. Hair a mess, sweat dripping down his temples, that metal hand gripping your thigh so hard you might bruise.

And still—he doesn’t stop. He fucks you like it’s punishment. Relentless. Ruthless.

Every thrust knocks the air out of your lungs, your body jerking with the force of it. The bed creaks beneath you, headboard slamming against the wall, your moans echoing like you’re meant to be heard.

“You gonna come again, baby?” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your ear. “You gonna soak my cock just like you soaked your fingers last night?”

“Bucky—Bucky, I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

His hand slips down between you, fingers rubbing fast circles over your clit as he keeps fucking you open with brutal thrusts.

“You’re gonna come with me inside you, sweetheart. You’re gonna come on my cock like a good little toy.”

And it snaps.

You cry out—loud and broken—as your orgasm slams into you hard enough to steal your breath, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.

“Fuck, yes,” he growls, grinding deep into you as you come, riding you through it. “That’s it. So fucking tight—so good for me—”

He’s close now too. You can feel it—his thrusts stuttering, muscles tensing.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans. “You want that, baby? Want me to come inside this perfect little pussy?”

You’re still shaking, but you nod. Whimpering. Needy.

“Please—inside—want it so bad—”

He buries himself deep and groans loud—raw and wrecked—as he spills inside you, hips jerking, cock twitching as you feel every hot pulse of it.

You’re ruined.

His weight sinks down on top of you, breath ragged in your ear, and for a long moment, all you can hear is the sound of both of you panting.

The room’s heavy with heat and sweat, skin sticking where it meets, your body still twitching with the aftershocks of how hard he fucked you.

Then he lifts his head. Eyes drag down your flushed face. Your parted lips. Your chest rising and falling fast. Still dazed. Still ruined.

He shifts back onto his knees between your thighs, hands gripping your hips, keeping you spread open wide beneath him.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then he pulls out—slow and thick, his cock dragging against your fluttering walls before slipping free with a wet sound that makes you whimper.

And fuck.

You feel it immediately. The warm spill of him leaking out of you—thick and hot and so much—trickling down your folds and onto the sheets in sticky, glistening streams.

Bucky groans under his breath, his eyes locked on your pussy like it’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You took it all. So fucking good for me.”

You try to close your legs on instinct, flushed and wrecked and so overstimulated—but he stops you with a firm grip, holding you open with his metal hand.

“Uh-uh. Keep ’em open. I wanna see it.”

His thumb slides down, spreads you further, letting him watch as more of his cum drips from your aching hole.

“Look at that mess,” he murmurs, gaze heavy-lidded, voice thick with pride and hunger. “You’re leaking all over the place, baby.”

You shiver under him.

He swipes his thumb through the slick, then presses it back in—just a little—pushing some of it inside again while your body jerks from the sensitivity.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You were made to be filled like this.”

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and uneven.

“You’re gonna clean me up, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice thick with command. “Gonna taste every drop.”

Your pulse spikes. You barely have the strength to move, still reeling from the wreck he’s made of you—but you obey, because you need it, because he told you to.

He shifts forward, settling between your thighs again. His metal hand spreads you open, keeping you wide for him, raw and messy. His other hand trails down, steadying his cock where it rests—still hard, still slick with both of you.

He throbs against your skin, flushed and glistening.

You lean forward without hesitation, tongue flicking out to catch the first salty bead that clings to the head. He lets out a quiet groan above you.

His eyes burn as you take your time, licking slowly around the tip—teasing, deliberate—before your lips part wider and you sink down, wrapping him in heat.

Your cheeks hollow as you draw him in deeper, your mouth soft and eager.

“Fuck,” Bucky grits, his hand sliding into your hair, curling tight. “You’re good at this.”

You moan around him, letting the praise sink in as you begin to move—slow, controlled bobs of your head. Your tongue swirls, tasting the mix of him and yourself, and it only makes you hungrier.

You’re not just cleaning him up. You’re savoring him and he knows it.

He pulls you up by your hair, not rough—controlled. Intentional. His mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and heat and claiming, like he’s branding you from the inside out. His metal hand clamps around your waist, anchoring you, holding you still as he devours you like he owns you.

And fuck, maybe he does.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his breath ghosts over your lips, low and ragged.

“That’s enough,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dark and satisfied. “You did so well. That’s my good girl.”

Your stomach twists, body still trembling, as you melt into him — breathless and soaked, the taste of him still slick on your tongue.

He doesn’t move for a while, just lets his weight settle into you, chest rising and falling against yours, heart still pounding beneath sweat-damp skin. His breath is warm where it fans over your cheek, his metal hand still possessively wrapped around your waist.

Then, gently, he shifts. His fingers slide up, brushing your hair back from your face with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten. He kisses your forehead—soft, slow—like he’s claiming you all over again, but quieter this time.

“My good girl,” he murmurs, the words husky but reverent now. “You were perfect.”

Your eyes flutter closed at the sound, overwhelmed, wrecked in the best way. His flesh hand strokes your cheek, soothing the heat from it, while the metal one trails lazy circles over your spine.

“Did so good for me,” he whispers again, like a secret meant only for your bones.

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nuzzle closer, tucking yourself into his chest.

Fuck, he did ruin you.

tags: @iamthatonefangirl

[persephonewritessometimes]

don’t know of someone has already done this but… i mean… can you blame me? it’s THE aaron hotchner

[persephonewritessometimes]

── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Lust ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ──

professor!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.

word count: 11,6k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, mutual desperation, age gap, dirty talk, praising kink, fingering, oral (f receiving).

Part 1 | Next Part

You never really cared about grades. Not in the way people expected you to, at least.

What you cared about—truly, deeply—was the work. The texture of language. The way a well-written sentence could hold you still like a breath trapped in your chest. You loved writing, even when it didn’t love you back. Even when you stared at the cursor blinking on a blank page for hours, waiting for some elusive thread of brilliance to pull from your brain.

So naturally, when you got to college, you threw yourself into literature like it was a religion. You took every reading-heavy course you could find, submitted essays like confessions. And at the center of it all—without meaning to, without quite realizing—was him.

Professor Barnes.

James Buchanan Barnes to be exact. Your English professor.

He was the kind of man people noticed. Not just because he was handsome—though he was, undeniably, in a way that made your stomach twist. There was something else. A quiet intensity. The way he spoke, like he wanted every word to matter. Like he loved the stories he taught with a kind of reverence that made you feel something.

You didn’t mean to stare at him in lectures. But you did. Sometimes you’d forget to take notes, just listening to the way his voice dipped low while quoting a line from The Waste Land, or the way he’d tap his fingers—ringless—against the edge of the lectern when he was thinking.

And at first, it was nothing.

Just a crush. Harmless. Everybody had one. He was hot and he liked books. So what?

But it didn’t stay harmless.

It wasn’t just that you thought about him too often. It was the way your heart tugged when he read your essays aloud to the class—not by name, but you always knew it was yours. It was the way he looked at you sometimes, like he saw you, beyond the student mask. It was the slow, creeping realization that it wasn’t just a fantasy. It was him.

The moment you realized it was bad?

It was a Tuesday.

You’d just handed in your midterm essay the week before—something about grief and memory in Mrs. Dalloway, which you’d poured a piece of your soul into without meaning to. You weren’t expecting anything back yet. Not really. He usually took his time marking.

But that day, at the end of the lecture, Professor Barnes stood behind the desk with a stack of papers in hand. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow—again—and the ink smudge on his thumb made your chest ache in a stupid, ridiculous way.

“Some of you handed in… surprisingly good work,” he said, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get used to me saying that.”

A few people laughed. You didn’t. You were too busy watching the way his eyes scanned the room—until they landed on you.

And then he said your name.

Like it meant something.

He held your paper out across the desk as you stepped forward. There were at least three people behind you, waiting to get theirs, but time moved weirdly slow. You reached out to take it—and his fingers brushed against yours.

Barely a second. A blink. But you felt it everywhere. Like heat crawling under your skin.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You mumbled something like “Thanks” and bolted back to your seat, heart pounding like you’d done something wrong.

You sat down, throat dry, fingers trembling slightly as you unfolded the paper. The front had his neat, tight handwriting in the corner: an A.

But it was the margins that ruined you.

Underlined passages, a few careful notes in blue ink.

“This line in particular—gorgeous imagery.”

“You really understand Clarissa. That’s rare.”

And, scribbled sideways along your final paragraph:

“You write with so much feeling. Don’t lose that.”

You stared at the words. You read them again. And again. Something bloomed in your chest—hot, sharp, a little terrifying because this wasn’t a silly little crush anymore. This wasn’t harmless.

This was the kind of thing that could burn you alive.

Now you were in class again. Third row, slightly to the left. The seat you always took, close enough to hear him clearly, far enough not to make it obvious.

Not that it helped.

Because the moment Professor Barnes started talking, everything else fell away.

He was walking back and forth now, quoting Heart of Darkness from memory like it was tattooed on his tongue. His voice—low, thoughtful, a little rough around the edges—seeped into you like warm honey. Every sentence he spoke felt deliberate, like he wasn’t just reciting, but feeling the words. Like he wanted you to feel them, too.

You stared at him. You shouldn’t, you knew that. You should’ve been taking notes, or at least pretending to. But it was hard to look away when he looked like that. Dark hair pushed back, strands falling loose over his brow. That perpetually rolled-up sleeves look like he just needed freedom for his hands—hands that moved while he talked, expressive and precise, like every thought had weight.

You wondered what those hands would feel like on your skin.

You blinked. Jesus.

Focus.

You looked down at your notebook, at the two words you’d scrawled nearly ten minutes ago: Existential dread.

Yeah. That sounded about right.

Because this wasn’t just a harmless crush anymore. This wasn’t butterflies. This was something else—deeper. Like longing. Like obsession. Like every inch of you was tuned to his voice, his movements, the way he smiled to himself when students actually engaged with him.

He laughed once—just once—and your heart actually fluttered. Like a goddamn cliché.

You weren’t even listening to what he was saying anymore. You were watching his mouth. His hands. The way he leaned back against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms, shirt pulling tight across his shoulders.

It was insane. You were insane.

You bit your pen and tried to pretend your thighs weren’t pressed together.

He turned then, just briefly, his eyes scanning the room. And for the smallest second, you swore they landed on you. Held.

And then he smiled. It wasn’t directed at anyone. Not really.

But you felt it like a secret. Like a sin.

And you were so far gone, it almost felt holy.

You were still somewhere else—half in the lecture, half in your daydream—when the sound of his voice snapped you back to the present.

“So,” Professor Barnes said, closing his copy of the book with a quiet thud, “for those of you looking to earn a little extra credit, I’m assigning a supplementary essay. Optional. A close analysis of the text we just discussed. Two to three pages.”

A soft groan rolled through the room. A few students muttered under their breath. He smiled—just barely—and leaned his palms on the desk.

“It’s not mandatory,” he said. “But if you’re aiming for a higher final grade, this might help.”

He scanned the room again. A few hands went up. Maybe four. You didn’t think. You just lifted yours.

You felt your heart hammer as you did it, but you didn’t hesitate. If he gave you any reason to spend more time reading, writing, impressing him—you’d take it. You’d take it and run.

His eyes landed on you again. Just for a second.

He nodded, slow and deliberate.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll post the prompt later this evening.”

And then, like that, class was dismissed. A flurry of rustling paper and shuffling bags as students started rising from their seats.

But you stayed frozen for a moment, your hand already falling back into your lap, cheeks warm, notebook still open in front of you. You glanced down—your last note was a doodle of a heart you hadn’t even realized you were drawing.

Pathetic.

You began packing your things slowly, like you were in some kind of trance. You could hear his voice in your head. Good. Just that one word. Directed at the whole class, probably. But it felt aimed at you. Like it always did.

You glanced up again—he was talking to a student near the front, nodding, pointing at something in their book. He looked so natural in this space, like he belonged behind the desk, tucked into dim lecture hall lighting and surrounded by paper and ink and story.

You pretended to pack your bag longer than necessary. One strap, then the other. Notebook, water bottle, pen you never even used. You glanced up just in time to see the last few students trickle out of the room, footsteps echoing down the hall. He was still behind the desk, organizing his own materials—slow, methodical.

This was your chance.

To talk. To hear just a bit more from him.

Your heart was hammering again.

Now or never.

You walked down the steps toward him, every step feeling louder than it should. When you reached the front, he looked up—and God, why did his eyes do that?

That little flicker of recognition, the way his expression softened just a touch. It made your breath catch.

“Something you need?” he asked, calm as ever.

You nodded, gripping your notebook tight. “Yeah. Um—about the extra assignment. I just… wanted to ask if you had any specific direction in mind. Like, themes you’re hoping to see? Or…”

You trailed off, feeling ridiculous. You didn’t need clarification. You just wanted to hear him talk to you. Look at you like that again.

But he didn’t seem annoyed. If anything, his lips curved into something like amusement.

“I haven’t written the prompt yet,” he said. “But it’s not meant to trap you. I want to see how you interpret the material. That’s the whole point.”

You nodded again, trying not to look at his mouth when he spoke.

Then—he tilted his head, just slightly.

“I don’t think you need to worry,” he said. “You’re the best student I have.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’m sure you’ll write something good. You always do.”

There was a pause. You looked up at him—really looked—and he held your gaze for a second longer than he should’ve. Not inappropriate. Not quite. But it was enough to make your stomach flip.

“I believe in you,” he added, softer this time.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you just nodded. Tried to smile. It probably came out wrong.

“Thanks, Professor,” you said, voice a little too quiet.

His gaze dropped to your hands, still clutching your notebook. Then he looked away, back down at his papers, like he hadn’t just lit a match and handed it to you.

“Any time.”

You turned before you could say something stupid. Practically floated out of the room.

And for the rest of the day, all you could hear in your head was his voice, low and steady, saying:

“You’re the best student I have.”

“I believe in you.”

And God help you, it meant everything.

———

You were halfway through folding laundry—something you only did when absolutely everything else had been avoided—when the notification pinged on your phone.

New Post: Professor J. Barnes | ENGL304

Your heart jumped.

You dropped the shirt in your hands without a second thought, practically diving across the bed to grab your phone. Your thumb hovered over the screen for half a second before you tapped it open.

Supplementary Essay Prompt: Choose a moment in the text where the internal and external worlds of the character collide. Explore how the author uses language to blur the boundary between thought and reality.

Your breath caught. Your fingers were already tingling.

It wasn’t just the prompt—it was him. You could see him saying it, hear his voice in your head. That same calm confidence, that steady rhythm of words that always made your chest feel too tight.

You should’ve taken a second. Thought about it. Planned.

But no. You opened your laptop and pulled up a blank document like your life depended on it. Because in that moment, it kind of felt like it did.

You wrote like you were possessed.

The ideas poured out of you, fingers flying over the keyboard. You didn’t even stop to fix typos—you’d come back later. Right now, it was about chasing the feeling, the adrenaline high of getting it just right. You were quoting lines from memory, twisting them around your own analysis, embedding yourself into the essay like he’d told you to.

“You write with so much feeling. Don’t lose that.”

God. You wanted him to read this and feel something.

Time blurred. Your tea went cold. Your laundry sat untouched. The sky outside your dorm turned dark, but you barely noticed.

By the time you finally paused, the document was nearly three pages long, and your hands were cramping.

You stared at the screen, pulse still racing.

You hadn’t written something like that in a long time. Maybe ever. And the worst part—the most dangerous part—was that the first person you wanted to show it to was him.

Not for the grade. Not even for the praise.

Just to make him see you.

———

You barely slept.

By the time the sun started bleeding through the blinds of your dorm, the essay had been proofread four times, margins adjusted, formatting obsessively checked. Every sentence felt like it carried weight—your weight. You’d polished it until it shined.

When you printed it out that morning, the warm paper in your hands felt fragile. Like a secret. Like something that mattered more than it should.

All through class, it sat in your folder, untouched. You could barely focus, barely breathe. He was talking about poetry now—some devastating line about longing and missed moments—and you were sitting there with a whole damn confession tucked between your notebook pages.

When class ended, you didn’t leave with everyone else.

You waited until the last of the students filed out. Waited until it was quiet again, just the low hum of lights and the soft sound of him gathering his things.

You walked down the steps slowly.

He looked up as you approached, brows raising in faint surprise. His expression softened like it always did when he saw you—like you were something familiar. Something good.

“Hey,” he said, voice smooth. “Need something?”

You swallowed. Carefully slid the stapled essay from your folder and held it out to him.

He reached for it—and your fingers brushed again, skin against skin, just for a second.

He blinked down at the paper, then back at you. “Already?”

You nodded, trying not to look too proud. Or too desperate.

“I, um… finished it last night,” you said. “I know it’s not due until the end of the week, but…”

His eyes scanned the front page. Your name. The title. His lips parted just slightly.

“You wrote this last night?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “After you posted the prompt.”

He looked at you for a long second. Really looked at you and then he let out a soft, almost stunned breath.

“I’m impressed,” he said. His voice had dropped lower. “Most students would’ve just added it to their to-do list.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but your cheeks were hot. Your heart wouldn’t stop racing.

“I wanted to do it while the idea was fresh,” you mumbled.

He smiled. Not the polite kind. The real one—the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little.

“I’ll read it tonight and send the feedback on the class portal,” he said. “Looking forward to it.”

You nodded, mouth suddenly dry. You were pretty sure you were about to black out.

“Thanks, Professor.”

He gave a small nod. “Have a good rest of your day.”

You turned, heart pounding, the edges of your vision almost fuzzy with adrenaline. The moment you got out you exhaled a breath you had no idea you’ve been holding.

———

You didn’t mean to start checking the portal that night.

You told yourself you weren’t that desperate. That you weren’t waiting on the edge of your seat like a lovesick idiot for a man who probably didn’t think twice after you left the room.

But still. Just after dinner—you peeked.

Nothing.

A couple hours later, again. Nothing.

Then again before bed.

And again in bed.

By the time the clock struck midnight, you’d refreshed the page more times than you could count, screen dimmed to its lowest setting, lying flat on your stomach with your chin pressed to the mattress and your heart pounding way too fast for someone checking a grade.

It wasn’t even about the points. Not really.

You just wanted to know what he thought. You wanted to see the words he would write in the margins, the tone he would use. You wanted to feel him reading it. Like somehow, through the feedback, you’d get a glimpse of his mind—of what you made him feel, even just for a moment.

You told yourself you were being dramatic.

But still, when you checked again the next morning, stomach in knots—

It was there.

You almost dropped your phone.

You opened it with shaky hands, eyes scanning too fast, breath catching before you even saw the score. Then you saw the comments.

“This is exceptional work.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Your insight is sharp, and your interpretation of the character’s interiority is more emotionally nuanced than what I usually see at this level.”

You blinked.

“You have a rare voice. Keep writing like this. Don’t hold back.”

Your fingers tightened around the phone. And then, at the very end, written beneath your grade:

“You think deeply. It shows. I hope you know that’s rare.”

You stared at the screen for a long, long time. The words swam a little. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to cry or scream or curl up under your covers forever.

Because he hadn’t just read it.

He’d seen you. And now? You weren’t sure what to do with yourself.

———

You barely heard a word during the next class.

He was lecturing about the structure of unreliable narration—something you usually loved—but today? Your brain was mush. All you could think about was his voice in those damn margin notes. The way he’d written you have a rare voice. The way it sounded like a compliment and a confession all at once.

You didn’t look at him more than usual. At least, you told yourself that. You definitely weren’t staring at his hands while he gestured, or at the way his jaw flexed when he read a passage out loud, or how the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms.

Nope. Totally fine. Totally functioning.

By the time class ended, your pen had been frozen in your grip for at least fifteen minutes.

The students around you packed up their things, loud and casual. You moved slower. Not stalling. Just… composed. Careful.

You didn’t expect it when his voice stopped you mid-motion.

“Could I take a minute of your time?”

Your head snapped up. He was looking right at you. And it wasn’t the usual casual-professor look, either. It was steadier. Sharper.

Your stomach did a full flip.

“Sure,” you said, heart pounding.

He waited until the others were gone. The room emptied around you like it was routine now—just the two of you, a silence so heavy it hummed.

He didn’t sit. Just leaned against the edge of the desk, papers still in his hands, your printed essay resting neatly on top.

“I wanted to say this in person,” he began, voice low and even. “I meant every word of the feedback.”

You nodded, throat dry. “Thank you. That… meant a lot.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “You have a voice most writers spend years trying to find. And you use it like you know something. Like you feel it before you write it.”

You swallowed hard. “I try to.”

He tapped his fingers lightly against the paper. “This isn’t just good for a student. It’s good, period.”

A pause.

“I hope you’re taking yourself seriously.”

The way he said it—low, sincere—made your skin prickle.

You didn’t know what to do with the way he was looking at you. Focused. Intense. Like he needed you to believe him.

“I… I think I am,” you said softly.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’d hate to see talent like this go to waste.”

Another pause. The silence was a little too long.

Then he blinked, like he was shaking something off. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

But it didn’t feel like just that.

You nodded. Gripped your bag too tightly.

“Thanks,” you murmured again.

As you turned to leave, you could feel him still watching you. And this time? You didn’t try to tell yourself it was just your imagination.

You stepped out of the building and the sun hit your face, but it didn’t register. Your hands were clammy. Your breath felt shallow.

You walked on autopilot.

One foot in front of the other. Backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. Wind pulling at your sleeves.

You couldn’t hear anything but him.

“I hope you’re taking yourself seriously.”

That voice. That look. The way his eyes didn’t leave yours. Not even once.

It was just a compliment. Just praise. Just encouragement from a professor who cares about his students, right?

Right?

But your body didn’t believe that. Your chest was too tight. Your pulse kept rising in waves—like you were remembering something intimate, not academic. Like he’d touched you, even though he hadn’t. Not really. Not unless that one moment from a few days ago counted—the way your fingers brushed, the way his voice dipped when he said your name—

You blinked hard, trying to stop the flood of thoughts, but it was useless.

You’d gone overboard.

You knew that. It was a crush. That was all. A deep respect for someone brilliant and kind and… devastatingly handsome. Fine. So what if you’d fantasized a little. Everyone had a fantasy about a professor at some point, didn’t they?

But this wasn’t just a passing blush or an imaginary scenario you’d laugh off later.

This was… real.

And it felt dangerous.

You reached your dorm before you realized you’d walked the whole way without looking up. Your keys jingled like a warning as you fumbled them into the lock.

Inside, you dropped your bag. Collapsed onto your bed. Stared at the ceiling.

And when you finally closed your eyes, you didn’t see words on a page.

You saw him.

You saw the way he leaned on his desk. The way he looked at you like he meant every word he said. Like he saw something in you. Like maybe you weren’t imagining it at all.

Fuck.

———

The weekend nearly killed you.

It stretched on forever. Long, empty hours bloated with overthinking, every minute dragging its heels. You tried to distract yourself, tried to not reread his comments for the hundredth time, tried to not remember the way his voice wrapped around you like velvet, low and deliberate.

You failed, of course.

Every book you picked up made you think of him. Every sentence you tried to write dissolved into him.

You even caught yourself checking the class portal again—not for a grade, just to see if he’d posted anything. A new reading, a casual update, a breadcrumb.

Nothing.

By Sunday night, you were lying on your bed, wide awake, sick with anticipation. And when Monday morning finally came, it felt like surfacing after being underwater too long.

You barely registered the walk to class. Or the bodies shuffling into seats around you.

You just waited for him.

And when he walked in—tweed jacket, sleeves rolled, hair tousled like he’d run a hand through it too many times—you had to stop yourself from sighing out loud.

He greeted the class, the usual warm-but-firm tone, and started the lecture without ceremony. A discussion on characterization this time. You tried to listen. You really did.

But then—halfway through—his voice shifted.

“There was a line in one of the extra credit essays,” he said, “that struck me.”

Your heart stopped. Your head snapped up. You didn’t breathe.

He didn’t look at you. Not once. He just pulled a folded paper from his notes, cleared his throat, and read aloud:

“‘To want and to be wanted back—quietly, without performance or permission—is the loneliest kind of hope.’”

The words echoed in the room like a bell. Soft, sad, devastating. A few people hummed, clearly impressed.

You nearly sank through your chair.

“That,” he said, setting the paper down, “is an example of emotional precision. That kind of writing doesn’t come from talent alone. It comes from knowing what you’re talking about.”

He moved on after that. Smoothly. Professionally.

But you couldn’t hear a single word he said for the next fifteen minutes.

Because that line was yours.

He chose your words. Quoted them. In front of everyone.

And never once said your name.

But he didn’t have to.

Because when he read it aloud, he slowed down—just slightly. Let it hang in the air. Like it meant something more.

Like it meant everything.

———

After the lectures you made it back to your dorm in a daze.

Your legs moved automatically, your body going through the motions—door unlocked, shoes off, bag dropped—while your mind ran laps in circles.

His voice was still in your head.

That line. Your line. In his mouth.

And the way he read it aloud… like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t imagining all of it after all.

You sat down at your desk, heart still galloping. Opened your laptop. The blank document blinked back at you, waiting patiently.

You tried to focus. Tried to start something—anything. A short story. A paragraph. A line.

But nothing came out clean. Everything you wrote bled with him.

The way he looked at you when he said “I hope you know that’s rare.” The quiet authority in his voice. The pause before he moved on.

You blinked down at your screen and realized you’d written his name.

James.

You hit backspace like it had burned you. You buried your face in your hands and let out a groan of defeat.

That was when your roommate’s voice cut through the haze.

“Okay,” she said slowly, from the other side of the room. “I’ve let you spiral in peace for like… three days. But I’m asking now.”

You looked up.

She was sprawled on her bed with a book in hand, but she wasn’t reading anymore. She was watching you like a detective piecing something together.

“You good?” she asked. “Because you’ve been—sorry—weird as hell lately. And I’m trying to be chill but you’re kinda giving haunted Victorian woman who’s in love with a ghost and journaling about it nightly.”

You blinked.

She raised an eyebrow. “Did something happen? Like in class? Or is it a boy?”

Your breath hitched.

She squinted. “Oh my god.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you muttered.

“You didn’t have to.”

You groaned and fell back dramatically onto your mattress. “Please don’t look at me,” you said into your pillow. “I’m not okay.”

She snorted. “Clearly. Do you want to talk about it, or should I just keep making passive observations until you break?”

“…Just keep talking. I’m almost there.”

“Got it,” she said. “So. Whoever he is… you look like he read your diary out loud and then kissed your brain.”

You let out a muffled scream into the pillow.

She threw a pillow at your back. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You stayed facedown on the bed for a full minute, motionless, trying to pretend you could melt into the mattress and disappear entirely.

Your roommate waited. Patient. Quiet, but unrelenting.

Eventually, you flipped over with a sigh, eyes to the ceiling. “Okay,” you muttered. “I’ll talk. Kind of.”

She sat up like she’d just won a prize. “Knew it.”

You stared at the ceiling a second longer. “It’s not… anything. Nothing happened. Nothing could happen.”

That got you a raised brow. “That’s how all great breakdowns start.”

You let out a small laugh. Hollow. “It’s just—I think I like someone. More than I should. And it’s… complicated.”

“Okay,” she said gently. “Complicated how?”

You paused.

How do you explain to your roommate from the same college that you have a crush on a Professor?

How do you explain that the person you’re obsessed with stands three feet away from you every week and looks at you like you’re made of lightning? That he said your words out loud like they were precious? That you see him in every sentence you try to write?

You blinked up at the ceiling, lips parted.

“…He’s older,” you said finally. “Smart. Confident. The kind of person who makes you want to be better without even trying.”

“Hot,” your roommate said knowingly.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.

“I take it this isn’t someone you can just—ask out,” she added.

You gave a miserable laugh. “Not even close.”

“Right,” she said, sitting back. “So. A forbidden crush.”

“It’s more than that,” you said, before you could stop yourself. “It’s not just that he’s… beautiful. Or that I’m, like, physically gone for him.”

You paused, chest tight.

“I think he sees me,” you whispered.

That silenced her. You could feel it—her shifting slightly, blinking slow, suddenly understanding the depth of this.

“Shit,” she said softly.

You smiled. Sad. Tired. “Yeah.”

———

It was later that night when you saw it.

You were curled up at your desk again, doing anything but concentrating. Notes open, highlighter in hand, but your brain was still stuck on him. On your roommate’s words echoing back at you. A forbidden crush.

You hadn’t checked your email in hours. You clicked into it on instinct—more to feel productive than anything else—and there it was.

Subject: Your Essay

From: Prof. J. Barnes

To: You

Your pulse stuttered.

You stared at it for a long moment before you even opened it. Just the sight of his name—his full name—was enough to make your lungs tighten.

You clicked.

Hi, I just finished rereading your extra credit piece. I keep coming back to the line about “the loneliest kind of hope.” I’m curious—do you normally write personal pieces like that? Or was this a one-off? Either way, you have a voice worth nurturing. Don’t stop. —J. Barnes

You reread it five times.

I keep coming back to that line.

You had to press your thighs together beneath the desk. You were going to lose your mind.

You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling like it might give you answers, trying to breathe through the way that one question knocked the air from your chest.

Do you normally write personal pieces like that?

He was asking. Inviting. Gently. Carefully. Like he wanted more from you—your words, your mind, your insides.

You stared at the blinking cursor in the reply box for a full minute before typing:

Sometimes. That one came out all at once. I didn’t mean for it to be personal. But it was.

You stared at it, then added:

Thank you. That means more than I can say.

You didn’t sign it. You didn’t need to.

You hit send with a trembling hand and then you just sat there, waiting. Heart pounding.

Your inbox chimed.

You opened it so fast it was almost embarrassing.

Got it. Looking forward to seeing you in lecture tomorrow. —J.B.

That was it.

No comment on how personal it was. No follow-up question. Just that.

And yet somehow it made your skin feel too tight, like he was right behind you, saying it low into your neck.

The heat of it stayed with you all night.

You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t.

You just kept rereading those twelve words like they meant something more—like maybe, tomorrow, he’d look at you the way he wrote to you.

And if he did—

God help you.

———

The lecture hall was already half full when you slipped into your usual seat, nerves jangling in your chest like wind chimes in a storm. You told yourself to be normal. Be chill. Pretend this was just another class.

It wasn’t.

You felt it the moment he walked in. He didn’t look for you. Not at first. He dropped his leather bag by the desk, rolled up his sleeves, and started sorting through his notes. Casual. Unbothered. Like he hadn’t sent that email. Like he hadn’t singled you out with a line that still echoed in your ribcage.

And then he looked up.

His eyes found you instantly. It was only a second. Maybe two.

But it hit you.

The look. Low. Deliberate. Like he was checking if you’d seen the email. Like he wanted to see how it landed. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

You didn’t breathe until he looked away.

And then he spoke—cool, composed, voice smooth like water over stones.

You didn’t retain a word. You tried to. Really.

But every time he paced near your row, every time his hand brushed through his hair, every time he turned toward the whiteboard with that low, thoughtful hum—your mind lit up like a match.

By the time class ended, your pulse was a slow, burning ache in your throat You started packing up, hands shaking slightly, when his voice cut through the air.

“Could I speak with you for a moment?”

You.

Not someone.

Not a few of you.

Just you.

You froze. Looked up. He was watching you with that unreadable expression, the one that looked polite to anyone else—but to you? It felt like gravity.

You nodded slowly.

Your classmates filtered out one by one. Chatter, laughter, sneakers on tile. Then the door clicked shut behind the last of them.

He waited until the room was empty.

“You know… As I said the last time… You’ve got a gift,” he said quietly, leaning a little against the desk. “The kind that doesn’t come around often.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean it,” he added. “You’ve got instincts I can’t teach.”

You swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “But if you ever want to take on a few extra assignments—off the record, nothing for credit—I’d be happy to give you material. Just something to help you grow. Expand your style.”

You blinked. “I—really?” you said. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he said, like it was obvious. “I believe in you.”

That did it. That ruined you.

You nodded, barely holding it together. “Okay. Yeah. I’d… like that.”

His mouth twitched—just the ghost of a smile.

“I have office hours on Thursdays. Drop by anytime.”

He said it simply. Lightly, but his eyes held yours just a little too long.

You swallowed, pulse thudding in your neck.

“…Thank you,” you said softly. “I’ll be there.”

———

Thursday

You finished your last lectures early, but your heart had been racing since breakfast.

All day, you’d told yourself it was just office hours. Just a writing meeting. Just a professor offering support.

But your outfit said otherwise.

The black skirt had felt like an indulgence when you pulled it on. Not too short—just enough to ride up when you sat. The knee-high socks. Soft. Your favorite pair. And the sweater you chose had a neckline that technically counted as academic, but dipped just low enough to make you wonder if he’d notice.

Your coat went over it all, of course. You told yourself it was just because of the weather.

You kept checking the time. Fixing your hair. Touching your lips.

At one point, you even considered not going.

But then you thought of his voice.

“I believe in you.”

And that was that.

You walked across campus with your coat cinched tight, thighs already tingling from nerves. His building was quiet this time of day—long halls, soft echoes, your boots the only sound on the floor.

You reached his door and paused.

Office hours: Thursdays 3:30–5:00

Prof. J. Barnes

You checked your phone.

3:27.

Close enough.

You knocked.

His voice came from the other side. “Come in.”

You opened the door slowly.

He was at his desk, reading—his reading glasses on, sleeves rolled, jaw resting on his knuckles like some kind of literary daydream.

And when he looked up—

God.

That look.

A flicker of surprise. And then something else. Something slower. Deeper.

“Hi,” you said softly, stepping in and closing the door behind you.

“Hey,” he murmured, setting his papers down and taking the glasses off. “Didn’t think I’d see you this early.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Had a break between classes. Figured I’d stop by.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

Then his eyes dropped. Just for a second.

Skirt. The knee-high socks. Sweater.

And then back to your face, like nothing had happened.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair beside his desk. “Let’s talk writing.”

You sat down, trying to look casual—crossed one leg over the other, smoothed your skirt out just enough to look natural, not like you were stalling for time. Your hands were cold. You pressed your thighs together to ground yourself.

He stood up, slow and unhurried, and reached into the stack of papers on his desk.

“I printed a few prompts for you,” he said, flipping through them. “Just exercises. Things to stretch your style a bit. Narrative voice, intimacy, sensory detail…”

You hummed some kind of agreement, but your heart was pounding too loud to think.

He found the one he wanted.

Then he moved.

He walked around the desk—behind you.

And then he leaned in.

He bent slightly, one hand bracing the desk beside your chair, the other holding the printout in front of you—and fuck, he was close.

You felt it before you even looked.

The heat of his body just barely grazing your back. His breath ghosting across your cheek. The way his sweater brushed your shoulder like he didn’t notice—or maybe he did.

“This one’s interesting,” he said, voice low by your ear. “Write a short piece in second person. Doesn’t have to be plot-heavy. Just describe a moment. Make the reader feel it.”

You could barely hear him.

Because all you could feel was him.

The warmth of his voice. The quiet scratch of his stubble. The scent of coffee and old paper and something darker, something sharp and male that made your stomach twist in heat.

He didn’t move away.

You stared at the paper, not taking in a single word.

He was still talking, still explaining—but your brain had gone soft. Liquid.

Your eyes tracked the paragraph at the top of the page, but all you could think about was how easy it would be to lean back just slightly. To tilt your head, to feel him against you—

“Think you can work with that?” he murmured.

Your lips parted. Your breath stuttered.

“Y-Yeah,” you said. “I… yeah.”

His hand lingered for one more second. And then he stepped back. Just like that. Like he hadn’t just undone you with his proximity alone.

“Take your time with it,” he said, settling back at his desk. “No deadline.”

You nodded, gripping the paper like it might float away otherwise.

But he was still watching you. And that look in his eyes said he knew. He knew exactly what he was doing.

You made it out of his office.

Barely.

You didn’t even remember saying goodbye. Just some stammered “thank you” and a smile you couldn’t control—tight, awkward, desperate to seem unbothered.

The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

You walked fast. Your boots hit the tile harder than you meant them to. You didn’t breathe until you were out of the building and even then—it was shallow.

Your heart was hammering. Your face was flushed. And between your thighs, a slow, aching pulse had taken up residence, insistent and low, like your body was mocking you for pretending this was just academic.

You leaned against the nearest wall and closed your eyes.

His voice was still in your ear.

“Make the reader feel it.”

You could still feel him.

The brush of his sweater. The warmth of his chest behind you. His breath, low and smooth, brushing the shell of your ear like he’d said something filthy.

You pressed your thighs together.

It didn’t help.

You needed to do something. Walk. Call a friend. Throw yourself into traffic.

Instead, you pulled out the prompt he’d given you.

Second person.

A moment.

Make the reader feel it.

And all you could think was:

You can feel him behind you. You don’t move. You’re afraid if you move, you’ll do something you can’t undo.

You stared at the paper, your pulse thudding behind your eyes.

You were going to write this.

———

You made it back to your dorm.

Dropped your bag by the door, kicked your shoes off, ignored your roommate’s “hey, you okay?” from the other side of the room. You muttered something vague, shut your door, sat at your desk like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the Earth.

The prompt was still in your hand. You smoothed it out on the desk. Read it again.

Second person. A moment. Doesn’t have to be plot-heavy. Just describe. Make the reader feel it.

You opened your laptop. Opened a fresh document.

You weren’t going to make it about him.

You weren’t.

You were going to be neutral. Abstract. Maybe something about being in a crowd. Something literary. Polished.

Your fingers hovered over the keys.

Nothing.

You tried again.

Still nothing.

And then—like heat slipping down your spine—his voice came back. Low. Calm. Right next to your ear.

“Think you can work with that?”

Your hands moved before your brain caught up.

You feel his presence before he speaks. You don’t see him, not yet. But the air changes. The space behind you goes warm. Heavy. You pretend to read what’s in front of you, but you’ve forgotten the words. You’ve forgotten everything. Then his voice comes—low, deliberate, meant only for you. And suddenly you’re aware of every part of yourself. Your mouth. Your throat. Your thighs. The way your breath stutters and your hands twitch and you hope to god he doesn’t notice, even though some small part of you wants him to.

You froze. Your mouth was dry.

You hadn’t meant to write that.

You tried to steer it back—tried to fix it, smooth it out, make it sound less hungry—but it was no use.

The words kept coming.

And it was him. All of it. The desk, the breath, the sweater, the feeling of being looked at like he saw something in you.

You weren’t writing an exercise anymore.

You were writing a confession.

———

The next class passed in a blur.

You barely heard a word.

You tried, really—but his voice was like a siren’s call, and every time he turned to write on the board, every time he paused to take off his glasses, every time he looked at the class and let his eyes linger just long enough…

You lost your mind.

You held the printed pages in your folder like they were made of glass—carefully tucked between notes and old handouts, like hiding them there could somehow protect you from how exposed they made you feel.

When the lecture ended, students packed up. Loud chatter, chairs scraping, the usual rhythm.

You lingered. You always lingered now.

He was tidying his desk. Straightening papers. Tucking chalk into his pocket like it was something soft, something thoughtful.

You walked up slowly, your heart in your throat.

“Hey,” you said, almost too quiet.

His eyes lifted to yours.

And there it was again. That flicker.

Like he saw something he wasn’t supposed to—but didn’t mind.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

You slid the pages from your folder. Held them out to him.

“Just… the second person piece. The prompt you gave me.”

He reached for it—fingers brushing yours in that now-familiar way that made your pulse spike.

“You didn’t have to bring it today,” he said, glancing at the clock. “Still plenty of time.”

You shrugged, trying to seem light.

“I wanted to.”

He smiled—small, quiet. Like he liked that answer.

“I’ll read it tonight,” he said. “Looking forward to it.”

You nodded.

But he didn’t look away. His fingers lingered on the edge of the paper. And then, like he couldn’t help himself:

“Second person’s tricky. It only works if it feels real.”

Your mouth went dry.

“It’s… pretty real,” you said. “I think.”

His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. Then he tucked the pages into his folder. Neatly. Carefully. Like they were something worth saving.

“I’ll let you know,” he said, voice lower now. “What I think.”

You nodded again, then turned and walked out of the room—fast.

You didn’t breathe until you were halfway down the hall. You didn’t even realize you were smiling.

———

You didn’t sleep. God, you tried. You tried so fucking much but literally couldn’t.

Your brain was too loud—buzzing under your skin, humming with thoughts you couldn’t shake.

He said he’d read it. He said he was looking forward to it. And still…

Nothing.

You kept your phone next to your pillow. Woke up every hour to check it. Opened your laptop in the dark at 3am just in case he’d replied by email instead. You refreshed the page so many times the school’s server locked you out temporarily.

Nothing.

By morning, your chest hurt.

Last time, he’d responded so fast.

A message just before sunrise, margins full of praise. Little notes like: “this is exceptional work” and “your insight is sharp,” and “you have a rare voice.”

But now—silence.

You tried to be rational.

Maybe he was busy. Maybe he didn’t get a chance. Maybe he wanted to take his time.

But that part of your brain—the quiet, clawing part that knew exactly what you’d written between the lines—whispered something else.

You went too far.

He knows it was about him.

He read it and felt uncomfortable.

Disappointed.

Maybe he won’t speak to you again.

Maybe you ruined it.

You stared at your inbox.

The cursor blinked back at you.

Still nothing.

You sat there, wrapped in your blanket, the morning light slowly spilling through the blinds—and it felt like the whole world was holding its breath.

Just waiting.

———

You thought about skipping.

Just once. Just this class. Just until the ache in your chest faded and the memory of what you’d written stopped clawing at the inside of your skull.

But your body moved on its own.

Because it was his class.

And no matter how sick or nervous you felt, you couldn’t stay away.

You walked in a few minutes early. Sat near the back. Not in your usual spot—not where he’d see you first.

He didn’t look at you when he entered.

Not once.

He started the lecture like nothing was different. Same tone. Same rhythm. A few light jokes, a few questions thrown out to the class. He even brought up second person again, said something about how intimacy could be built through subtlety.

And you could’ve sworn, for one blistering second, that his eyes flicked toward you.

But then they moved on. He never called on you. Never addressed you directly.

And by the time class ended, your chest felt hollow. You stayed frozen in your seat as students packed up, dragging bags and papers and noise around you, like you weren’t there at all.

Until you heard him speak.

“Could you stay a moment?”

You looked up.

His eyes were already on you.

Everything in your body screamed to run but your feet carried you forward, slowly, until you were at his desk again—like always.

He waited until the last student left. Then he sat on the edge of his desk. Crossed his arms. Looked at you.

Not angry. Not cold. Just… Careful.

“I read your piece.”

Your stomach flipped so hard it hurt. You nodded, eyes on the floor. “Okay.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“You know I asked for a moment. Not a confession.”

You flinched.

It wasn’t cruel, not even sharp. Just honest.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He let the silence hang, heavy between you.

And then, his tone was softer. “It was good,” he said. “Really good.”

You looked up. His eyes were darker now. Not unreadable—but serious.

“That kind of writing takes… nerve,” he said. “A lot of people hide behind the exercise. You didn’t.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” you started, voice too thin, too small.

“I know,” he said. “But I also know what it was.”

Your mouth was dry.

He stood up.

Walked around the desk, slowly, until he was standing beside you—close, but not too close.

“You’re my student,” he said, low. “This stays between us. Do you understand?”

You nodded, pulse loud in your ears. “Yes.”

His gaze held yours for a moment longer.

Then—like a knife slipped under your ribs, deliberate and impossibly gentle:

“You should keep writing like that.”

He turned back to his desk. Pulled out a folder. Began sorting papers.

And you stood there, stunned, body humming like a live wire.

You didn’t know what any of it meant.

But you knew one thing for sure:

He didn’t want you to stop.

———

You were shaking the whole way home.

You didn’t even realize it until you dropped your bag on the floor of your dorm and your fingers missed the zipper. You had to sit down. Catch your breath.

The echo of his voice kept replaying in your head.

“I know what it was.”

“You should keep writing like that.”

Like what?

Honest?

Obsessed?

So turned on you couldn’t breathe?

You opened your laptop without thinking. Fingers moving before your brain could catch up. A new doc. A blank page.

And then—nothing.

You stared at it, your thighs pressing together, your pulse still high. You remembered the way he looked at you. The heat behind his eyes. The calm restraint in his voice.

You typed:

You shouldn’t want this.

Backspaced.

Typed again.

You feel his eyes before you see them. The way they linger. The way they burn.

Pause.

You swallowed hard and kept going.

He never touches you. Not really. But the space between you is thick enough to drown in. And you want to fall forward. You want to drown. You imagine what it would be like if he gave in. If he broke. You imagine it—how easily he could ruin you. How his hands would feel pressed between your thighs instead of paper and pages. How his mouth would sound gasping against your skin instead of quoting dead poets. If that voice of his sank low—not for the sake of analysis, but to whisper your name like a sin. And when you close your eyes at night, you let yourself beg for it. Let yourself ache. Because the thought of his discipline breaking is the sweetest torment you’ve ever known.

You stopped.

Chest rising too fast. Your thighs clenched so tight it almost hurt. Heat spreading beneath your skin like ink in water—bleeding, blooming, unavoidable.

You deleted the last paragraph. Tried again.

But everything that came out was worse. Dirtier. More desperate. Raw in a way that scared you.

And still— You couldn’t stop.

You rewrote it.

Because now every word felt like something he might read.

And maybe—maybe—he’d understand.

———

The classroom felt different now.

It wasn’t that anything had changed—he still walked in with the same ease, still set his notes on the desk like the weight of them mattered, still spoke with that velvet voice that made every line of literature sound like scripture.

But he kept looking at you. Not obvious. Never for too long. But enough.

Enough to make your chest tighten. Enough to make your fingers itch to write more.

You tried to focus. Really, you did. But it was impossible with the way his eyes flicked to you mid-sentence. The way he slowed just a little when reading a line about forbidden want, about restraint, about something unsaid.

You swore you stopped breathing when he said:

“Sometimes what’s not written on the page is more powerful than what is.”

And he looked straight at you.

Your thighs pressed together automatically.

When the class ended, you were already moving. You didn’t even think about it.

He didn’t ask you to stay this time—but you did. You walked straight up to him, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

He looked up when you approached, closing his folder slowly.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just pulled the paper from your bag—folded once, printed, still warm from your hand—and offered it to him.

“I wrote something,” you said quietly. “Again.”

His eyes dropped to the page. Then back to you. His jaw ticked. Slowly, he reached for it—his fingers brushing yours, warm and deliberate—and the way your pulse jumped didn’t go unnoticed.

His voice stayed low. “You wrote this last night?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“It wouldn’t let me sleep.” You added, softly.

Something flickered behind his eyes at that. A shadow of something deeper. Something not professional.

He took the page. Folded it once more. Slipped it into the folder with the rest of his notes.

Then he looked at you. Steady. Measured.

“I’ll read it,” he said.

You nodded, trying to swallow the way your pulse had picked up again.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

His gaze lingered for a half second longer. Then he gave a small, polite nod.

“Have a good afternoon.”

And just like that—it was back to normal.

———

Your evening was supposed to be normal.

Laundry. Ramen. Pretending to study with music too loud in your headphones. Maybe reading through your notes and trying not to think about him. Trying to pretend last night’s words weren’t still burning beneath your skin.

You were halfway through a playlist when your phone buzzed.

You didn’t expect to see his name.

Not in your inbox.

But there it was.

Subject: RE: Your Essay

From: Prof. J. Barnes

To: You

I’ve read your work. Come to my office hours tomorrow. We’ll discuss it.

That was it.

No greeting. No feedback.

Just an invitation.

You stared at it for a full minute.

Your stomach flipped. Your mouth went dry.

Your legs curled tighter beneath your blanket, and still—it felt like there was no safe position. No angle where the heat didn’t spread between your thighs like fire licking the edge of paper.

Your fingers hovered over your keyboard, itching to respond. To ask what did you think or what do you want from me or what the fuck are you doing to me.

But you didn’t.

You just read it again.

And again.

And all night long, it echoed in your head.

“We’ll discuss it.”

———

You were early.

Standing outside his office door with your pulse in your throat and your thighs already pressed together beneath your skirt. It was black. Tight. You’d worn it on purpose—just like the sheer black tights, just like the blouse with one button undone too many. Casual, but careful. Calculated. You didn’t need to tease him.

But you wanted to.

You knocked at 3:30 sharp.

The door opened.

He was alone. As always. He didn’t smile.

“Come in.”

You stepped inside. The room smelled like leather and old books and something faintly sharp—his cologne, probably. It clung to the air like static.

He closed the door behind you.

Locked it. You pretended not to notice.

He moved behind his desk, reached for the folder already laid open—your paper sitting neatly at the top, marked in pencil. His sleeves were rolled up. His fingers steady. His eyes unreadable.

“Have a seat.”

You did.

But your knees wouldn’t stop bouncing, and you didn’t miss the way his eyes dragged down your legs and back up.

He picked up your page. Cleared his throat.

And then—he read aloud.

“He never touches you. Not really. But the space between you is thick enough to drown in. And you want to fall forward. You want to drown.”

Your breath stuttered.

His voice was low. Deliberate.

And when he looked at you again, it was different.

Not careful. Not kind.

Hungry.

“Is that what you want?” he asked softly. “To drown?”

Your mouth opened—but nothing came out.

He stepped around the desk.

You watched him move like you were in a dream. His shoes slow against the floor, the air tightening with every step.

“I told myself I wouldn’t cross a line,” he said. “But you keep writing it. Begging for it.”

He stopped in front of you. Held out a hand.

“Come here.”

You stood slowly. Heart pounding.

He didn’t touch you right away.

Just looked.

Then, finally—finally—his hand came to your thigh.

And it was so soft at first. Just a graze through the sheer fabric. His fingers dragged up slowly, until his palm cupped the side of your leg and his thumb pressed in, feeling the tremble there.

“So… Is this what you want?” he murmured.

You nodded but he shook his head.

“No. Use your words.”

Your voice came out barely more than a whisper. “Yes. I want it.”

He exhaled—low, rough, like he’d been holding it in for too long.

“Good girl.”

His palm pressed more firmly into your thigh now. He was still watching your face as he dragged his hand up—under your skirt, over your tights, to the seam at the top where your heat radiated like fire.

He let his thumb brush over your center—barely—but it was enough to make you jolt.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re already this wet?” He chuckled, voice dark.

Your thighs clenched, and he smiled—cruel and soft.

“All that pretty writing,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “But you still couldn’t describe this right, could you? How it really feels.”

You whimpered, and his eyes darkened.

He leaned in—lips grazing your jaw as he hooked a finger into the band of your tights. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled them down just enough, letting the waistband settle below your ass before his hand slipped back up and under.

Hot skin. Calloused fingers. Finally touching where you needed him most.

He hissed through his teeth the moment he felt you. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

Two fingers slid between your folds, and your whole body shuddered.

He didn’t push in yet. Not right away.

He toyed with you first—rubbing slow circles, slick and lazy, watching your mouth fall open and your grip on the desk tighten.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Let me see it.”

And you did.

You tipped your hips forward instinctively, searching for more friction. More pressure. More of him.

He pressed the pads of his fingers right against your clit and moved in slow, torturous circles.

Your breath caught.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Let me hear you.”

A moan escaped—soft and broken.

His fingers teased lower now, circling your entrance.

“Still want to drown?” he asked, voice ragged.

You nodded, eyes heavy.

“Say it.”

“I want to drown,” you whispered. “Please—Professor—”

That name did something to him. His composure frayed. Just slightly.

Then he pushed in—one finger, slow and firm, filling you so good it made your eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck. So tight for me.”

You whined—hips shifting, trying to take more.

He gave it to you. A second finger joined the first, and he curled them just right, stroking that spot deep inside that made your thighs shake.

You clutched the edge of the desk like it was the only thing holding you up.

And then—his thumb returned to your clit.

Slow circles. Firm strokes. Just enough.

Your whole body arched into his hand.

“You’re gonna come for me like this,” he murmured. “Messy and shaking and quiet, just like I knew you would.”

You were panting now, close—so close your legs were trembling, your head falling forward onto his shoulder as heat coiled tight in your belly.

And he knew.

He caught your chin with his free hand, made you look at him.

“Don’t forget it,” he murmured. “Next time you write… I want you to describe this.”

His lips brushed your ear.

“Come on. Let go.”

You fell apart. Silently. Violently.

Your body clenched around his fingers and your breath caught in your throat as your orgasm crashed over you—deep and dizzying, the kind that left you floating.

He kept his fingers moving, working you through it, murmuring praises against your skin.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Knew you’d be this perfect.”

When you finally came down, chest heaving, he slid his fingers out gently.

You could feel how wet your thighs were, how your tights clung where they shouldn’t.

And then—fuck—he brought his fingers to his mouth. Sucked one clean. Watched you while he did it.

“I’ll be thinking about this,” he murmured. “Next time you write me something.”

The air was thick—soaked in sex and tension and the sound of your breath still stuttering in your chest.

He watched you recover, watched your knees threaten to buckle beneath you.

And he didn’t let you go. Not yet.

He stepped even closer, crowding you between his body and the desk. His hands settled on your hips. His voice, low and rough, curled over your spine like smoke.

“Sit up there for me.”

You blinked—still dazed.

He lifted you before you could obey. Hands strong beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the edge of his desk. The wood was cool under your skin, but he was warm, grounding, overwhelming.

He parted your knees. Looked down.

Your tights were still half-on, messy and clinging to the tops of your thighs. Your skirt was bunched up. And your cunt? Glowing. Glazed. Absolutely dripping.

He groaned when he saw you.

“God, look at you.”

You squirmed under his gaze. Tried to close your legs.

But he stopped you with a look. And then—he sank to his knees.

Your breath died.

Professor Barnes—on the floor—between your legs?

That should have been illegal. (…it probably was.)

But you couldn’t care. Not when he gripped your thighs and leaned in with that heat in his eyes. Not when he pushed your legs wider and stared like you were a feast he’d been denied too long.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped. “If you want me to.”

You shook your head, frantic. “Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

His tongue touched you—and everything ended.

The first stroke was slow. Deep. A long, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit that made your whole body jolt.

“Oh—fuck—”

He groaned into you.

You could feel it. The vibration of his mouth, the grip of his hands keeping you spread for him as he dove back in.

He ate you like a man possessed.

No teasing now. No pretending to be composed.

Just messy, desperate hunger—his mouth hot and wet, his tongue flicking your clit before he sucked it between his lips, just enough pressure to send you spinning.

Your hands flew to his hair.

You shouldn’t have done it but you did. You tangled your fingers in the dark strands and pulled, and he moaned.

Moaned into you.

Ground his face harder against your cunt like he wanted to bury himself inside it.

“Oh my god—“

You choked on a moan.

“Professor—please—fuck—”

He smiled into your pussy.

That was when he started to devour you.

Tongue lapping. Lips sealing. Chin soaked. One hand released your thigh and slipped back between your legs, fingers thrusting in deep while his mouth never stopped, never relented, never fucking slowed.

You were going to lose your mind.

Your vision blurred. Your hips stuttered and your heels dug into the edge of the desk, your cries broken and high and helpless as he coaxed your orgasm out of you with no mercy.

You came like a wave crashing.

Loud. Shaking. Gasping his title like a prayer you couldn’t stop whispering.

“Professor—Professor—fuck, please—”

He held you down, kept his mouth on you while you rode it out, licked you through it like he lived for the taste of you falling apart.

And then—only then—he pulled back.

You were soaked. Ruined. Boneless.

He kissed your thigh and rose slowly from his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips were wet. His cheeks flushed. His eyes dark.

When he leaned in again, he pressed a soft kiss to your neck—gentle, almost affectionate.

And then he whispered, low and hoarse:

“You taste even better than you write.”

His hands were steady as they slid under your thighs, lifting you down from the desk like you weighed nothing at all. Your knees buckled slightly, and he caught you—pulled you close, flush to his chest.

And he held you.

Not like he’d just fucked the soul out of you with his mouth.

Like he was afraid to let go.

His palm cradled the back of your head, and you breathed him in—cologne, paper, heat—and then you felt his lips brush the crown of your head, a kiss so soft it nearly undid you again.

“My good girl,” he murmured, voice rough with praise and something too raw to name.

Your breath caught.

“You did so well for me,” he continued, whispering it just for you. “So sweet, so responsive. You listen so well. Always such a quick learner.”

His hand traced slowly down your back, fingers splayed wide like he wanted to memorize the shape of you.

“You’re my favorite student,” he said—low, like a confession. “My brightest. My best.”

You felt heat bloom behind your eyes.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It was a dangerous, stupid thing to say. But right then? You needed it. You drank it in like oxygen.

He pulled back enough to tilt your chin up, eyes locking with yours—blue and burning.

“God, you are so sweet,” he breathed. “My sweet girl.”

Your lips parted—but nothing came. No words, no sound. Just the soft thudding of your heart against his chest and the brush of his thumb stroking over your cheek like he worshipped you.

Then—

A kiss. Slow. Deep. A little shaky.

Not hunger—hunger came first.

This was something else.

Possession. Affection. Reverence.

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he knew it was a line too far—but he’d already crossed it, and he was never going back.

When he finally pulled away, your lips were kiss-swollen and your breath unsteady.

He smiled. Just faintly.

“I meant what I said,” he whispered. “You want to write something beautiful—come to me. I’ll make sure you find the words.”

Your legs felt weak. Your pulse was a flutter in your throat, your heart pounding like it was trying to break free—and still, his hands were gentle. Grounding. Like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.

You lifted your eyes to his.

“Professor…” You whispered.

His title on your lips made him still.

He watched you. Quiet. Waiting.

And that was when it rose. That slow, hot swirl of everything you’d been trying to ignore—craving, confusion, want. Not just for this—not just for his hands, his mouth.

You wanted him.

All of him.

So you asked it, soft and broken. “…What is this?”

His brows pulled together. Not harsh. Just quiet confusion, maybe even guilt. His fingers shifted on your waist, and you almost thought he’d pull away.

You didn’t let him.

“I need to know,” you said, a little stronger. “Because I can’t pretend this is just about… writing. Or just about today.”

You breathed in.

“I want it,” you confessed, voice low and fierce. “I want you. I don’t even know what that means yet, or what we’re doing, or if I’m crazy—but I want all of it. And if this is just a mistake to you, then—”

“No.” His voice cut in—firm and certain. “Don’t say that.”

You blinked up at him.

His jaw was tight. His eyes a storm. One of his hands rose to cup your cheek again, thumb brushing under your eye like he was trying to soothe something raw.

“This isn’t a mistake,” he said, quiet but intense. “It’s the farthest thing from it.”

“But it’s—wrong,” you whispered. “Isn’t it?”

“Too late for that,” he murmured.

And then, softer:

“I think about you all the time.”

The admission landed heavy in the space between you.

He stepped even closer, like he couldn’t help it.

“When you speak in class, when you smile… when you hand in work that’s so beautiful it fucking hurts to read—I think about what it would be like to touch you. To hold you. And now that I have…”

He swallowed hard.

“Now I don’t know how I’m supposed to stop.”

Your breath hitched. He leaned in again—his lips just a breath from yours and asked:

“Do you still want it?”

Your answer was instant.

“Yes.”

You said yes, and it was like something inside him broke loose.

Not with urgency. Not with hunger.

But with relief.

His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb sweeping along your cheek as he leaned in—eyes locked on yours like you were something holy.

And then, he kissed you. Slow.

Like a promise.

His mouth moved with reverence, not desperation—like he was savoring every second of it. Like kissing you was something he’d imagined too many times, and now that it was real, he was terrified to ruin it.

His other hand pressed to the small of your back, drawing you close again. Closer than before. His body warm and steady against yours.

He broke the kiss only barely—his lips still brushing yours, breath hot, voice low.

“Good girl…”

The words settled into your skin like silk.

You shivered, but it wasn’t from cold.

It was from being seen.

Wanted. Praised. His.

You closed your eyes, trying to breathe through the feeling.

Warm in his arms. His voice still echoing in your ears. And your heart beating a little too fast for something that had only just begun.

Part Two

tags: @iamthatonefangirl @hiraethmae (dm or comment If you wanna be added to my tag list) 💋

[persephonewritessometimes]

TOO PRETTY TO BE STRESSED

pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader summary: aaron swears he's not the clingy type...until you show up, and suddenly it's a full blown PDA parade in the bullpen, based on this request. warnings | an: fluff, they're so in love it makes me sick, lots of touching, hotch soothing r's stress with his credit card, i am once again spreading the suggar!daddy!hotch agenda, the team being annoying, hotch enabling r's spending habits. word count: 2.1k

✧ masterlist

Walking through the doors of the FBI never quite feels normal. You’d think being married to the man who runs one of its top units would earn you a little immunity from the nerves, but nope. There are still plenty of tight-lipped smiles from men who clearly think you don’t belong (to be fair, you technically don’t), and those awkward elevator rides where you end up clarifying, again, that you’re just here to drop off lunch for the most handsome agent in the building. Not that you say that part out loud. 

It doesn’t happen often, hardly ever, really. Aaron’s not the kind of man who forgets things, especially not lunch. Maybe twice every four months, if that. And even then, he never asks for you to bring it. He usually brushes off your offers with a quick ‘I’ll grab something from the cafeteria’ which, of course, actually means ‘I won’t eat until dinner.’ 

And that just won’t suffice. Especially not when he’s been filling out his shirt so nicely, lately.

So there you were, pretty shoes dragging against the dull bureau floor, lunch in one hand, cookies and your purse dangling from the other, wrist definitely starting to ache. You weren’t exactly sneaking into the bullpen, but you weren’t strutting either. Just stuck in that awkward middle space reserved for people who technically shouldn’t be there, but have the authority to show up anyway, because boss man said so.

“There she is! Hotchner’s better half,” Emily called out, spinning her chair around with a grin.

You offered a sheepish wave, trying not to drop anything. “I come bearing gifts…and mild wrist pain.”

“Oh! Are those the butterscotch ones?” Penelope squealed, jumping up from where she’d been perched on Spencer’s desk.

“Yes, new recipe,” you said, carefully setting your things down on JJ’s desk as she kindly unhooked your overloaded purse. “I swapped out the dark brown sugar for light, added a little sea salt on top, and I may have used browned butter this time. I was feeling ambitious.”

“You browned the butter?” Penelope gasped. “You absolute kitchen goddess!”

Spencer leaned in for a closer look as you popped the lid off the container. “That actually changes the flavor quite a bit. The Maillard reaction from browning—”

“Yes, yes, science, great,” Emily cut in. “Can we eat them now, or is there a presentation we have to sit through first?”

You laughed, nudging the tin closer to everyone. “No presentations. Just cookies. Though if anyone gives them a rating out of ten that’s higher than a nine, I won’t complain.”

Morgan was the first to grab one, swiftly using it as a pointer to gesture towards Aaron, who was pushing back his chair. “Oh look, here he comes.”

You glanced up just in time to catch it—that little motion he always did, fingers brushing his tie flat against his chest as he stood. A completely innocent gesture. Totally routine. And somehow still enough to make your mouth water.

“You know,” Morgan added, mid-chew, “that’s the fastest I’ve ever seen him leave his office. Last time he moved like that, we had an active shooter in the building.”

“Alright, don’t scare her,” Rossi scolded, swatting Morgan’s bicep with a file. “She already doesn't like coming here as it is.”

“Now, that’s not true, Dave,” you corrected, grabbing Aaron’s lunch. “I love seeing you all. I just prefer doing it without all the security nuisance, badges, metal detectors and guns.”

Morgan nudged your elbow, eyes still on Aaron as he made his way over. “For a guy who claims he’s not clingy, he’s practically tripping over himself right now.”

“Oh, he’s definitely clingy,” you grinned, just as Aaron reached you, wasting zero time before leaning in and placing a swift kiss to your lips, murmuring a dreamy ‘Hi you’ before pulling away.

“Come on.” Morgan shook his head, reaching for his second cookie. “This is the same guy who made us sit through a mandatory refresher on workplace boundaries, and now look at him, breaking every single one.”

“Let them be in love,” JJ said sweetly, sipping her coffee like this was all perfectly normal.

You looked up at Aaron, eyebrows raised, trying to coax some kind of reaction to all the teasing. But he didn’t even glance at the others, just kept his eyes on you as he took the lunch bag from your hands, his fingers brushing along your wrist with just enough pressure to say thank you, I missed you, without saying anything at all.

“You didn’t have to come all this way, honey.”

“I know, but I overbaked and figured I was due for my monthly dose of shocking the system.” You glanced around the bullpen, cringing a little at the endless clacking of keyboards and constant ringing of phones. It was all starting to give you at least four different headaches. “Feels like there’s less oxygen in here somehow.”

“That’s because no one is allowed to breathe until all the paperwork is done,” Emily interjected dryly. 

“Is that true, Aaron?” you asked, reaching up to fuss with his tie. “Are you working your team too hard?”

“They live to complain.”

A chorus of groans and mock-offended noises rose up around you, just as Aaron’s hand slipped to the small of your back, steering you gently towards his office.

“Blinds stay open, you two,” Morgan called after you, pointing two fingers from his eyes to yours. “We’re watching!”

“Just keep walking,” Aaron murmured into your hair, voice quiet and beguiled, giving your hip a subtle squeeze as he guided you up the stairs.

You bit back a grin, feeling far too smug—and frankly, far too giddy—for someone standing in a federal building. Inside his office, he quietly closed the door behind you and you made yourself at home by sliding into one of the chairs across from his desk. 

“Think Morgan might have a point, you are getting a little reckless with the PDA. You’re going soft.”

He moved to his chair, smoothing his tie against his chest as he sat. “I’ve always been soft with you.”

That answer knocked the wind out of you in the quietest way. You blinked once, then shook your head. “Wow. Okay. That’s not even fair.”

He just looked amused, unpacking the lunch bag while sneaking glances at you like he couldn’t help himself. “You know they’ll be talking about this all afternoon.”

You waved him off and kicked his foot gently under the desk, because footsies, like true love, didn’t have an expiration date. “Let them. Let them talk about how you have a gorgeous, brilliant, amazing wife who is kind enough to hand-deliver your lunch.”

“They already know.”

“Good answer.” You nodded, satisfied, and handed him a few tissues just as he took the first bite of his sandwich. “Now, how's your day been? And don’t say ‘fine’, or I’ll start pulling out my therapist's voice and asking about your coping mechanisms.”

He chewed, giving you a dour look over the top of the sandwich like he was already reconsidering speaking at all.

“Busy. Two consults, one profile draft, and I’ve had to remind Morgan three times to finish his report.”

“So… business as usual.”

“Basically.”

He took another bite, and you used the pause to admire him. How pretty he looked. He was getting subtly more rugged with time, never quite managing the clean-shaven look, not for lack of trying, but that had always been fine by you. You loved him exactly as he was.

Your eyes wandered over his desk, taking in the meticulously organised scene in front of you. Everything was in its place, except for a single pen and one loose file slightly out of line, a tiny disruption in an otherwise perfect system. It made you smile.

He wiped his mouth, and in that moment, his wedding band caught the thin stream of light this moody building begrudgingly allowed in. As if the universe was saying, yes, look—he’s yours.

And you thanked her silently for it. Because he was.

“Want to ditch the rest of the day, fake a headache, and run away with me to somewhere that doesn’t require badge access?” you proposed, straightening the photo of you on his desk. 

He tilted his head. “Tempting.”

“You’d never actually do it, though.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I’ll think about it the whole time I’m here.”

Your smile pulled a little wider. “That’s enough for me. That—and as long as I’ll have you home in time for dinner,” you said, though it came out as more of a question. Maybe even a tiny, minuscule threat. 

“Don’t worry, I will,” he assured you kindly. “I know your parents are coming over tonight. I wouldn’t dream of making you face that alone. I’m guessing that’s what’s been bothering you, hence the industrial-sized cookie batch?”

You sighed, slumping back into the chair. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only to me.”

“You know they’re hard work. And I can only fake-smile and nod my way through so many stories about people I don’t remember and opinions I didn’t ask for.”

Aaron set his sandwich aside, abandoning it on the tissue you had passed him earlier. He used another to wipe his hands, then stood, taking two steps to get to you. 

Before you could say anything, his hands were on either side of your chair, gently turning it to face him. He crouched down, and you instinctively parted your legs so he could slot in between them. 

“Hey,” he urged softly. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through it together, and if it gets to be too much, I’m excellent at coming up with polite excuses to get them out of the house.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, sweetheart.”

And just in case his words were not confirmation enough, his hands came to cradle your face, thumbs circling your skin before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“Go to that bookstore you like,” he said next, already reaching into his pocket. “Grab your favorite coffee, roam around for a while, and try not to stress until they text you that they’re on their way, okay?”

He pulled out his wallet and fished out his card. “You’re too pretty to be stressing in this skirt.”

You raised a brow, lifting one leg and watching the flowy fabric settle back down over your knee. “It’s cute right?”

“Very.” He nodded, dead serious. “Go buy yourself another one.” He extended the card towards you like it was non-negotiable.

You laughed, giving his hand a light swat. “I’m not taking your card like some 1950s housewife.”

“You’re not. You’re my very independent, endlessly capable wife who I happen to love spoiling any chance I get. Now, please, take it. Call it payment for lunch…and for making you come all the way here, knowing full well how much you’d rather avoid this place.”

You pouted, eyes dancing between the card and his face. “Fine,” you relented, plucking the card from his hand. “But I’m only getting one book. Two max. The bookshelf is about to collapse.”

“Buy as many as you want.” He reached down, helping you to your feet with a gentle tug. “I’ll build you a new bookshelf.”

“You?”

“Yes, me.” 

“You’ll build me a new bookshelf?”

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “With actual tools.”

“Okay, now I have to see that.”

He pulled back, straightening your cardigan, fussing without ever making it feel like fussing. “Then you better pick up a lot of books.” 

You rolled your eyes, tucking the card away into your pocket. “This is enabling.”

“This is love,” he corrected, stealing a quick kiss before walking you to the door. “Text me when you get there. And if you see a ridiculous romance novel with a cheesy title, get it. I want to hear the plot.”

You grinned, poking his chest. “You just want to make fun of me.” 

“No, I just like knowing what’s taking up space in that beautiful head of yours.” 

“It’s mostly just you.”

He looked like he was trying not to smile too hard at that, so you saved him the trouble by leaning up and giving him one last kiss, ignoring all the hollering behind you from Morgan. 

“I love you,” he promised, smoothing a hand down your arm. “Now, go before I change my mind and fake a headache just to come with you.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @mggslover @khxna @keiminds

join my taglist here 💌

[persephonewritessometimes]

what’s it called when you homie hop from one fbi agent to another

[persephonewritessometimes]

so soft talking about Gideon

[persephonewritessometimes]

Hi I just read your fic where reader and matt are having sexy time and reader goes under the desk, and I was wondering what if you made a part 2 in which reader is at work and maybe foggy or Karen comes to visit, and matt is hiding under reader's desk and goes down on her

Hi, nonnie! Thank you so much for your request! I'm glad you liked the first part enough to think of another scenario of that kind, so... I whipped this little gem up for you and I hope you like it :)

Cruel Revenge | Matt Murdock x Reader

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: After going down on Matt at work the other day while Foggy was in the room, he decides to return the favor.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, oral f!receiving, orgasm control (?), slight Dom!Matt, praise kink, marking kink, breeding kink, exhibitionism, poor Foggy and Karen I’m sorry

18+ directly under the cut!

It’s cruel revenge. 

His lips suction around your clit and suck gently, enough to make you squirm but not enough to make you combust. Every so often, his tongue will lick leisurely through your folds, parting them expertly, and he makes sure to use his thumb to stimulate your clit in all the places you need him to.

He knows every last nerve ending on your body and how to make you jolt, whine and scream for him. He knows how to make you come, and yet he continues touching you oh so slowly to the point the orgasm is hiding in the pit of your stomach, just waiting for the moment he will pick up the pace, and then you are sure that you will coat his face in your cum the same way he so often does. 

You wouldn’t mind if the setting was different. In fact, you would have encouraged him to keep edging you until your voice is hoarse, but Matt Murdock, the proud little shit that he is, decided to play with you today. 

You suppose it’s fair after sliding under the desk when Foggy and Karen came back early from their lunch break and sucked him off under his table as he tried to talk to his best friend about something legal – you don’t even remember. You remember the taste of his cum and the feeling of his rock-hard cock on your tongue, and you want nothing more than to moan. 

It’s fair that he’s licking your pussy so agonizingly slow, you can see stars but not the finish line, but he still manages to make you want to scream his name in ecstasy like he always does. It’s fair and at the same time, it’s cruel revenge he has bestowed upon you. 

You got lunch together. Lunch, that is all you wanted to do. You weren’t even planning on having sex, not like the time you came to him, and yet Matt had you cornered in a matter of a second, pushing you against the wall and swallowing your needy moans with his lips. 

But fucking you wasn’t on his agenda. You only noticed what he was doing when the door to the main room opened and you could hear Foggy’s and Karen’s voices asking for you, and Matt slid under your desk with a proud smirk, his glasses now discarded somewhere his friends wouldn’t be able to see, and he went to work right when the door opened. 

Your eyes begged him not to; he knew exactly what kind of look you were giving him, but he still acted oblivious and as blind as he is, and then he dove right between your legs to cover your sweet cunt whole with his mouth. 

Their voices blur together when they start talking about dinner plans and birthday surprises; if it weren’t for Matt between your legs, you would surely try finding a solution for his birthday together, but you’re too busy focusing on the rough surface of his tongue and the goosebumps he sends hurdling across every crevice of your skin. 

Keeping surprises from him is futile anyway because he always knows what you’re planning, you only play along for the pretense. 

“Okay, hear me out,” Foggy says, “Daredevil cake.”

Matt sucks a little harder on your clit and you grab the edge of the desk with a loud gasp. 

“What? Not good?”

You swallow a moan. “No, no, that’s–” His tongue is teasing your hole now. “That is a good idea, but maybe not– not a Daredevil cake.”

“Why not?” asks Foggy. 

“Because it’s gonna–” Another moan threatens to escape your throat as you pull at your hair. “It’s gonna make people suspicious,” you manage to choke out. 

Karen frowns. “Are you feeling alright?” she asks. 

“Yeah, fine. Just… feeling a bit under the weather. Lots of work. No rest. You know how it is.”

They start bickering about workload again, and Matt takes that as a sign to speed up. At this point, sweat must be dripping down your forehead, maybe even down your back and into your pores. You are so wet, you’re scared his lips might start making noise now. You can feel his beard scratching the inside of your sensitive thighs, his fingers leaving their marks as he grabs them to spread them further apart. Instead of letting him though, you trap him between your legs. Not sure whether to push him away or grind against his face, you try to at least control his gentle assault on your pussy, and his speed slows down a little before you can come with your friends right in front of you. 

You find your eyes closing at the pleasure building up in your core, strumming the tight coil in your stomach like a guitar, and it spreads right to your cunt. 

Foggy calls your name and you open your eyes again, blinking away the haze. Your heart rate picks up and Matt dares to smirk against your slick folds. His tongue parts them again, circling your clit, and you are about ready to smack his head. 

“You look… tired,” he remarks. “Are you sure we’re not imposing?”

This is your window, you think. If you can get them out fast enough, you can focus on Matt’s tongue and then curse him to hell after. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of making you come, but the thrill of being seen like this sends shivers down your spine, and it only adds to the pooling wetness between your clenched thighs around his head.

You want to tangle your hands in his hair, ride his face and make him yours all over. You want him at your mercy as you use him for your pleasure, but he is in control today, you know that. This is revenge, this is punishment and if you fight it, you will only get punished more – but maybe that is exactly what you want. Getting bent over the desk and pounded like a wild animal, his cock deep inside you as he fills you up with his seed until you’re dripping and all he can smell is him on you, and you can feel him so deep, you feel like you’re about to burst, and then you come over and over and over and–

“I have a work call,” you say, your voice a little too high and too loud. It’s suspicious, but it can be blamed on a lack of sleep because it has happened before, and Matt has not been between your legs then. “In f–” You are about to curse, but you pull it together, “five minutes,” you tell them. “Very soon. I, uh, have to get ready f– for that. And then I’ll see about Matt’s–” You so very hope you didn’t just moan his name. “Matt’s gift, I promise.” 

Foggy and Karen share a look and nod. “Sounds good,” she says. 

He agrees. 

Finally, you think, they bid their goodbyes and head out, still talking to each other as if your behavior hasn’t just been out-of-this-world weird, and when all doors finally fall shut, you throw your head back and let out a guttural moan.

It’s almost as if Matt planned the exact second the two left your office for him to pick up speed and apply more pressure to your clit, his lips sucking mercilessly now as he alternates between sucking and licking and thrusting his tongue into your tight, velvety walls until you’re crying and shaking above him. 

The office is empty except for you two, and it allows you to be as loud as you want. Your hand tangles in his hair, your hips rocking at a steady rhythm against his face. Over and over again he licks and sucks and licks and sucks, and when he thrusts his tongue inside of you again while using his thumb to play with your nerves, the other hand squeezing your breast through your blouse, your walls clench and the coil tightens to an agonizing point. 

But he hasn’t permitted you yet. You should disobey him and come right then and there, show him that he can’t just do that to you, but you did the same thing to him a few days ago, so the cruel revenge is fair. It is fair, but you don’t find it fair, so your body is trying to let go while your mind wills it not to. But you need to come oh so desperately, all of your muscles are tense. 

“Fucking hell, Matthew!” you cry out. “God! Just… fuck!”

He chuckles, releasing your clit only for a moment to say, “Don’t be shy, sweetheart, come on my tongue.” And it’s all it takes for you to clench around his tongue once more as he dives back down, and with a few more heavy sucks to your sensitive bundle of nerves, your legs tighten around his neck, and you come hard on his tongue.

He grunts. “So fucking good,” he says, his voice still muffled through your heat. 

If he could have a sip of you every day, he would. 

You zone out until he’s kneeling straight before you, his head close to yours. Your lashes flutter as you stare down at him. “Hi,” you whisper. 

Matt smirks. “Hi.”

“That was…”

“Amazing?”

“Rude.”

“Powerful?”

“Mean.”

“Hot as fuck?”

“Cruel revenge,” you finish, your finger coming to rest on his wet lips to shut him up.

He only chuckles and pulls you down into a kiss. “Is there a work call?” he asks. 

You shake your head. 

“So, you still have time?”

“Yeah,” you say, “I still have time.”

His smirk widens as his fingers begin to stroke your thighs again. “What do you say?”

He’s already halfway down your body again, ready to devour you all over again, and the horny voice in your head responds before you can think, “I’m all yours, Matthew.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he says. “Good girl.”

And as he goes down on you again, you let all the moans and whimpers loose you swallowed before. He eats you out like a man starved until you come two more times, and even then, he isn’t satisfied. 

He will most likely continue fucking you into the desk until you have exerted your lunch break and Foggy is going to wonder where he is, but at least he will leave you stuffed to the brim with his cum. 

Matt Smut Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @lina-mar @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @mattkinsella @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao

[persephonewritessometimes]

Hi lizzi!

How are you? I hope well.

I saw that your request box is open so I thought why not send one in

Hear me out, what reader goes to the office to see Matt and he's all alone in the office, so they fuck around but Matt isn't paying attention to sense and he doesn't hear foggy just down the hallway and Matt pull out of reader right when they were about to cum and he makes her go under his desk while he tries to look decent.

So when foggy goes to Matt's office, reader pulls out his cock and starts to suck him off while he's talking to foggy and he's trying not to make a face or sound of pleasure, so after foggy leaves Matt punishes reader

Please and thank you 💋

My dear, that request made me very... unwell. Thank you so much for sliding into my inbox and bringing the filth! I apologize for the wait but had to get in the Matt mood again. Well, needless to say, this really did get me in the mood again. I hope you like it!

Naughty Girl | Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You and Matt get interrupted while getting it on in his office. You can't stop yourself from taking what you want, and Matt is not happy about it.

Warnings: SMUT, PWP, MINORS DNI, unprotected p in v, mentions of oral (f!receiving), oral m!receiving, female masturbation, multiple orgasms, exhibitionism, choking, marking kink, BREEDING KINK (I went hard on that this time), rough sex, slight mean!dom!Matt, degrading, spanking, pure filth served on a silver platter

Word Count: 2.4k

A/n: Y'all I- I'm not even going to say anything. Smut right under the cut.

18+ From Here On Out...

With every harsh thrust of his cock into your tight walls, the desk underneath you creaks. You can see the legs shaking alongside yours through hazy eyes, but you’re too far gone to care whether or not the wood will give out. 

The second you came into the office, Matt had you bent over the desk. First, he ate your sweet cunt as if it were the last lunch he would ever have, and then he forced you onto your stomach and started pounding into you. The position repeatedly allows him to brush against your G-spot and reach your cervix, fucking into you at a pace that has you seeing starts, your moans bouncing off the walls, and you lose yourself in the feeling of him, his hands, and his cock. You love lunch times like this. He never leaves you dissatisfied. 

Heat wraps around him like a cocoon. Nothing exists in the Nelson & Murdock office but you and him. Your cunt wraps around his cock so impossibly tight, Matt drowns in the feeling. Your moans overtone the noise of the city and he can only smell your sweet arousal in the air, your sweat and your tears of pleasure, and your juices still glistening on his lips. He revels in it. Once he has his hands on you, you’re more than willing to let him do whatever he wants, whatever he needs, and he does so. But he knows well that you wouldn’t hesitate to do the same for him.

Today though, it’s his turn to ruin you, and the empty office made it impossible for him to keep his hands to himself when you came strolling in with that short skirt he fucked you in the day before; it smells like you, and him and sex, and you walk around shamelessly with it as if he can’t smell you five blocks down, or smell the wetness between your legs when you only think about him. You drive him wild with carnal desire, and he wants nothing more than to die between your legs, perhaps even with his cock buried in your velvety walls. He wants nothing more than to fill you up, fuck you until you can’t walk straight, mark you, make you his, tie you down, and ravish you until not a single thought crosses your mind – you’re his little cockdruck slut and he makes sure to tell you that over and over and over again. 

You’re a whimpering mess, reaching back to dig your nails into his hips. You’re so wet, so tight; skin slaps against skin, your nipples brush the wood of the table and you cry out again, and his breathing echoes in his ears. His senses are completely attuned to you, focused on your body, for the signs you’re giving him, the sound of your approaching orgasm, your cunt, your tits, your heartbeat, your everything. He feels your pulse jump under his fingers when he hauls you up to choke you, and you moan again. God, he thinks, this would be such a heavenly way to go out. 

He doesn’t focus for only a moment, but a moment is all it takes for the bubble to burst. Matt hears Foggy’s footsteps first, then his heartbeat, then his voice, and he has never pulled out of you faster. 

The world crashes back into you when your orgasm vanishes, slipping out of your reach, and you gawk at him. 

“Matt, what–” you begin, but he presses his hand against your mouth. 

He’s still hard, your wetness leaking from his cock, but his unfocused eyes seem panicked. “Get under the desk, now!” he says. 

It’s not a game, you can tell. 

“What?”

“Foggy.”

“Oh.”

You should have figured that getting carried away during lunch break would be a bad idea. 

Matt barely manages to sit down in his chair and fix his hair before his door busts open. 

“Matt,” Foggy waltzes in without a care in the world, “you won’t believe what Marci just told me!"

Your knees already hurt, but you can’t switch positions or he might hear you. You come face to face with Matt’s straining erection in his pants, and an idea comes to your mind. 

You’re a naughty little thing, his voice echoes in your head, but he promised he would make sure you could both get what you both wanted without getting caught and he failed. You’re desperate, your cunt aching for him, and you need to get off somehow. 

Matt sighs at Foggy’s comment. His cheeks are still flushed and he can’t think straight, but he has to appear professional to keep his dignity and yours. “You know what I think about you using your ex as a mo-oh!” His fist hits the desk’s surface. 

Your mouth wraps around his cock and you suck, hard. He comes almost right then and there. He didn’t hear you come closer, neither could he anticipate your behavior before it happened and now you’re sucking on his tip, knowing he is beyond sensitive, and Foggy is right there–

“I know,” Foggy says, and he seemingly doesn’t notice the new tension in his friend’s jaw or his hand gripping the edge of his desk. “But you said we needed more information, and you also hate when I bribe Brett– you know, you’re a hypocrite. You beat up bad guys for intel, but when I ask my ex to spy for me in exchange for sex that doesn't harm anyone, may I add, it’s suddenly World War Three. That's not fair! At least I care about... about the environment."

He says some more things, and they probably make sense, but Matt’s cock twitches in your mouth, so dangerously close to combusting, he listens with only half a quarter of an ear.

You take him down your throat fully, ignoring the urge to gag at his size. He tastes salty and slightly like you, his tip leaking pre-cum. He weighs heavy on your tongue, but the obscenity of it all makes you greedy to take him whole. Once you start, you can’t stop. You lick and suck and lick and suck, and he twitches again. 

His knuckles turn white around the wood and he casts a glare downward. You’re too lost in the pleasure his reaction is giving you, your hand working on your clit as you shamelessly suck his dick; you’re getting off on it, and it’s worse now that he can taste the molecules in the air. 

You’re going to regret this, but you don’t care because it feels too good to stop now. You just want to be naughty for once, get what you want and bring Matt Murdock to his knees. 

“Matt?” Foggy snaps his fingers in front of his face. 

He doesn’t notice he’s biting his fist until it starts hurting. 

“What?” he asks, his voice strained. He twitches in his chair, but he has nowhere to go. 

He’s about to come, the sound of your fingers working on your clit following the rushing of the blood in his veins, and that’s enough to cause his balls to tense up under your skilled fingers. 

“I said I was gonna check in with Marci,” says Foggy. “Usually, you have something smart to say to me. I’m waiting.”

“Good idea,” Matt says. 

“What?”

“Go.”

“Seriously?”

“Go!” It sounds almost like a warning. "Do the- the thing with Marci. Just do it, I don't care. Go do it!"

What his friend says next, he doesn’t register. He only hears the door fall shut, and then he’s coming hard into your hot mouth. You moan as your own orgasm washes over you, which only makes you suck harder, and his forehead falls to the desk as he muffles his howl. His toes curl. You lit the match, threw it on the gasoline, and now he’s burning. 

You suckle on his tip until he’s overstimulated and only then do you pull off. 

Part of you expects gratitude when you slowly crawl out from under the desk, but once Matt has found back to himself, his face darkens completely. This is not the man you started teasing before Foggy came around, not the gentle nature your boyfriend has reserved only for you – you’re looking into the eyes of a man equally as horny as he is pissed off with you, and you know what that look means. 

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he growls. 

Oh-oh. 

He gets up and towers over you. “Touching yourself like that, sucking my dick like the needy little whore that you are with Foggy in the same room while I was talking to him… How desperate for my cock do you have to be that you have to act like such a slut?” 

You wipe your mouth. “Sorry,” you mutter. 

He listens to your heartbeat. “No,” Matt chuckles darkly, “You’re a lot of things, sweetheart, but you’re not sorry.”

Next thing you know, your face is pressed against the wall and he cages you in like an animal on the prowl. The blinds are closed, Foggy is gone again, and your skirt lands on the floor. “Such a needy pussy,” he purrs into your ear. “You’re dripping.”

“Fuck, yes,” you moan. 

He pulls at your hair. “Don’t even think you’re getting rewarded.”

The slight pain makes you hiss. 

“I’m gonna fuck you as hard as I want now, and you’re gonna take it. You know why?”

“I–”

“Tell me.”

“I’ve been a bad girl.”

“That’s right. And what happens to bad girls, baby?”

“They get punished.”

“Exactly, so that’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna fuck you until your pussy is full of my cum and then I’ll decide if you deserve to come or not. Are we clear?”

His words shoot straight to your core. You’re not scared, you know how he is, you have a safeword and yet, you’re enjoying this a lot more than you should. “Yes, sir,” you breathe. 

When he hears the honorific from your mouth, uttered oh so sweetly close to his ears, he pushes you further into the walls and thrust his cock into you. He doesn’t wait, he sets a ruthless pace from the beginning, and it’s harder than he fucked you before. 

Desire drives him to ruin you. Sweat drips off both of your bodies, mingling and turning into an almost toxic mixture. His white shirt is stained wet now, his tie loosened, and when you look over your shoulder to see his slack jaw and his bared teeth, you tighten around his cock. He looks so good, he renders you speechless, useless, everything. 

His fingers are sure to leave their bruises, just how you like it. His teeth nip at your neck. His grip tightens around your throat, knocking the air out of your lungs – you can’t breathe. He knows exactly where to press to turn you light-headed, yet needy for more. Your moans get caught in your throat, your nails claw at the wallpaper, and he only picks up speed. 

The line between pain and pleasure blurs. You find yourself on the edge in minutes, even without his fingers on your clit. You are so worked up, your body follows him where he wants you to go. 

He lowers his mouth to your ear. “Don’t fucking come,” he warns. 

You shiver. You’re right there, but you know you have to comply. It hurts, but it’s so good. 

His cock twitches, he’s close too, and he wraps his arm around your waist entirely to keep you straight as he fucks up into you and pushed you flat against the wall. You’re his toy to use now, and you let him. The angle drives you to hell and back, his cock brushing where you need him most but you don’t want him there because you are almost there, tethering over the edge and you are sure if he keeps going like that you are going to–

With a loud shout of your name, he comes deep inside of you. You swear you can still taste him on your tongue as he fills you up. He thrusts and thrusts and thrusts until you’re full of his cum, your walls milking everything he has to give and more, but the man knows no mercy. 

“Want me to fuck a baby into you?” he pants. “Is that what you want? So desperate for my cum, you need it everywhere, even your mouth? And now you want me to fuck a baby into your pussy?”

Holy shit. Whatever has gotten into him makes you sweat even more when you hear his words. 

“Yes!” you cry. “God, yes, Matthew! Please! Please! Please–”

“You need my cum? You need me to fuck you until you’re full of it?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I need your cum, Matthew! Please, I need it. I want it. I want you– please!”

His palm collides with your ass cheeks and he hisses like a snake on the prowl. “Come for me,” he says. 

You instantly lock up. Your muscles tense and you come with a scream; he doesn’t muffle it, he lets you let it out, and his grip is stern as he continues fucking his cum into your quivering pussy. You mewl, but he doesn’t let off. His fingers are everywhere. It burns. 

Only when he’s spent and satisfied does he stop, and you almost lose control over your legs. 

“Shh,” you hear him whisper into your ear. Gone is the dominant Matt who was about to ready to destroy you. He flicks the switch and he’s fully himself again. 

Stroking your hair, he makes sure to be careful when he pulls out. You whimper. He takes you into his arms. “I’m sorry,” Matt says, “Are you okay?”

You’re both panting, sweaty messes, but God, did it feel good. 

You can only muster a small nod and he holds you tighter in response. “Breathe,” he reminds you. “I’m here.”

With his fingers in your hair, you slowly find back to yourself. He carries you into his chair with him where he holds you some more, making sure you don’t lose yourself along the way. He offers you water, a tissue, everything, and you don’t feel used, you never could, not when he acts like this whenever he is rough with you. 

There is a reason you love him, and it’s not just mind-blowing sex. 

“Sorry for sucking your cock while Foggy was in the room,” you murmur, your voice sounded like a drunken slur. 

Matt chuckles, which quickly turns into a laugh. “You are so naughty sometimes, you know that?” he says. 

You shrug. “Guilty as charged, counselor.”

His lips find your forehead. “My naughty girl.”

“Yours.”

“Mine.”

You love Matt Murdock and you wouldn’t trade him for the world. You are gladly his because you know, no matter how dominant he is, he will always have a soft spot for you. 

Matt Murdock Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @lina-mar @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @mattkinsella @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t

[persephonewritessometimes]

Fixation -A.H

Aaron Hotchner x coworker!reader

The unsub sat shackled at the table, hunched but humming—this low, breathy sound that made your skin crawl as soon as the heavy door shut behind you. You moved just slightly behind Hotch, and his presence blocked the man’s view of you for a moment.

But the second you stepped to Hotch’s right and sat down, the unsub locked in. Like he’d been waiting for you. Your breath hitched—barely—but it was enough. He noticed.

“Agent,” he greeted, smiling at you, not Hotch. “You’re prettier in person.” Hotch’s eyes cut to you immediately, picking up on the freeze in your posture. He turned back to the man, jaw flexing. “You already know that comment’s not going to help you.”

The unsub didn’t blink. Just stared at you. Your badge. Your neckline. Your hands. “Do you wear that lipstick for the job, or for me?” he asked, smile widening.

Hotch didn’t wait—his fingers snapped toward the one-way mirror. “Tighten the restraints. Now.”

Two guards came in instantly. One placed a firm hand on the unsub’s shoulder, forcing him down as the other jerked the cuffs tighter around his wrists, metal biting into skin. He flinched but didn’t yell. Didn’t even wince. His eyes were still on you, hungry, assessing.

You inhaled, then exhaled carefully. He wanted a reaction. You didn’t give him one. Until you had to lean forward and push the file across the table.

That’s when he moved. Just a shift. Just a lean. But it was deliberate—his face closer to yours than you liked, enough that your own twisted in disgust before you could stop it.

“Stop,” Hotch said, his voice dark, deadly. His tone was enough to freeze the unsub in place. Still, the bastard smiled. “You’re not gonna let her talk for herself, Agent Hotchner?”

Hotch reached forward and took the file you’d opened, flipping it toward the unsub himself. His broad shoulders shifted, moving slightly in front of you again.

“She doesn’t need to,” Hotch said. “I already know what you are.”

“She’s better than the others,” he purrs. “You see it too. That’s why you walked in front of her. Like a shield. That’s sweet, Agent Hotchner. She deserves someone strong.”

You barely resist the urge to snap back. But Hotch’s hand reaches out—under the table—and briefly brushes your knee. A silent signal: Don’t react. Let me handle it.

“Why would I look at those,” he rasped, his voice low and oily, “when I’ve got her to look at instead?”

You froze. Hotch’s fingers twitched near his pen. His tone stayed flat. “That’s not how this works.”

“I already know all about her,” the unsub continued, still smiling. “She runs at five-thirty in the morning. Orders that lavender tea at the café across from the field office. Drives a black bmw. License plate ends in... seven-two-nine. Right?”

Your blood ran cold. You didn’t answer. You didn’t move.

Hotch stood abruptly. “You’re done.”

“No,” the unsub said, eyes still locked on you, smile growing. “I’m just getting started.”

Hotch was already at the door, signaling for the guard again. You stood slower, trying not to let the nausea show.

“You’ll speak to me,” Hotch said, voice a dark, contained growl. “Not her.”

“She’s the one I’ve been thinking about.”

“She’s not the one you're confessing to.”

“She’s the reason I started.” The unsub grinned, wild and victorious. “And she’ll be the reason I finish.”

You stood so fast your chair scraped backward, screeching against the floor.

Hotch turned to you instantly. “Agent,” he said quietly—his voice gentle now, only for you. “Step out.”

“I’m fine,” you said too quickly, jaw clenched.

His eyes searched yours for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded once.

The unsub chuckled. “Cute. Like a guard dog. I bet you like it when he barks for you.”

Hotch moved before you could blink. He was on the table, both hands planted, leaning in so close his voice was practically in the unsub’s ear.

“Say one more word about her,” Hotch growled, “and I will make sure your sentence includes solitary until you rot.”

Hotch’s hands were still flat on the table, his broad shoulders locked in tension. He didn’t move until he was sure the man’s mouth would stay shut.

“Guard. Get him out,” Hotch snapped, low and lethal.

The unsub laughed as the door slammed open behind you again. “You’ll think about me, sweetheart,” he called as they dragged him backward, wrists still bleeding from the restraints. “When you’re alone. When he’s not around to protect you.”

“Let’s go,” Hotch muttered under his breath to you, not even glancing back at the unsub again. His hand grazed your lower back as you turned—protective, firm, grounding.

You walked out together in silence, the door slamming shut behind you, drowning out the last of the unsub’s twisted chuckles.

“Hey,” he said gently, his voice lower now, quiet. “You okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah. Just... hate how he looked at me. Like he knew me.”

Hotch nodded slowly. “He’s been watching. We found photos in his storage unit. Some were taken last week.”

Your stomach dropped. “Of me?”

Hotch hesitated. “Of your apartment. Your car. A few of you in your running gear.”

You swallowed hard.“I had no idea—”

“That’s not your fault,” Hotch said firmly. “He’s good at hiding. That ends now. I should’ve gone in alone.”

You turned toward him, surprised. “Why?”

His jaw tightened again. That same damn muscle. “Because I saw the look in his eyes when you walked in,” he said, stepping closer, voice low. “And I knew exactly what he was thinking.”

Your heartbeat stuttered. He paused, then stepped just a little closer.

“You shouldn’t go home alone tonight.”

That surprised you. “I wasn’t planning to.”

His brows lifted just a fraction. “Good. Because I wasn’t going to let you.” That made your heart skip. Not because of what he said—but how he said it.

“I’ll stay at a hotel,” you murmured.

He paused, then offered, “You could stay at mine.”

You looked up. His expression didn’t change. He wasn’t playing. Wasn’t flirting. It wasn’t about that. It was about keeping you safe.

“…Okay,” you whispered. “Yeah. That’s probably best.”

His shoulders eased slightly.

And it wasn’t long before you found yourself standing in the hallway just outside his bedroom door, suddenly uncertain.

Hotch stepped behind you again. Close. Just like in the interrogation room.

“I’ll take the couch,” he said, already reading your hesitation.

“No,” you said quickly. “You don’t have to.”

He paused. “I want you to feel safe.”

“I do,” you whispered, looking back at him. “With you.”

“I’ll get you a shirt,” he murmured.

A moment later he returned and handed you a long, soft cotton t-shirt—gray, plain, worn thin at the collar.

You took it with a grateful smile and went into the bathroom.

When you came out, you were swimming in the shirt. It hit halfway down your thighs. Your legs were bare. You had never felt so exposed in something so modest.

Hotch was already lying down, propped on one elbow, the comforter pulled up around his waist. He wore a black t-shirt and soft plaid pajama pants. You had never, in your life, seen him so…human.

You climbed in slowly, tentatively. His side of the bed was warm. Yours felt cold.

It was awkward. Weirdly awkward.

And that’s when it hit you. A sudden, absurd giggle bubbled up in your throat.

Hotch turned toward you, brow furrowed. “What?”

You bit your lip, grinning. “Nothing. It’s just—” You gestured vaguely at him. “Seeing you like this—in actual pajamas—? It’s adorable. I’m sorry, I can’t unsee it.”

He stared for a beat, expression unreadable. You swallowed hard, worried you might’ve crossed a line.

But then—then—he smiled. That small, rare curve of his lips that made you feel like the only person in the world.

“Oh?” he murmured, turning fully toward you. “You think I’m cute?”

“Don’t twist my words,” you warned, still smiling. “You’re intimidating as hell at work.”

“But not now?”

You looked at him—really looked—and swallowed hard. “No. Now you’re…”

Your voice faltered.

Hotch’s hand lifted slowly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“Safe,” you whispered. “You feel safe.”

His fingers didn’t move from your face. “I want you to feel safe,” he said softly. “Always.”

You exhaled shakily. “Even now?”

“Especially now.”

He curled it around your waist and slowly, slowly pulled you into him.

His body was so warm—heat radiating off him like a furnace—and you exhaled the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His chest was solid, his hold careful. Too careful. Like he didn’t trust himself.

You nestled into him, your nose at his shoulder, cheek resting against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. You smiled against him.

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“I’m not,” he said immediately.

“You are, Hotch,” you laughed. “Your arm feels like it’s trying to protect the nuclear codes.”

His chest rumbled faintly in amusement. “I’m trying to be respectful.”

You smiled wider. “You’re letting me cuddle you. That’s pretty respectful.”

He didn’t argue that.

You tilted your head up slightly, looking toward the sharp line of his jaw in the dark.

“I’m not gonna combust if you relax.”

He didn’t say anything, but the arm around your waist loosened just a little. He exhaled—and the tension in his chest eased. Just enough to make you feel it. You took your chance.

You reached up slowly and ran your fingers through his hair.

At first, he flinched—just a twitch, barely noticeable. But then he stilled, letting you continue.

Your hand moved lower, smoothing down over his chest, then his shoulder, until it found one of his hands resting on his stomach.

His huge hand.

You picked it up gently, letting his fingers relax in your grip.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low.

You cradled his palm and gently cracked one of his knuckles.

He winced. “That hurts.”

You looked up, mock-pouting. “You’re supposed to say thank you.”

He chuckled. “For joint pain?”

“For your nerves. You’re all… balled up like a stress knot.” You moved to his other hand, gently stretching each finger. “And this one? This one’s the button-pushing hand. I bet it’s tired from dealing with assholes all day.”

He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

You tilted your head and reached up to brush your fingers through his hair—soft, thicker than it looked at work, with the faintest wave. He looked down at you, stilling completely under your touch.

“You’re really bad at relaxing,” you whispered.

“And you’re really good at tempting me,” he said softly.

You leaned in again, closer this time, your legs brushing. His arm came around you slowly, tentatively, drawing you toward his chest until your head rested just below his collarbone.

You exhaled shakily. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and quiet. “Just… not used to this.”

You tilted your head to look at him. His expression was unreadable in the low light, but his jaw was tight.

“Your hands,” you said quietly, lifting one of them between your palms. “They're so big.”

His brows lifted slightly. “That a problem?”

“No,” you said, voice dipping. “It’s hot.”

He huffed a soft laugh, but his thumb rubbed lightly across your side. You turned his palm over and started gently cracking his knuckles again. One by one. Each pop was soft, and you smiled as you moved to the next.

But when you got to his index finger and pressed just enough—

“Mm—hey,” he winced, pulling his hand back slightly. “That actually hurts.”

You blinked. “Seriously? You wrestle unsubs to the ground, but you can’t handle me cracking your knuckles?”

“I don’t wrestle people who sneak up and break my fingers.”

You laughed again, more relaxed now, and leaned in close enough that your nose brushed his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you said with a smirk. “You’re so delicate, Hotch.”

He turned to look at you, and this time, he was smiling. Really smiling. Barely-there dimple, soft eyes, warmth radiating from him.

“You think I’m delicate?”

“I think you’re secretly a marshmallow,” you whispered, inching even closer. “All this serious FBI Alpha Male stuff is just an act.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, gaze dark and quiet and far too intense for the softness of the moment.

You swallowed. Suddenly very aware of how close you were. Of his hand on your waist. Of the warmth between you. Of the ridiculous oversize shirt that was definitely not a barrier. Not now.

“Is that what you really think?” he asked, voice so low it made your skin prickle.

You tilted your chin up slightly, your lips dangerously close to the line of his jaw. “Maybe.” Your hands in his hair, soft and uncertain, pulling him in closer. Your lips brushed again, then again—until it turned into something real. Something deep and needy and so full of everything you hadn’t said.

Hotch shifted, rolling you gently onto your back, his body hovering over yours, held up on one arm.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured against your cheek.

“I’m nervous,” you admitted, voice cracking just slightly. He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, gaze dark and quiet and far too intense for the softness of the moment.

Your heart stuttered. Your legs shifted, thighs tightening as you accidentally ground your hips slightly against his under the covers.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, grip tightening.

You surged up into him, kissing him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he slid a thigh between yours. His weight was comforting, grounding—and yet, your whole body felt like it was floating.

He pulled back slightly, lips brushing yours. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I won’t,” you whispered. “Not with you.”

Hotch’s mouth found your neck—slow and reverent, dragging warmth down your throat as he settled between your legs. His hands roamed cautiously under the hem of your borrowed shirt, palms warm and rough on your bare skin.

You moaned softly as his thigh slid between yours, pressing.

“You have no idea what it did to me,” he whispered into your skin, “hearing him talk about you like that.”

“I hated it,” you breathed. “I wanted to claw his face off.”

Hotch laughed. “That’s my girl.”

The words hit you straight in the core—made you shiver.

His hands moved beneath the shirt he’d given you, sliding along your bare thighs, up to your hips. When he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath, his breath hitched.

“Jesus,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to look down at you. “You’re not wearing—?”

You flushed. “Didn’t feel like it.”

In one fluid motion, he sat up, his arms wrapping around you, mouth claiming yours again—hotter, hungrier now. You let him take the lead, let him slide your shirt up over your head and toss it somewhere off the bed. The way he looked at you then—like reverence, like worship—made heat pool between your legs.

“You’re beautiful,” he rasped, fingertips ghosting down your spine. “So fucking beautiful.”

You gasped when he leaned forward, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, tongue flicking over it before he sucked—slow, teasing, patient. One hand moved between your legs, fingers brushing you just enough to feel the slickness there.

He tugged his waistband down just enough to free himself, and you gasped at the sight of him—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

You reached down and gripped him, guiding his head to your entrance. The first brush made both of you groan.

The second his tip slid through your slick. “Fuck, sweetheart—look at you.” Hands tightening around your hips.

You lowered yourself slowly, inch by inch, your thighs trembling at the stretch.

“That’s it,” Hotch growled. “Take your time. I’ve got you.”

Once he was fully inside, you sat still for a second, breathing shallowly.

He brushed your cheek again. “Look at me.”

You did—and that’s when it changed. Because there wasn’t just lust in his eyes. There was something far deeper. Something that told you this wasn’t just sex for him.

You whimpered and leaned forward, hands braced on his chest, and the shift in angle made stars flash behind your eyes. He pushed up into you now, shallow, controlled thrusts that made your clit drag just right with every motion.

Your thighs trembled as you moved, your breaths turning into gasps. He sat up slightly, arms wrapping around your back, and you clung to him as you moved together.

“I’ve never…” you breathed against his neck. “I’ve never felt like this with anyone.”

He stilled inside you, holding you tight. “That’s because they didn’t deserve you.”

You clutched at his shirt. “But you do?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark and reverent.

“I’m going to earn you,” he said. “Every day.”

Your heart cracked open. You kissed him with everything you had, hips rolling down onto him again, chasing that high, and he let you ride it out, guiding you with soft praise and firm hands and that warmth—God, that unshakable, grounding warmth.

And when you came, it was with his arms wrapped tight around you, his voice in your ear, whispering that you were safe.

That you were his.

a/n: raw.

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[persephonewritessometimes]

Stay Quiet | Matt Murdock x f!Reader

masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x female Reader

Summary: Matt fucks you in the office. That's it. That's the post.

Warnings: SMUT, this is pure filth, porn without plot, slight exhibitionism, choking, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), multiple orgasms, breeding kink, office sex, poor Foggy is scarred for life

Word Count: 1.5k

a/n: I'm on my horny shit again. Sorry, not sorry.

18+ MINORS DNI

“Would you stay quiet?”

But it’s hard with the way he is splitting you open with his cock, pounding into you relentlessly. The table underneath where your cheek is pressed into it is shaking with each of his rigorous thrusts. He’s so deep inside your cunt, you can feel him bulging your lower stomach. It’s all entirely too much.

To think you only wanted to have lunch with your boyfriend and decided this morning to forego the panties under your sundress makes you wonder how you ended up bent over his desk with him plunging his cock deep inside of you. But it’s no wonder, the way you’ve been teasing him without the extra piece of clothing protecting your cunt, the soft air hitting it every so often, he could smell you from miles away. 

He’s grabbing at your abused ass cheeks, red and imprinted with his hand, just the way he likes it, the way he likes you, so submissive and at his mercy. You’re releasing strangled moans and cries of pleasure, which would certainly catch the attention of his colleagues if they decided to return early. And the table creaks with every slap to your behind as he picks up his thrusts, determined to make you come before he does.

“If you make one more sound,” he rasps, “I’m stuffing your mouth.”

You clench around him. God, his voice sounds amazing. His cock brushed your g-spot. It’s phenomenal, the way he’s using you. 

“Matthew,” you moan his name and while he told you to stay quiet, he can’t help but clench his teeth at the soft, ruined tune of your voice singing in his ears. 

“Fuck, baby, don’t say my name like that. You know what it does to me.”

The next sound you make borders on a scream when he slips a hand between your legs to rub your clit with such vigor, your legs start to shake from the sheer overstimulation. 

Matt hauls your head back by the hair, straightening your back as he rubs your clit with one hand and the other goes to clasp over your mouth. The rough surface of his palm scratches at your swollen lips. With his hand there, you can make every sound you want, the echo wouldn’t travel. 

“I said, stay quiet!” he growls. “What part of that didn’t you understand? Do you want the whole city to know what a dirty little slut you are?”

“Fuck,” you’re crying at this point, desperate for the orgasm that is resting just above your cunt. Your clit pulsates and it’s so damn sensitive, you moan again. His words mixed with the touch of his hand make the feeling of his cock against your g-spot so much more intense. 

“Is that what you want, huh? To get caught with my dick in your pussy? Coming in here without your underwear… God, I could smell you were fucking thinking about me. You’re such a whore for me, aren’t you?”

You whimper. “Only for you, Matthew.”

“Good. Now do me a favor and come. Give it to me, c’mon. Fucking come.”

You don’t have to be told twice. Your cunt spasms, your legs close and he hits you at just the right angle to the point you’re screaming into his hand. 

He holds you, giving two more hard thrusts before he’s coming inside of you, his cum painting the walls of your cunt white and trickling down your thighs. With every thrust, he fucks his cum deeper inside of you. You’re dripping, drowning in pleasure, and he keeps rubbing your clit to the point it’s hurting, but it hurts so good and you’re right there again, right there on the edge with his cum inside of you and his hand on your neck, you really can’t help it. You clench around his overly sensitive cock, the orgasm so fucking near, again and more intense, and as he rides out his orgasm, he holds you tightly to his chest. 

“You gonna come again?” he asks.

You can only nod. 

“Do it then, baby. Come for me.”

Your moan comes strangled through the hand choking you into oblivion, cutting off your air supply, and the fog in your mind is all you need to burst around him. The band snap, the bomb explodes and your legs give out. The walls of your pussy suck in what’s left of his cum, clenching repeatedly as your clit jumps with every touch of his fingers. 

You’re clawing at his arms now, scratching the skin. You’re still coming and it’s so fucking intense, you’re sure you’ve never come this hard before. He has you shaking and the prospect of being caught has you crying even louder, harder, and so much better than anything you’ve had before. 

You try to move away from his hand. He only pulls you back harder. “I want you to give me another one,” he tells you. “One more, sweetie. One more.”

“I can’t,” you say. You physically can’t. It hurts.

He’s so thick, still hard and twitching inside of you. The hand cupping your pussy feels like fire. 

But when he tells you to come, you have to. Your body is trained to listen to his every command, even if it hurts. You have a safeword for a reason. Though it hurts, he feels so fucking good, and you can’t help but let it happen. The release of oxytocin is heavy, clouding your senses. Your eyes gloss over, your jaw slacking, and all that comes out is a gurgle as your eyes cross and you feel the wave crashing into the shore before it happens. 

“You can and you will,” his voice is stern yet gentle at the same time. “Just one more. I know you can take it.”

He’s right, you can. With a particularly hard slap against your cunt, you come again, harder than before. It’s hard, it’s messy, and you’re sure you’ve soaked his dress pants from how wet you are. He doesn’t care though, he keeps rubbing your clit through the orgasm, only pulling away when you physically can’t take it anymore. 

You catch yourself on the edge of his desk. Matt pulls out slowly, making sure not to hurt you further. You’re sore, but it’s worth it. His cum is still inside of you, and you want to keep it that way. 

“That’s it, good girl,” he purrs. “Did so well for me.” 

Your knees buckle. He only so catches you before you can drop to the ground. Lifting you up on the desk, he hugs you to his chest, letting you come down from your high. You're clinging to him for dear life, panting, possibly even sobbing. You don’t even know anymore what’s sweat and what’s cum. It’s all a blur, as is he. 

“I’m so proud of you.”

You sniffle. 

“Are you okay?” He cradles your head in his hands. 

As you pull away, you only blink at his hazy eyes. “Kiss me,” you tell him. 

He does, gently tilting your chin up so he can press his lips to yours. It’s sloppy, but exactly what you need. Your breathing slows and your cunt stops clenching, though your legs remain a shaky mess. 

Matt takes a tissue from the holder on his desk, gently rubbing at the cum on your thigh. He gets it off easily, still wet and running. You hiss when he reaches your abused core, wiping all that’s left away. Half of him is still inside of you, but God do you love it! You want to be stuffed to the brim for all eternity, carry him around, have him smell you, marked you, fucked you into oblivion, and it almost has you coming again just from the thought of being filled. 

You lean your forehead against his. “So,” a smirk grows on your face, “I’m wearing panties the next time I come for lunch, am I?” 

He shakes his head. “Not a fucking chance. Keep them at home.”

You can only laugh. “Duly noted.”

The door busts open before any of you can react. 

“Hey, Matt, have you seen my-” Foggy stops dead in his tracks when he sees the both of you tangled together, Matt’s hair a mess of brown curls and yours… well, you look like you’ve just been thoroughly fucked, and there is no denying it. “Oh, my God!” He covers his eyes with one hand, the other searching for the door knob. “I didn’t see anything!” he says. “Nope, nope, nope! Seven fucks to the no! I’m out. You keep- yeah, just…”

The door falls shut again.

Matt’s sightless eyes find your face but not your eyes. 

You bite your lip. This is not the first time Foggy has caught you and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“Maybe next time we’ll lock the door,” he murmurs. 

“Yeah,” you say, “That man is traumatized for life.”

He shrugs. “Eh, he’s seen us do worse. And he will see us do much worse again and again and again and…”

You squeal when he lifts you into his lap on the office chair. “Matthew!”

“Shh, let me just take care of my good girl.”

“Fuck.”

Please do.

[persephonewritessometimes]

Customer Service | Matt Murdock

Pairing: Matt Murdock x afab!reader

Summary: After a particularly rough week, all you want to do is cry. It has you on edge and makes you say things you don’t mean. After letting out your anger on your boyfriend, he makes it his mission to take care of you for a change.

Warnings: SMUT, 18+ MINORS DNI, oral (f receiving), Matt Murdock eats pussy like a champ, fingering, squirting (I feel filthy), emotional hurt/comfort, no use of y/n, no pronouns, reader has female body parts, 1st person pov (?)

a/n: As someone who quit their job in customer service for the exact same reasons I have stated in this fic, this is very personal to me and self-indulgent, again. I wrote this after a particularly bad day. Sometimes I wish Matt were real so he could actually do this to me.

There is nothing in all of existence that I loathe more than people. Why I chose to work in customer service in the first place has become more and more of a mystery to me. I could have quit after the first week, I should have, but whenever the thought crosses my mind, I tell myself: ‘It’s going to get better. You will get used to it.’ I did not, in fact, get used to it. Or, I did, I just started to hate myself even more. Every day I get home from an eight-hour shift, I’m tired, I’m exhausted and I feel the desperate need to throw myself off a cliff. 

There are days when it’s easier. The elderly couple who comes in every Sunday, for example, to drink their coffee and have a lengthy conversation over a piece of cake, never fails to make me smile. They’re always kind, and forthcoming and they tip, even though I know they don’t have the money to.

Or the woman who likes to pick up lunch for her husband, she always calls me sweetheart, and she’s never bothered if her order takes just a little too long. The regulars chat me up and I like it because it makes me feel less alone behind the counter, as life passes me by and I can’t help to stare at the clock every five minutes to calculate how many hours of the day are left. They make it easier to forget about the overtime I inevitably have to put in every night. They know I don’t eat enough or smile enough or drink enough, and so they make me smile because they’re good people. 

But some continuously want to tell me how to do my job, the one I’ve given blood and sweat for to master down to the smallest detail, and those who treat me like I’m responsible for their bad days and those who don’t care that I’m human, I just have to serve.

It’s so exhausting that some people don’t care about the workers behind the counter. I hate that my boss doesn’t seem to care either, that we don’t get paid enough, and that I’m expected to jump whenever they want me to. I got a life too, but that doesn’t matter because I’m cheap and they love to use those who never learned how to say no.

I physically can’t tell them I can’t work whenever I’m asked to pick up an extra shift, or when I’m sick or have to do anything else. It’s not even my main occupation and yet, here I am! Every day, I tell myself, I should just quit. It’s not my responsibility if they can’t treat their employees right. It’s not my responsibility they’re understaffed. I’m a student, I go to college, and I’m working hard on my degree - why should I prioritize my job over the thing that will determine the rest of my life? 

And yet, every day, I go back. I go back and I work until my feet hurt and I’m sick and I’m tired and all I want to do is just cry. I go back because I, for the life of me, can’t say no. I can’t quit. I want to, but I can’t, and it’s killing me inside that I can’t talk about it the way I want to. In the end, I will always feel like everything is my fault and that I messed up, even though all I did was show up to work and turn into everyone’s punching bag. 

My stupidity is what got me here. Usually, I would be home now, studying, but they asked me to pick up a late shift at the cafè again, and I worked for seven hours with only a fifteen-minute break in between - I look horrible, I smell of coffee and cake, and my body is hurting in all the wrong places. The weight is heavy in my stomach. I’m nauseous. I ate, but not enough. I’m hungry. I feel sick. Even the smallest sounds make me want to jump up the wall, kill someone, or perhaps even both. I’m angry, and I don’t even fucking know why because nothing happened. Other than a rather messy day with too much to do and too few people to do the work, the people weren’t even rude and I’ve had worse days - still, I feel everything at once and it’s ridiculous, really, because I’m an adult and I should know better than to let a rough day affect me. I don’t. 

When he called and asked if I wanted to come over, I said yes. I didn’t want to, but saying no? Not something I would do, especially not to him. I walked into his apartment with a lump already in my stomach. The door creaked - God, I told him to oil it - and that was the first strike. I tossed my key into the bowl and it promptly fell back out. Second strike. My coat slipped from the hanger the second I hung it up. Third strike. I breathed, I had to, then went to the kitchen to make some dinner. Cooking usually works, usually, but the day must have gotten to me because the fourth strike - the fucking milk being expired - happened way too soon and it hit me, hard. After that, I was pretty much done for, and I knew, I just chose to ignore it. 

Of course, I should have known I would screw up everything else, too.

“Hey, sweetheart,” his voice is kind and soft in my ear as he presses a kiss to my cheek. His stubble has never been something to bother me before until that very moment. I flinch away, not sure why. If he realized it - which I’m sure he did - he doesn’t show. 

“Smells good,” he says. 

I put the garlic into the pan. It smells too much like garlic and I hate it. 

“What you making?”

“Pasta,” I tell him. 

He kisses me again. “Mh-hm. How was your day?” the question is stupid, but it’s normal and he always asks. He gets himself a beer - only himself - removes the cap with his mouth and then leans against the counter. 

He shouldn’t infuriate me. He shouldn’t make me angry just by standing there and asking me questions couples ask themselves, but inevitably, he does. And I hate myself all the more for the way my voice sounds when I answer him. 

“Fine,” I say. 

“Fine?” he asks. “How was work?” I feel like he’s getting suspicious. “You only had two lectures today, right? English lit and what was the other one?”

“Linguistics.”

“Ah, yes. Your least favorite.”

Perhaps that’s why I’m angry. 

“You know,” he says and the tangent he goes on after revolves around him and only him, and while I don’t like talking about myself, that doesn’t mean he has to unload all of his stress on me - I don’t know why I think that way and it’s scaring me because I don’t actually feel that way, but at that moment I do and it’s all very confusing.

I just want to lock myself in his bedroom and cry. He looks so good with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up. He’s wearing his glasses, still, but his tie is loosened and he smiles because he knows I love that smile. I should love it. I should love the way his muscles tense underneath his shirt or the way his dress pants hang impossibly low on his hips, but for the first time, I don’t. I don’t love anything, I just feel anger, which makes me hate everything, but mostly myself. 

I must have zoned out. Suddenly, he’s calling my name and he’s calling me sweetheart and he’s poking me with his hands - no, he’s stroking my hips, hugging me from behind, and it’s all too much. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I lie. He knows I’m lying. He can hear it in my heartbeat. He can feel it in the way I move away from him to rinse the now-empty pan in the sink. 

How is the food already finished?

“You didn’t listen to a word I just said,” he dares to sound offended. 

“No, I did.”

“Really, what did I say?”

“You and Foggy had a case, didn’t go well, bla bla bla. Same as every day.”

He sets the bottle down. “Alright, sweetheart, what’s wrong? I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Oh, so just because I don’t care about hearing the same story repeat itself every day and you whining about it means there’s something wrong with me?”

He’s taken aback. Quite frankly, I’ve never snapped at him before, not like this, not out of nowhere, and we’ve been dating for over a year. With his super senses, there is little that eludes the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, especially when it comes to his girlfriend. I hate that it’s like this. I hate not having any privacy, even when I try to. But I don’t want to be alone, I don’t want privacy. Or, I think. I don’t even know what I want. I know I want to be around him, but at the same time, it hurts because the anger is too damn hot to swallow, and his concern doesn’t make it any better. It should be, but it’s not. I’m a lost cause. 

“I was just telling you about my day,” he says. I would yell back at myself if I were him, but he knows me. He knows yelling doesn’t help. He knows I’d cry, but maybe that’s what I want. Maybe I want him to yell just so I have a valid reason to cry, to be angry. 

I want him to hate me the way I hate myself. 

That’s why I can’t help it anymore. “Maybe I don’t want to hear about your day.”

“What?”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Matthew!”

He’s confused. I don’t blame him. The second the words left my mouth, I regret them. They make me sound like the most selfish person on the whole planet. I can’t take them back though. If I did, he’d know something is wrong and then he’d worry, he’d pity me and no, I don’t want that. I want to rile him up. I’m not sure why, but it makes me so angry that he’s so calm and I’m… well, I’m me, but I’m also not me. I’m a stranger in my own body. 

I put the pasta in a bowl. It stinks of alcohol and tomatoes and garlic, too much of it. I wonder how anyone could eat that. 

“Here,” I shove it into his hand, “You’ve been served. I’m gonna take a shower.”

I’m a bad person. I’m pretty sure I am. Who yells at their boyfriend because they can’t deal with their own problems? Who makes the person they love more than life itself feel like shit on purpose for no reason whatsoever? A sane person wouldn’t. We have never been a normal couple, Matthew and I, but we’re trying. Turns out, I suck much more than I thought I would.

It’s not the age gap, I’m sure of it. I’m in my last year as an English Major and he’s a defense attorney. Somehow, we make it work. He loves me, I know he does. He’s afraid of rejection - he thinks everyone he loves will leave him, which is why it took us a while to find together. I should have known my words were going to hurt him unimaginably. He thinks he did something wrong, but it’s not him. It’s never him. He’s damaged, but he’s nothing if not perfect to me, most of the time. 

I’m heavily crying at this point, trying to conceal my sobs, but it’s not working. The water is loud, not loud enough to fool Matt’s hearing, but even if he were to hear it, he knows better than to provoke me any further. He doesn’t know what’s going on and neither do I, so it’s just the two of us silently waiting for the other to come around. He shouldn’t have to feel that way. And so I cry more because God, I do not deserve that man. I don’t deserve his kindness or his love. I don’t. I really, really don’t. 

And once I’m out of the bathroom, I remember why I don’t deserve him. 

The table is set for two. Candles substitute for the harsh ceiling light. He knows it gives me headaches sometimes. He put a bowl out for me and a glass of wine. White wine. The sweet kind. The kind he hates but keeps around in case I ever need a glass. He’s drinking red wine. It’s cheap, but it looks expensive and he likes to feel special from time to time. 

I hug my arms around my body. He has his back turned to me, fixing a salad in the kitchen - I must have forgotten it. The way he moves is almost angelic. He moves as if nothing happened, as if I didn’t just treat him like a bitch. He’s singing my favorite song or humming it, anyway. The room smells of him and me and the food I loathed before, but watching him do all of this for me, even now, is sucking the air out of my lungs and suddenly, I don’t mind the thought of eating with him.

I only want one thing. I don’t want to ask for it and he’s not going to do anything unless I talk. We agreed on that from the beginning, no matter what kind of intimacy it involves. Without consent or a proper conversation, nothing will happen. And I curse myself for not being able to speak without the tears blocking my view again. 

“There’s a sweater on the couch,” he states. He knows I’m cold. “And some fuzzy socks, if you want.”

The clothes smell like him. 

“I put some more salt in the pasta. I think you forgot to salt the water, so I took it upon myself. I hope you don’t mind. Also, I tried to make your favorite salad dressing, but I’m not sure if I managed to get it right this time.”

He smiles and then his glasses are gone and he has an apron on and he looks like he loves me, really loves me, and that’s it. I pull my legs up to my chest, falling deep into the couch and I cry. All the pain just comes exploding out of me like an active volcano. 

The leather dents next to me. “Comfort or solution?” he asks. It’s so casual, I get the feeling he’s not mad at me. 

“I don’t know,” it sounds so broken.

His arm finds around my shoulder. “Is this okay?” I can only nod. Yes.

He moves me gently so I’m in his lap and he can rock me like a baby. It feels good to be loved like this, but it’s also suffocating. Still, I can’t help but fall deeper into his hold because this is, in fact, all I needed. Too stubborn to ask for it, I almost ruined something good. I know I did. He knows, too, but unlike me, he knows the difference between me being mad at him and being mad at the world. He knows I don’t mean what I say unless we’re fighting, and this isn’t it. We’re not fighting. I’m just angry and I want to cry, even while crying, and that makes me cry even more. 

“You want to talk about it?” he asks once I can finally breathe again. 

I blow my nose like a disgusting person and say, “Yes. No. I don’t know. Maybe.” And that about sums up all of my life. 

“Is it school?”

I shake my head. If it’s not school, it can only be one other thing. 

“Work?”

I nod. 

“Anything happen or just a bad day?”

“Bad day.”

“That’s why you yelled at me? I didn’t do anything wrong?”

“No,” I say truthfully for the first time. “I’m just angry. I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Maybe next time try telling me though. I was actually scared I did something until I heard you cry in the shower.”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me and I tell him that, to which he only chuckles. 

“You know how many times I acted hostile towards you after a long day?” he says. “It happens. It’s okay.”

“I just… I’m so stressed all the time. I hate work and I hate people and I hate not getting paid enough or on time, but I can’t quit because you know, I’m me and they know that, so they take advantage of my inability to say no, and it sucks because I’m so tired of working more than I go to school, but I need the money, and so I can’t leave until I’ve found another job, but no one else wants me, so now I’m here, trying to see the good in this stupid job, but I don’t. I can’t. I hate it. I hate everything and everyone and I hate myself and I think I’ll get my period soon because this should not be upsetting me this much.”

His hand on my back manages to soothe me. 

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.

He smiles down at me, all loopy, and his sightless eyes are focused somewhere on my forehead, which makes everything so much better. 

“I love you.”

And yes, I love him too. I love him so fucking much, it hurts. 

“I love you too, Matty.”

As soon as I say his name, he knows what I want. He knows I need to destress. He knows I can’t eat until I can forget. 

“Is there something I can do?” he asks, but damn him, he already knows. 

“Can you…” no, I can’t ask him for that.

“Yes?”

“Matt, can…” No. “You know what, never mind.”

“No, sweetheart. Tell me. What do you need?”

“I just…” my chest heaves a frustrated groan. “IneedyoutoeatmeoutuntilIcantremembermyname.”

He enjoys it. He gets off on it, my desperation. “Sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t think I did. Can you repeat that?”

“God.” My face is burning. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just, this is the first time you actually asked me and I love hearing you ask for the things you want. It’s sexy.” 

Somehow, that’s even worse. My thighs clench like I’m some pathetic little schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher. 

“You know, maybe you can ask for a raise tomorrow, or quit altogether,” he says. “But for that to work, you have to tell me what you want right now.”

“I asked you to eat me out until I can’t remember my fucking name!”

“Thank you. Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

If there is one thing Matt Murdock is incredibly skilled with, it’s his mouth. And I don’t just mean the words that come out. Essentially, it’s all in his tongue. He’s managed to render me speechless on more than one occasion, and he knows. He knows I love when he touches me, but there are times when it has to be about me, and only me, and he’d gladly suffocate between my thighs. He’s told me that time and time again.

He keeps telling me to ask him if I want something. I never do. I hate asking for it because it’s embarrassing. It’s good that he knows what he’s doing, that bastard because if he didn’t, I wouldn’t be cumming and I wouldn’t tell him. Somehow he always gets the job done, no matter how stressed I am. 

That’s why I need it so badly. I need him to take care of me, no matter how long it takes. I know it might take a while because I’m tense and he knows too. He reads my body like an open book. That’s how he knows I’m horny before I even do. 

He doesn’t move for another minute. He just stares at me. “You want me to take care of you?” he asks.

“Please,” I beg. 

“Guess I’ll have dessert before dinner today then.”

He lifts my head and then he’s suddenly on top of me. He’s sliding me up the couch so he can fit in between my legs. I’m dressed in shorts, a t-shirt, and his sweater and for a second I wonder if it’s even worth it. I’m ovulating, I’m bloated. I feel like shit. My hormones are all messed up. I can feel the weight of my boobs tear on my back and I’m pretty sure the hairs on my legs prickle his cheek as he kisses them. It’s making me want to take back everything I asked of him. 

My confidence has taken a low blow this past week. 

Though Matt doesn’t care, he never does. He digs his nose between my thighs and takes the longest whiff I’ve seen him take in a while. To be fair, the last time we saw each other, he was busy with work. We didn’t have time for intimacy, which hardly ever happens. He moans. 

Smug bastard.

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells me. It melts my heart. The compliment means so much more knowing he can’t physically see me. To him, I’m beautiful. He couldn’t care less about what I looked like. Although sometimes I wonder what picture he has made up of me in his mind. 

His lips are on mine fast. I can’t help but sigh. They’re so soft. He doesn’t rush, he just kisses me and then kisses me some more. I tangle my hands in his hair. I’m sure, this is what heaven must be like.

“Let’s take this off.” His sweater joins my shorts on the floor. “May I?” He hooks his fingers underneath the waistband of my panties. “Or do you want me to keep them on?”

I have no doubt he could do it with five layers in between and still make me cum.

“Off,” I say. I want this. I have to remind myself that my insecurities mean nothing – he loves me. He wants to do this for me. He wants to do this because he likes it, or else he would say it. 

Matt is vocal, but I’m not. If he doesn’t want to do something, he’ll say. Can’t say the same about me, which is why he asks repeatedly, even after I already told him it’s okay. He wants to make sure I’m on board, that I don’t feel pressured and can pull out any time I want, but I don’t, because the second the cold air hits my bare cunt, all I want is him. 

I can feel his eyes searching for me. “Hey,” he says my name. “We’re not playing this time, okay? You can cum when you need to and how many times you want to. You just have to lay back and relax. I’ll take care of you.” 

He intertwines our fingers on either side of my spread thighs before he dives into me. It’s slow and steady. He doesn’t care about fucking me with his tongue like he usually does. He licks and bites, but mostly, his tongue and lips stay around my clit and they suck. They suck so good, I see stars behind my eyes. His touch sends shocks down my spine. My sensitive walls clench around thin air, but his head is so far between my thighs, I still manage to feel full. 

But no matter how hard I try, I can’t focus. It feels so good, way too good, and on any other day, I would’ve come by now. His beard burns into the inside of my thigh as I rock against him. I try to, but it’s exhausting. I can feel the coil in my lower belly clear as day, and yet it’s too far out of reach. I need it, I crave it. 

I can hear myself saying, “This could take a while.” And he laughs because he finds it funny. It’s not funny though, it’s serious. I hate the fact that he makes me feel so good and I can’t find it in myself to enjoy. 

“Close your eyes,” his breath fans hot against my folds. “And just stop thinking.” 

He makes it his mission to ruin me. I close my eyes and as soon as I do, he’s on me. It’s not just his mouth. One of our joined hands reaches up to touch my breast – he twists my nipple through the shirt until it’s hard and has his attention. The other reaches behind me and lifts my hips. The next thing I know, he has me propped up on a pillow. The muscles in my lower back relax. I sigh. It’s so good. 

He’s given up on slow and steady. His head moves in circles as he abuses – I don’t have another word for it – my clit and eats the rest of me like a man starved. I realize I need it fast and I need it hard. He knows it before I do. His tongue expertly parts my wet folds, a mix of arousal and spit trickling down my thighs, but I could care less. He’s inside of me and then his thumb is there and it’s rubbing and rubbing and rubbing and I’m so fucking close, the knot in my stomach feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and it’s applying sweet, sweet pressure on cunt. 

“Fuck!” I throw my head back into the leather. My back arches impossibly high, and his head squished tightly between my thighs. I need him closer. His hair is so soft, it makes me want to cry, and I do. I cry, but not in a sad way. I cry out because yes, God yes! and then I’m cumming, suddenly and without warning, hard, all over his face, and it doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop.

The growl is animalistic. It vibrates perfectly through my pussy and I can’t help it – it barely takes two minutes until his lips start hurting so good as they keep sucking my clit, a series of ‘one more’ leaves his lips in a plea, and I’m rocking against him hard. I’m begging him, “Matt,” but I’m not sure what for. 

“C’mon,” he says, “you can give me one more.”

He’s right. God, I hate when he’s right. My toes curl and I push his face so deep into me, I’m convinced he’s running out of air, but that’s what makes him moan and it sends me over the edge.

I’m pretty sure I passed out. The pleasure is so intense, my stomach feels like it’s being torn apart and then put back together. The world is dark and for the first time today, quiet. 

Something nudges my cheek softly. It’s his hand. Matt kisses me and I can taste myself on his lips. “Hey,” he coaxes me back into lucidity. “There you are. Are you okay?”

I nod.

“You need anything?”

It’s a reflex, reaching for him. He gasps slightly when my hand touches between his thighs, expecting to find a visible bulge, but there is none. I’m not sure if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but there is a visible wet spot where his dick is supposed to be. 

“Did you-“ I finally open my eyes. He looks so drunk in the candlelight. I realize then that he is drunk on me. 

He buries his head in my neck. “You’re not the only one who’s been worked up all week,” he says. 

“You just- oh, my God.” I never thought it possible that it could be enough for him. “Thank you.” 

“No, thank you. You’re always so good to me. Good girl. But I think-“ his finger steals my breath as it circles my entrance and promptly slips it inside of me. “You can cum for me again.” 

I arch into him. My chest brushes against his. Our shirts suddenly feel like too much clothing and I’m desperate, so I tear at the buttons until they come apart. He has his arm back underneath me, holding me flush against him as if he’s afraid I might slip away. 

A wanton moan escapes me. “That’s it,” and his praise is even better. “Think you can take another one?”

He adds a second finger. It burns but only because even after a year, I’m still struggling to take any part of him. His fingers are thick and they’re rough and they’re scratching my inside walls just right. They massage the flesh. He’s pumping his fingers in and out and in and out, and he adds his thumb back on my clit because he knows I won’t be able to cum without it.

All of the stress falls off my shoulders. I feel him everywhere, his kisses, his touch, his hard nipples against mine. He’s hard again, poking against my thigh. I reach for him and he whines, he whines into my mouth. I’m not sure which one of us will come first. I suppose it’s me, it’s always me. He makes sure it will be me.

He hits as deep as he possibly could. His fingers curl inside of me and then, “There it is!” Is so victorious, it makes my eyes roll back. He keeps hitting that particular spot over and over again. My hand clutches his shoulder. I want to scream, but all that comes out is a series of whined and pathetic moans. I can’t help it, my muscles contract around him. 

“Damn, you’re gonna break my fingers,” he says. His chuckle is breathless. “You close?”

I hum.

“Do me a favor,” and I expect him to tell me anything but what he requests, “Don’t cum.” 

It’s rude. It’s cruel and it’s vile and I want to murder him because just as he says it, the coil tightens impossibly tight and I need to let go. It’s painful to hold it in, especially now. But I do as he tells me nonetheless. I want to please him. 

“Matt,” I moan. He’s so unfair and he knows it.

He smirks. “Just hold on a little longer.”

“I can’t!”

“Yes, you can. I know you can.”

“St- oh, fuck!” He hits my sweet spot with twice the intensity. I almost cum, but only almost. I keep it together, no matter how much it hurts, and it’s making tears prick at my eyes. “Please, just let me cum,” I hate begging him. “Please, Matty.”

“Shhh. We’re almost there.”

His thumb speeds up. I can see heaven. God is reaching his hand out for me. My stomach is in a tight knot, so tight, the silk might rip any second. The pressure is unreal. My muscles have been trained by him, I admit, but nothing can prepare you for this. Nothing can prepare you for the times when Matt has his mind set on something and he’s going to take it. He’s going to take you. 

I can’t think. It’s too much. I know I’m going to disappoint him. The animal inside of me is beyond satisfied and she wants out. She wants to let go. She loves the feeling of his fingers buried to the hilt inside of her. She loves him, and loving him tends to turn into sweet, sweet torture.

I moan his name again. His cock twitches underneath his dress pants, hot against my fingertips. 

“Almost,” he promises. “I just want to try something.”

What could he possibly want to-

“Cum.”

I’m flying. My back lifts off the couch and if it wasn’t for him, I would be dead by now. My body is shaking. It’s earth-shattering and it’s wet and it’s everywhere. I can feel the orgasm tearing me apart from the inside, blood rushing in my ears. My senses go black. I can’t see, feel or breathe. Everything is too much. It’s burning, it’s heavy, but it’s amazing.

His fingers don’t stop until he has milked the last drop of me until even the last ounce of stress has left my body and I’m limp. I’m a corpse. I’m barely breathing, a wet sack of potatoes in his arms. 

God, the look on his face. He’s cumming too. The wet patch on his pants has doubled. It’s not from me, although I’m suddenly very aware of the fact of what he just made me do.

“Oh.”

“Fuck,” he growls. “That was amazing.”

I never expected to have it in myself. “Oh, Jesus.” My words are highly blasphemous but I don’t care. I’m not even sure how to feel. The blush creeps up my cheeks and I close my legs a little. Everything is so wet. It’s all me and some of him, but mostly me. Just spurts of cum all over his hand and his couch.

He clicks his tongue, shoving my thighs apart. “Don’t go shy on me now,” he says.

“No, it’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing? Sweetheart, I’ve never felt more proud of myself.”

“I just- your couch. Oh, God.”

“I’m pretty sure the couch will survive it. Leather is easier to clean. How do you feel?”

I sigh, snuggling against his chest. “Better,” I have to admit. “Much, much better.”

“Good.” He kisses my neck. “Can I have my fingers back now?”

“No.” I like the feeling of him inside of me, even if it’s just his fingers. It makes me feel complete, almost. 

“Okay.” 

“Just gonna rest my eyes now.”

“You do that, sweetie. I’ll be here.” 

And he is. He always is. I wake up, and he’s there, and he always will be because he promised me this is forever. Us. Me and him. And I realize then that I’ve never been more in love with another person than I am in love with Matt Murdock.

[persephonewritessometimes]

Sub Space | Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Masterlist

Requested by @taliaxxb !

Summary: After a particularly rough session with Matt, you slip into a different headspace.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI, multiple orgasms, rough sex, degradation, subspace, sub drop, overstimulation, aftercare

Word Count: 1.9k

A/n: Thank you so much for your request, my love, and I hope you like this! Since you left me the choice, I chose reader to go into subspace, but I did mention Matt going through it too in the past. Once again, my tag list goes for requested fics now too.

Sex with Matt often varies. There are times he’s gentle, savoring every second and swallowing every single one of your moans with fiery kisses that leave your mind reeling. His thrusts are hard and slow then, always making sure you can feel him everywhere, but he doesn’t push past what both of you need. 

Sometimes, you make love. You hold hands and you get lost in each other’s eyes – as much as that is possible. 

But then there are times he tears your clothes right off and pounds into you like a madman, or he asks you to do the same to him. He takes control because he needs it, or he craves for you to be in control because he can’t keep up with the thoughts in his head anymore; sometimes, he needs an escape, and sometimes, you do, and then there are times that you both desperately need a break and it’s less sensual than it is wild fucking that almost breaks the bed and wakes the neighbors in the middle of the night. 

Your sex life never grows boring, and you value his attention to detail which never leaves you dissatisfied. He makes sure you enjoy yourself, and he does it perfectly. You often ask yourself if he’s real, but then you get to touch him and you’re reminded that he chose you and you chose him and that’s all that matters because you’re more than real to each other. 

Tonight is one of those nights where he’s come home after patrol, his suit cleaner than usual, and that tells you his night has been rather quiet – it frustrates him often, and there is a lot of adrenaline left for him to let out. His body quivers with it. He needs to let go of all of his anger and he needs to do it fast, so you know that falling back asleep is not something you want to do. He needs you in all the ways he can get like an animal in the wild. And you are more than willing to give it to him. His heaving chest and the look in his eyes are enough to get you worked up, to say the least. 

Your hands are tied to each side of the headboard, the fabric of the rope burning against your wrists as you try for the millionth time to move out of them. Matt is pounding into your abused cunt, and his words are like sweet poison in your ear. One second, you are his good girl, and the next you are a “filthy slut who’s only good to have her holes filled.” And he’s dragged four orgasms out of you already, your body and your mind feel like they’re floating in a space far away. 

Your velvety walls hug him so perfectly, but you’re tired and his cock brushes against your G-spot at an agonizing speed. You clench around him, your fifth orgasm of the night not far away. His hand collides with your ass cheek as he tells you to hold it. God, you try, but it’s so hard with the way he’s handling you. His hands are everywhere now, one around your throat while the other is still grabbing at your red ass cheeks, and the coil in your stomach multiplies to the point you can only cry. With every rigorous thrust, your clit bumps against the pillow under your pelvis. The ropes leave their indentations, but no matter how much you beg, he won’t let you go. His weight keeps the rest of you tied down, so now you can’t even move your legs anymore. It’s all so good yet so bad, and it hurts. You can’t hold it anymore, you’re sure you’re going to die soon, but then he pulls at your hair and his voice sounds nothing like the sweet Matt he can be when he growls, “Don’t fucking cum!” It’s a threat. 

You shiver. “Please,” you beg, but your voice betrays you. 

“Aw, listen to yourself. You’re so cockdrunk already. That’s pathetic. Your pussy is mine, do you understand?” He tugs harder at your hair, the pain mingling with the pleasure. “I said, do you understand?”

“Yes!” you cry out. “God, yes! But I can’t–”

“Yes, you can. Be a good girl for me or I won’t let you cum at all.”

At this point, you’re not sure if that wouldn’t be a good thing. 

He keeps pounding into you, and his thrusts grow even harder. You can only lay there and take what he gives you and hope he doesn’t punish you too much if you do happen to disappoint him. 

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” Matt takes a whiff of your skin. You smell like sex, sweat, and despair. 

You nod weakly. 

“Can’t even take my cock like a good little slut?”

You’re not sure when it happens, but at some point, your brain shuts off and you find yourself in a weird middle space where the dream and the reality of the situation blur, and the pleasure overshadows your ability to think with heavy fog. 

You drop, and you can’t find your way back out. 

Minutes start to feel like hours. Your body spasms with the orgasm that ripples through you. It sets your nerve endings on fire. The silk sheets burn against your skin, but you can’t move. Matt’s cum feels sticky as it trickles out of you, his body heavy on yours. You feel suffocated. 

He calls your name, but you can’t answer. 

He’s quick to pull out and untie your wrists, his once so-dark features now riddled with concern. 

You zone out. 

“Sweetheart,” he tries to coax you out of it by rolling you onto your back. “Hey, look at me.”

Your chest deflates. 

“C’mon.”

Wherever your mind is stuck, you can only hear him, but you can’t answer. You’re paralyzed to the point you even forget how to breathe.

He feels the heat radiating off of you and how the oxygen gets stuck in your throat. His hand hovers above your chest. You’re panting. “Baby, breathe,” Matt urges you. 

How do you breathe again?

“Listen to my voice. You’re okay. It’s over. You did so well…”

On any other day, the praise would have gone straight to your head, but right now you’re shaking, quivering and you can’t breathe, and that makes it impossible for his words to take their usual effect.

“In and out,” he says. 

You try to focus on his voice this time.

In and out and in and out. 

The pulse between your legs jumps. Your clit is so sensitive, even the air on it hurts. You clench your legs, your face contorting in an expression of pain. But even the motion itself hurts. It hurts while at the same time, it sends shockwaves of a much higher caliber through your being. 

Eventually, your breathing evens out, his words guiding your lungs back to the point of functionality.

“There you go. Good girl,” he says. He reaches beside himself and grabs the water bottle you often keep there for your nightly thirst.

“Here, drink.” Matt guides it to your lips. “I need you to get some water into your body, sweetheart. Please. You’re dehydrated.”

He’s not wrong. You take a few hesitant sips, your throat thanking you in the process. 

“Can I touch you now?”

You don't know much, but this you know. You shake your head. 

He nods. He understands what it’s like to feel like you’re being tortured by even the softest brush of fingertips. The sex was rough and he went further than you usually do when he’s not fully himself, but you both agreed to this, and you didn’t want to use your safeword because you didn’t need it. This wasn’t his fault, it’s your brain that has slipped into a black hole and blurry oblivion, and that’s all hormonal, you know. 

“I’m gonna get a towel and clean you up now, okay?” he breaks the silence. 

You don’t trust your voice just yet, so you just nod. He reads your body language like an open book. 

As he comes back from the bathroom, he starts wiping you down with a warm towel, making sure not to touch your overly sensitive areas just yet. He’s careful, extremely gentle, and every once in a while he listens to your heartbeat as if to check if you’re still conscious. 

When it comes to treating the burns on your wrists, he uses the aloe you have often used in situations like these and starts applying it to the wounds. The guilt is written all over his face, but you don’t have it in yourself to comfort him. You couldn’t have even if you tried. 

You’re not sure for how long you just lie there, but it must have been a while. Matt finishes cleaning you up, wrapping you in the blanket, before returning to your side. His unfocused eyes are directed at you, and you can tell from the look on his face that he’s watching you in his own unique way.

This has happened before. Once, to be exact. You were trying out a particularly rough kind of breath play and the things he did to you released so much dopamine, you found yourself drained, and you disappeared on him. It’s been a while since then, maybe that’s why he looks so worried. 

He can’t deny that it hasn’t happened to him before either because it has, but with Matt, it is often overstimulation that puts him into sub-space, and it takes a lot more to coax him out of it because every time he slips, his body is on fire.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as he strokes a strand of hair out of your face. 

You finally meet his eyes, and your breathing has returned to normal. You’re tired, and every muscle in your body aches, but you’re aware of your surroundings now. Your thoughts have sorted themselves out. 

“I was too rough tonight.”

“No,” you manage to say. 

“Yes,” Matt shakes his head, “I was.”

“I’m…okay.” It’s not a lie, you just feel… weird. 

His thumb strokes over your cheekbone. “Where did you just go?”

“I don’t know. Just… too much.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I am now.”

He takes your hand in his and you return the sentiment before curling into his side. It’s like you need him to breathe. Your demeanor changes and there is nothing you want more than to be close to him right now. There is a fine line between overstimulation and being needy, and now you just need to be held because it feels weird to be so empty and yet fulfilled at the same time. Your brain is fuzzy. You don’t know a lot, but you know you need him, and he would never hurt you. 

It’s a natural response, and Matt knows that too, deep down. 

He holds you close to him, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. “What do you need?” he asks. 

“Just hold me,” you whisper. “That’s all.”

“Okay…”

“And then a shower.”

“Okay,” he says. 

Your lips part as you get lost in his embrace. “I love you,” you say. 

“I love you too,” and Matt leans down to press another gentle kiss to your sweaty forehead. 

He’s here for you and he always will be, which is exactly why you feel safest in his arms. And when the same thing happens to him, you won’t hesitate to do the same for him. 

Matt Murdock Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @lina-mar @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @mattkinsella @norestfortheshelbywicked

[persephonewritessometimes]

heyyy can you do Matt Murdock Smut where him and brat!reader are in a heated argument and the reader is short and small, is feisty and takes no shit.

During the argument he says

“watch who the fuck you’re speaking to, I am not one these idiots who take shit from you”

and the reader is like

“I’m not watching it, no prescription with it, even blind at this point…. what are you going to do about it?”

Matt responds

“im going to put you in your place”.

The reader responds

“you can put me in my place, might a fact since you think you’re supposed to scare me and intimidate somebody I have a solution for that”

So the reader drags a chair to hover over him. Both a face to face banter and Matt laughs at her.

During this smut he is teasing the reader saying

“why did you go quiet? Aint so talkative now hotshot?”

Matt degrades her and calls her little girl and is pounding into her until she admits she will stop being a brat and obey Matt.

Please and Thank You!

Hi! Thank you so much for your request (and I am terribly sorry for the long wait). I started this a few days ago but I couldn't find a proper end. I adapted pieces of the dialogue so they would fit, but I used what you told me to, so I hope you like it!

Feisty | Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Masterlist

Summary: You and Matt get into an argument and he decides it's time to put you in your place again and remind you who you belong to.

Warning: SMUT, 18+ MINORS DNI, PWP, established relationship, Dom!Matt, Brat!Reader, cussing, strong language, teasing, degrading, praise kink, vaginal fingering, mentions of oral (f!receiving), rough sex, unprotected p in v, hair pulling, choking, slight breeding kink (?), marking kink, use of "good girl", semi-public sex (office sex), orgasm denial, fluff in the end

Word Count: 3.2k

A/n: This is some filthy shit. The other requests are coming, by the way. I'm just trying to find ways to continue them. My inbox is still open for your thoughts and requests, but keep in mind that it might take some time for me to finish them. I also always have an open ear for anything else you guys feel like sharing. Enjoy! (and thank you for the request, lovely!)

18+ under the cut!

Sometimes, Matt makes you livid. Like, beyond compare, makes-you-clench-your-fists-and-want-to-punch-a-wall livid. He can be the sweetest and most caring partner, but there often comes a time when you want to scratch his eyes out. Today is one of those days. 

You’re not sure what prompted this argument you find yourself in, but it was bound to escalate from the second you muttered a silent, “Fuck you!” Under your breath. 

Foggy and Karen are out, it’s late and you are both way too overworked. You thought you could get away with hiding your investigation into one of his high-profile cases from him after he explicitly told you to stay away from it, but after watching Karen, you got motivated and it wasn’t until the clock struck twelve today that he opened his files to evidence he surely hasn’t put there and he realized what you were up to. Needless to say that his worry has made him angry. He doesn’t understand how you can be so reckless and won’t take a simple ‘no’ for an answer, and it frustrates him to no end that you refuse to have a proper conversation about the danger you put yourself in and the position he now finds himself in. You’ve made your case pretty straightforward, but you refuse to listen, and that’s what drives him up the walls. 

So when you tell him, “Fuck you!” Under your breath, all self-control and tendency to try and be kind snaps in him. 

“Watch who the fuck you’re speaking to,” Matt says. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the amount of pressure he puts behind delivering his words suffices just enough to get his point across, “I am not one of those idiots who take shit from you!”

Other couples fight too, there is no denying that, but there is something that happens almost every time you and Matt get in such a situation. Your words turn into ticking time bombs, and you are quick to explode. He thinks he’s in control, you refuse to bow down, and then the situation escalates to the point you wonder if the neighbors think you two are anything but healthy. And maybe your fights aren’t healthy, but you love each other and you always find common ground. Eventually. 

But not right now. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of doing what he says or admitting whatever mistake he thinks you made. You were just being yourself, really. 

“Watch it?” you repeat, the words rolling off of your tongue like sour candy. “I’m not watching it. In fact, I’m going to act blind just like you and not even remotely watch it.  What are you gonna do about it?”

He chuckles darkly. “I’m serious, you better watch it sweetheart or I’m gonna put you in your place,” he says. There is something about his silent anger that sends shivers down your spine. 

You’re not scared of him; Matt would never hurt you. The exact opposite of fear happens whenever he talks to you that way, and you want to know how far you can push it because this argument is silly and he’s going to realize that soon enough. But you are not one to back down without a fight, and if you want to get what you so desperately crave, he needs to fold first. But God, he is so hot, and he looks even more alluring with his sleeves rolled up and his cheeks flushed like that. 

He towers over you as if he owns you. You’re a good few inches shorter than him, but that has never stopped you before. He likes to make fun of it, you like to make him regret it. You complete each other and yet you tear each other apart just the same. 

You mimic his stance with your hands on your hips and your head slightly tilted and you know it drives him mad. “You can put me in my place. In fact, since you think you’re supposed to scare me, I have a solution to make it easier for you,” you say. Your voice still sounds like sour candy, but he can’t stomach it. He’s almost allergic to it. All he wants is to stuff your smart mouth with his tie, tie you up and fuck you until you can’t walk straight anymore. Perhaps then you will realize that you can’t do everything without facing the consequences. 

Your vision is red like the towel held before a bull in the ring. Reaching for his office at the dinner table, you drag it out and place it before him. You climb on it, making sure you are face-to-face now and you cross your arms. “There, done,” you say. 

Matt takes a moment to register what you’ve done, and you think you’ve finally won, but then he opens his mouth and laughs right at you. That bastard. 

“Don’t laugh at me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You’re not seriously telling me what to do, are you, sweetheart?” 

“Maybe I am. It’s not my fault you’re being such a dick.”

Bad idea. 

Suddenly, his arms are around your waist. He picks you off the chair and throws you over his shoulder. It’s almost effortlessly how he carries you over to his desk and throws you on it, the wooden legs shaking under the weight. 

“I’m being a dick?” he growls, leaning over you and trapping you against the desk with his arms on either side of you. “I think you need a reality check.”

You try to wriggle out of his grasp as you snap back, “What are you gonna do, hm?”

He smirks. “What am I gonna do with you? You’re being a brat, don’t you think that’s gonna have consequences?”

“Oh, fuck you!”

“No. Fuck you!” He swiftly pulls you off the desk and spins you around, arching your back far enough to press your chest flat to the wooden surface. “And I mean that quite literally,” he says. 

You gasp when he grabs the hem of your skirt and roughly bunches it up around your waist. The comeback you had planned out gets stuck in your throat when his hand collides with your bare ass cheek. He gives them both a firm squeeze and his grip is almost territorial, as is the growl that comes straight from his soul into your ear.  

“Why did you go quiet? Ain’t so talkative now, hotshot?” he says. 

He doesn’t waste time. Don’t get me wrong, Matt Murdock could spend centuries between your thighs and it would keep him alive long enough to draw orgasm after orgasm out of you as he devours your sweet little cunt like his last meal over and over again. He could stuff you with his fingers all day and then leave you empty just to be craving more. He could rub your clit as hard as possible, then go slow and gentle until your body quivers with the magnitude of an earth-shattering orgasm that has you screaming his name in ecstasy and makes his neighbors complain. He could do it and he loves to do it, but today, he is anything but a patient man. 

Your panties are soon a mess of ripped fabric on the floor of his office. The wetness seeping out of your pussy hits the cold air and you hiss, but all you get in return is a low chuckle. “What’s wrong?” Matt coos into your ear. “Did my pretty little slut forget how to speak?”

There are many buttons he can push to make you obey, even though you don’t often seem like it, but the way he talks to you is by far the easiest to shut you up. 

He slides his middle finger through your slick folds, gathering the wetness and spreading it over your clit. You jolt. He’s being rough already, and when he shoves his finger inside of you, you moan. He curls it up and hits your G-spot without a single struggle, but that’s all he does. He tells you without words that he knows what you want, but he won’t give it to you. Instead, you hear his belt buckle hit the floor, and then it's the tip of his cock that is rubbing through your arousal. 

Your walls clench around thin air. Your cunt barely lets him in, but he pushes inside of you anyway. The pain mixes with pleasure, your legs squeezed so tightly together, you can feel him bulge your stomach from where your torso is pressed against his desk. All air leaves your lungs. Left behind is a gurgled scream that makes him smirk into your shoulder blades as he licks a long stripe over the back of your shirt. 

You reach back to touch him, but he slaps your hand away. “Only good girls get to touch,” he says, “and you haven’t been a very good girl, have you?”

“No,” you sob. His cock is so deep inside of you now, brushing your cervix with every relentless stroke and you hate it. You hate him for pulling this card because he knows you can’t resist. 

Tears are streaming down your face. 

“Pathetic. Always talking back at me but when it’s my cock inside of you, you suddenly can’t speak.” Matt grabs a fistful of your hair at the same time he slaps your ass. “I shouldn’t even be fucking you right now because quite frankly, you don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve my cock and you certainly don’t deserve to come, not like this.”

You clench around him as if to keep him so deep inside of you. “Please, don’t stop. I’m sorry!” your voice echoes through the office in a desperate cry. Your fists are locked up, trying hard not to touch him, but it’s torture. You want nothing more than to put your hands on him, maybe even push him away because God, he is so deep, you’re not sure you’re going to survive. 

Every inch of your body yearns for him. He hits all of the right spots over and over again, and he drives you higher up the precipice, ready to push you over, but you know he won’t let you. It’s the way he purposely avoids touching your clit that tells you that you have to work for that orgasm, but it’s almost impossible when you can’t speak. Every word turns into a moan when he hits the sweet spot inside of you, your eyes roll back and you let out a broken scream of his name. Surely, Foggy and Karen could hear you from home. 

He slaps your ass again, relishing the feeling of the flesh jiggling at the impact. Your skin is hot and sweaty, and there is a clear imprint of his fingers on your hips and your rear now, too. He feels your erratic heartbeat and tastes your arousal in the air. Your muscles clench wildly, and you try your best not to move. You’re moaning, you’re so loud, but no words are coming out of your mouth. It’s just you and him and his cock that manages to make you feel things no man has ever made you feel before. You’re in heaven but at the same time the bus to hell is about to leave, and he is not yet done punishing you. 

Matt grabs a hold of your throat and hauls you back into his chest. “What was that?” he asks, his voice now a desperate puff of air too. 

“I’m s- ugh!” You can’t help yourself; you reach for his hip as he delivers another hard thrust directly against your cervix. 

He slaps your hand away again. “Answer me!” 

“I’m sorry!” Instead, you place your hands on your chest. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to- to- fucking hell!”

His grip tightens around your jugular. “Thin ice, sweetheart,” he barks. 

“Please, Matty, I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to! I thought I was… I was doing the right thing and I- ah!”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry!”

“Uh-huh, what else? Come on, this isn’t an apology when I can tell your tight little cunt is just desperate to come all over my cock. That’s the only reason you’re apologizing and I am fed up with your fucking attitude.”

He wouldn’t let you come that easily, it becomes crystal clear to you.

Matt pulls out of you entirely, cupping your cunt with his large hand, and starts rubbing your clit. It’s a pace you have gotten used to, but the strength he puts behind the pressure he applies once again renders you speechless. 

He smirks, his teeth sinking into your shoulder. “Oh, you’re so wet for me. You’re dripping. I could smell you even from the other end of the city. You’re so desperate, it’s pathetic. You need to come so badly, don’t you? You love when I talk to you like the dirty little whore you are, hm?”

“F-” You bite your lip until you can taste copper on your tongue. “Matthew!” He delivers a hard blow to your clit and you jolt, every fiber of your being high with electricity.

The pain only adds to the arousal that is flooding out of you, or it feels that way because he simply won’t stop, even when you beg him to. You could utter your safeword, but as much as it hurts, his punishment feels so damn good, your body just wants to let go and come. He just has to let you come, and you hate him that he is playing games that make it even harder for you not to.

“That’s not an answer,” he says. 

“Yes,” you choke out, “I love it!”

“I can feel how close you are, baby. You’re squeezing me so tightly.”

“Please, just- I’ll do anything, just let me come!” He has you right where he wants you. 

“Is that so?” He makes you feel so stupid, but you love it. 

“Yes!”

“Then tell me what I want to hear and maybe I’ll put my cock back inside of you. If you don’t, well… I’ll make better use of that big mouth of yours since you love to tell me how much bigger you can be, see if you can swallow as much as you like to chew, but I doubt it.”

Matt’s the cruelest when he stops right before you can tumble over the edge. You grip the desk, your chest heaving with abandon as the orgasm dissipates. He turns you around and grabs your chin roughly between his fingers. “Talk,” he demands. 

You swallow, his brown eyes wild, but you could never be scared of him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, and then, hoping you’re right with your assumptions, “I’ll stop being a brat and do as I’m told,” you say. “You were right, I’m sorry. I’ll do anything, just please! Please…”

The faintest hint of a smile shows on his face and finally, he leans down to kiss you. It’s a heated kiss, his tongue already halfway down your throat, but you take that as an invitation to touch him. 

Your ass hits the desk’s surface and he spreads your legs again. This time, he slides in a little slower, sensing the soreness of your muscles. Though as soon as his cock is sheathed deep within you, his hips start snapping in the same relentless rhythm from before again. 

You cling to him and the desk, pulling at his hair and just hoping he will have mercy on you this time. As his pelvis grinds against your clit, his tip brushing your G-spot followed by the relentless assault of your cervix, it doesn’t take long for you to fly to the top of the cliff, ready to fall off. 

He kisses you again. “Good girl,” Matt murmurs. 

The praise makes you clench. 

“Such a good little slut.”

He knows exactly how to use his words, the fine line between degradation and praise that blurs into pleasure. He doesn’t hurt you with malicious intent, he hurts you just right where pain and pleasure meet, and he does it because he loves you. He may not always seem like it, especially while you’re fucking, but this is what you both crave, this is what you both need, and he does it perfectly every single time. You can’t get enough of him, he is everywhere, and you couldn’t bare to lose him. 

This time, it is you who kisses him. He can feel the vulnerability in your touch, how your nails no longer dig into his skin but rather caress him. You’re close, clenching, and your moans seem so close to his ear, his cock starts to twitch. He can feel the pressure building alongside yours. 

He changes the angle of his thrusts a little, grabbing your thigh and pushing it up against his chest. “Tell me,” he pants, “Who do you belong to?”

You whimper, “You.”

“That’s right. And whose pussy is this?”

“Yours!”

“Yeah. You have such a fucking big mouth, it’s infuriating. But it’s my mouth. Everything about you is mine, do you understand? No one else gets to have you like this, touch you like this, or see you like this. You get that?”

“Yes!” you cry out as you throw your head back, and his hand is right back at your throat. 

Matt grunts. “Good girl. That’s a good-” he thrusts forward hard, “fucking-” he pulls out and thrusts back in, bottoming out fully, before repeating the same motion as he finishes with a loud, “girl. Now fucking come for me!”

Your body responds to his command before your brain can even register it. The orgasm crashes into you like the wave of a tsunami. Your thighs lock around his hips, you’re shaking, you’re falling, and your moan turns into a scream that is barely muffled by the hand that is still choking you, still holding on as the warmth of his cum fills your abused cunt.

He crashes your lips together, swallowing your noises. With every anguish thrust, he makes sure his cum stays seated deep within you, a reminder that you are no one’s but his, and he’s the only one who gets to mark you like that. Always. 

You wouldn’t want it any other way. 

The moment after is silent. Only your labored breathing fills the air. Matt buries his head in your neck and he holds you there. The roughness from before it’s gone. He is gentle now, seeking your comfort and maybe something else he can’t describe. You melt into his touch. He holds you close and you do the same for him, stroking your hand through his hair. You’re both breathless but you’re calm, and all the stress from before falls off of your shoulders. 

“You okay?” you ask once you find your words again. 

He nods, silently at first, but then he slowly lifts his head. “Did I hurt you?” he asks. 

You’re quick to wipe the guilt off his face. “I’m perfect.”

“Okay, good.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “I was worried there for a second.”

“You could never hurt me.”

“That’s not entirely true”

“Matthew-”

“I could tell you you’re hot when you’re feisty, but that you’re wrong about 98% of the time.”

You feign a gasp. “Ouch!” you press a hand to your chest. “That was harsh.”

“See?” he smirks, and it tells you that he has found back to himself rather quickly. “Told you,” he says. 

With a chuckle, you pull him down to press a kiss to his swollen lips. “I love you,” you say. 

And Matt is quick to return the sentiment with an even gentler kiss, “I love you too.”

You know that the next time you two fight, you will act the same, you won’t shut your mouth and he will once again find himself agitated enough to fuck you against every surface he can find, but if he knows one thing it’s that he wouldn’t have it any other way, and he loves how feisty you are regardless of what you say or do. He’s head over heels in love with you, and you are a real keeper. 

At least with you, he will never have a dull moment again in his life. That counts for more than you could possibly know. And as he’s holding you close, his cock still buried deep inside of you, he thanks God for putting you on his path. 

[persephonewritessometimes]

Tupperware | Matt Murdock x Reader

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: A conversation about kitchen supplies leads to something more...

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI, oral m!receiving, unprotected p in v (wrap it b4 you tap it), multiple orgasms, aftercare

Word Count: 6.7k (This is a literal Smut Beast)

A/n: Yeah, whatever you think the title means in context, I guarantee you, this is different. But also, maybe not. I found this in my drafts because it was originally planned as an FG One Shot, but I decided to just throw my plans off the board and turn it into a reader insert (I've written this a while back, but I reread and edited it). Funny story: I found this writing prompt and it reminded me of the accent I have and how I say Tupperware (and how everyone in my State says Tupperware, the German version ofc), and I found it funny because that is definitely something I did when I said it in English for the first time. Anyway, enjoy!

The couple sat on his couch, the lights of the Billboard growing more distinctive as the sun started to set. He was working on the paperwork that had piled up over the days while she was reading something on her laptop. The steady typing of her fingers synchronized with her steady breathing. He didn’t mind the sound of her working. He enjoyed the carelessness of it all. Just two people seeking the comfort of each other’s presence while doing two completely different things. It wasn’t weird, it was productive.

At some point, he reached for her leg that was poking his side and placed it in his lap. She smiled at the casual, domestic action. His fingers stroked her calves absentmindedly while his mind continued to occupy itself with the information on the case that reached in through his headphones.

He heard her laugh at something. He smiled as he asked, “What?”

“I was looking for some accessories for our kitchen,“ – his heart bloomed at the pronoun, – “And now Google is trying to sell me  Tubberware,” she stated. “I don’t even use Tubberware anymore.”

The headphone fell from his ear.

“What are you saying?” Matt asked.

His lip twitched, more in disbelief than amusement, but it was also weirdly adorable, the way the ‘b’s’ rolled from her tongue.

“Say it again,” he told her.

Her eyebrows crinkled. “Tubberware,” she said, remaining serious and clueless throughout.

“Say it again. Slow.”

“Tubberware.”

“Slow, very slow– actually, say the first syllable.”

Her frown deepened. “Tub,” she said confidently.

Matt bit his cheek. “Wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?”

“I thought I caught that. You’re saying tub. It’s P.”

He had to keep telling himself not to laugh, but it was so incredibly hard with the pout on her lips growing by the second.

She removed her leg from his lap and sat upright, laptop moving dangerously close to the edge of her thighs. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

“Tupperware,” he stated. “Tupper.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks. “It’s Tupperware?!”

He couldn’t hold it any longer. The laugh rolled off his lips like a serenading song. “It’s Tupperware, always has been, always will be,” he choked out.

The pout came back, stronger than before. A frustrated pout. This was entirely different from the confused and irritated one. “I thought it was tubberware because it kind of looks like a tub,” she muttered.

“Oh, baby,” he laughed.

“It looks like a tub,” she said.

“I know it does. I’m sorry.”

“Stop laughing at me, you dick!”

“I’m really sorry, sweetheart. It’s just… say it again. Please. For me.”

“So that you can make more fun of me?” she asked. “No thank you.”

“I’m not making fun of you, I promise. It just sounds so cute when you say it. Do it for me, please. I want to hear it again.”

She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of laughing too. She was supposed to be mad at him, but she somehow couldn’t because looking at it from this angle, she realized how stupid it was. Tubberware. It was hilarious, even.

“Tubberware,” she said again, trying to breathe through the fit of laughter bubbling in her throat.

Matt laughed. “Again,” he begged.

“Tubberware.”

“It’s so cute, I can’t-“ his voice cracked.

“I hate you!”

“I know you want to laugh,” he titled his head knowingly, “so laugh.”

“No,” she said.

“Please."

“Don’t tell me what to do,” but at this point, she was already laughing. The sound he loved so much grew louder by the second.

Her stomach hurt. His did, too.

“I’ve been saying it for years,” she said between breaths. “And no one’s ever told me. Oh, God!”

“I’m sorry,” said Matt. “I didn’t mean to… Tubberware.” He giggled. “It’s adorable.”

“Shut up!"

"I'm sorry, I'll stop." He wiped some more of his laughing tears.

Grateful for his attempt to compose himself, she nodded. "Okay,” she turned back toward her laptop, “While we’re already on the issue, do we need anything else?"

He threw his head back, thinking. “We could use some new spatulas,” he said. "And lunchboxes. Tupperware has some great choices, you should take a look."

Her laugh died into a smile. “You know I love you, right?”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

“What I’m saying is, we’re not getting Tubberware.”

“Why not?” He cocked an eyebrow. “They’ve got great kitchen stuff and it’s easy to use. You know, for me as a blind man…”

“Matt Murdock, are you one of those Tubberware grandmas?” It was her turn to laugh.

He pouted. “Shut up.”

“Oh no, we need to talk about this.”

“No, I’ve got work to do. You should buy what I just said. We definitely need that.”

“Alright, let me see what Amazon has," she said.

“No, we'll get it from Tupperware," he retorted. "I've been using nothing else for years."

“That's not my problem. There are cheaper options. Amazon, same-day delivery.  Why do we have Prime if we don't use it? And don't say because of the Podcasts, we have Spotify, which is ten times better."

“Tupperware has better quality.”

“I'm buying the spatula and the lunchboxes from Amazon, end of discussion.”

There was a playful smile on his lips, already telling her what he was about to say next was merely a joke. “You’re not the man of the house,” Matt argued. “As the man of the house, I dictate where we buy our kitchen supplies.”

She gasped, her mouth hanging wide open as she processed his words. Even though it was a joke, she couldn't help but feel slightly offended at even the prospect. Shaking her head, she cocked her eyebrows at him and said, “And as the woman you depend on to suck your dick, I strongly suggest you think about what you just said.”

He bit his cheek. “Oh, so we’re going there?”

She smirked. “I thought you could handle it, tough guy.”

“Okay, that’s it!” He tossed the case file aside, tore the laptop from her hands, and pulled her into his lap in one swift motion.

Matt was always the first to suggest a gentle game of teasing, but he barely had any tolerance for it. He was always the first to get riled up, no matter what. Perhaps she should have thought twice about her words, but it was so much more fun to see him like this than give in too soon.

He rolled her hips down into his, his fingers sure to leave bruises as he guided her along his slacks. The moan she let out was guttural.

Matt bit down on her earlobe. “Mouth off on me again and this is all you’re gonna get for the next week,” he said.

Her thighs fluttered around his own. The heartbeat between her legs bounced off his muscles. The room suddenly grew too hot to breathe the toxic air in.

“On second thought,” she began, though when Matt’s lips wandered from her ear to her neck and down to her cleavage, the words got caught in her throat.

He ran his hands under her shirt. Her skin was hot. The rough callouses of his fingers pulled the fabric aside until it slipped off her shoulders.

“No bra,” he smirked. “Nice.”

She whined. “I really need to buy kitchen supplies now, Matt,” she tried again.

He sucked one of her nipples into his hot mouth. If they were hard due to the cold air in the apartment or because his touch sent her into overdrive she wasn’t sure, but once he was on her all she could think about was his stupid mouth on her tits.

Her nipple slipped off his tongue with a pornographic plop. “I want you to do as I say,” he said.

“You can't use your bedroom voice when we're talking about the apartment. Oh, fuck!”

He slapped his hand flat on her ass.

“You were saying?”

She wanted to wipe that shit-eating grin off his perfectly wet lips.

“Stop teasing me.”

Matt leaned back from the mess he made on her chest, eyelids fluttering innocently, hands rested on her hips again. “You said you needed to buy kitchen supplies,” he said.

And he was instantly back in his teasing mood, believing he finally got the upper hand.

“I lied,” she said.

“No, you didn’t. You really need to buy kitchen supplies.”

She huffed. “Fine, guess I’ll do it myself.”

He wanted to laugh.

Her shorts accompanied her shirt on the floor. Half naked, she plopped down next to him on the couch again.

Matt choked on nothing at all, her scent thick in the air. When her thighs moved, the sound it made was wet, hot, and sticky. He loved that sound. He loved it most when it was as close to his ears as possible, squished between those perfect thighs that made the sound unbearable.

She threw her head back, throat exposed. She sighed. Her fingers ran over her body, barely touching, only testing the waters. All hairs on her body stood at full attention, the ache between her thighs thudding so hard to the point where she could hear nothing but blood in her ears. Her heart sped up, half because of embarrassment, the other half because of excitement. She wasn’t sure what was stronger. They’d never done anything like this before and she doubted he’d even let her. Up until this point he hadn’t done anything but listen closely though, fists clenched around the soft fabric of his slacks close to his crotch.

Her fingers ghosted over the waistband of her panties. Black silk. He liked the feeling of lace on her, but after some time it began to tickle and he hated the way it itched at his skin, so she barely wore lace anymore. He had his hands on her at all times, she had to adapt.

Matt’s hand shot out instantly. Her fingers barely breached her panties and he already had enough. “Don’t you dare,” he said.

“Why?” she challenged. Her voice was nothing but a series of breaths.

“Because it’s mine.”

“If you won’t touch me-“

He shoved his fingers down her underwear.

“Fuck!” Her head fell even further down the armrest.

“You were saying?”

“I’m sorry. Keep going.”

“Why?” his thumb stopped over her clit. “Why should I give you anything?”

“Because I will buy or- or do anything you want from now on, I promise!”

“Watch your tone, sweetheart,” he bellowed.

“Please,” she squirmed, searching for any kind of friction. His hand kept her hips restrained without even trying, any move grazing her just enough to make her body jolt, but not nearly enough to be pleasurable.

“Hm,” he hummed.

“Please?”

“Okay,” and he pressed his thumb down so hard, she swore she saw stars dance around her clouded vision.

She moaned just the way he liked it. “Fuck.”

“Will you keep quiet?” Matt resumed his work. Even though his pants were painfully tight, he acted like nothing had happened. “I need to finish this paperwork,” he told her. “I won’t ignore my responsibilities just because someone decided to be a needy whore today. So if you want to cum, you better stay quiet so I can concentrate.”

His thumb worked its way up and down her clit, circled, and drew patterns she’d never seen before. She bit into her bottom lip until it drew blood.

He knew her body better than anyone else, better than herself even. He knew what she liked, what made her squirm, what she didn’t like, and what could make her body shake instantly.

Her body was an altar. He had every last inch mapped out to perfection. Her skin was soft like a sunny day in spring and it smelled salty like the sea, sweet like the field of flowers in Central Park, and distinctive like summer rain. Every time he touched her, he was on fire. The temperature in her body changed with every flick of his fingers. Every hitch of her breath he caught onto. She didn’t even have to tell him to keep going, he simply knew.

Matt worshipped her body like he would kneel on the bench at church. She was a row of burning candles before the cross and he knelt before her like a pathetic disciple willing to do anything to please the divine being.

Her stifled moans through the palm of her hand drove him crazy. Usually, he was a lot more composed than that, but it was late, he was overworked and he was horny, and he couldn’t concentrate with the wetness of her arousal lying thick in the air. He licked his lips to taste it. He tasted the air like a starved man.

Matt growled. “Fuck this,” he said.

She protested silently when he retreated his thumb. She sat up against the armrest, staring at him. His hair stood in all directions from the hand he ran through it, his lips plump, seeking friction.

“Come here.” He grabbed her hips and placed her back on his lap, legs on either side of his thigh. “I need you close to me,” he breathed into her mouth as they met halfway. “Ride my thigh.”

She swallowed. “What?”

“Ride my thigh. Be a good girl and ride my thigh. You want to make yourself cum, hm? I’m giving you an opportunity here, unless, of course, you’re too pathetic to do it yourself. Do you need me to help you, hm?”

She swallowed again. “Please,” she said.

His hands gently began to roll her hips against him. “Like that?” he asked.

The moan she let out was answer enough.

“Feel good?”

She bit into her lip, nodding wildly.

“Use your words,” he said. “Don’t hold back.”

Her head fell on his shoulder, hand seeking something to hold onto behind him at the back of the couch.

The silence earned her another hard slap on her ass.

“Answer me.”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Feels good. Keep going, please.”

Matt smirked. “Good girl.”

The leather was dented under her fingers. She held onto the couch for dear life. His hands guided her hips deliciously over his thigh, the fabric of his slacks mixed with the silk of her underwear sliding against her sensitive clit over and over again driving her closer and closer to the end.

She saw the light at the end of the tunnel. Her eyes rolled back. The pressure in her lower abdomen began to build slowly but steadily. She involuntarily sped up, sloppily fighting against the slow pace he’d set. He would’ve stopped her if he hadn’t been so riled up already, so he let her. He let her chase for the sweet relief the knot in her stomach prepared her for.

“Matt,” she whined his name.

One of his hands began to stroke her back. “I know,” he said. “I know, baby.”

Her thighs twitched around his, her entire body shaking underneath his touch. It was all too much. His rough hands on her hot skin, his fingers digging in sure to leave bruises, and the gentle coax of his hand on her back, stroking innocently to help her through it. His touch was too much to bear.

Matt instantly reached out when she threw her head back. The moan sounded delicious in his ears. He caught her head with his hand around the back of her neck, making sure she wouldn’t fall over and hurt herself. She clenched around nothing, thighs threatening to close but his own kept them open.

A tear slipped down her cheek. She wasn’t crying, not at all. The tear came from a place of pure pleasure. Her body couldn’t handle it. The sensations he put her through left her speechless every time he touched her. She couldn’t breathe. Her throat was dry.

His thumb drew circles on the back of her neck. He brought her back to earth after it just shattered before her very eyes.

“Fuck,” she choked out.

Matt guided her back into his chest and she took the support gladly. His heart beat against her bare breasts. The bulge in his pants became painfully clear once she regained feeling in her limbs. It brushed her thighs where it lay between his own.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, playing with the hairs on the nape of his neck.

“That was…” she couldn’t find the right words.

“I know.”

She didn’t quite trust her legs when she twisted to swing the one between his thighs over the other one. She kept her hands on his shoulders to straddle him without falling over.

Matt tilted his head, eyes searching for hers. “What’re you doing?” he asked hoarsely.

“Looks like you need some help,” she stated. She played with his belt buckle.

“It’s fine. You know I don’t need anything in return for making you feel good.”

“I know, but I want to. That looks painful.”

In one swift motion, she pulled the belt out of his slacks and tossed it aside.

Matt chuckled at her eagerness. “You are insatiable, you know that?” he dove in to kiss whatever bare skin he could reach.

His lips sloppily kissed down her neck and up again, chasing her lips. She kissed him back as hard as she could. Their teeth clashed, tongues fighting each other for dominance, knowing he’d win anyway. He swallowed every breath she took, sucking her dry and breathing new life back into her mouth.

She opened the button on his pants, trying hard to pull it down enough to get his aching cock out of them.

He caught onto her plan. Shifting his hips, she managed to reach into his boxers.

“Wait,” he said.

“What?” she blinked at him.

Matt reached for the hem of her panties. His fingers flexed.

Rip.

She gasped. The silk fell to the floor in nothing but flaps of fabric.

“I’ll buy you new ones.” He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth.

“Fine.” In response, the buttons of his dress shirt flew in all directions. She ran her hands down his chest, satisfied with the ripped front of the shirt hanging loosely off his shoulders.

He chuckled. “That’s fair.”

She kissed down every exposed sliver of skin on his torso. Her tongue ran over the jagged scars, the freshly healed bruises from a couple of nights ago. He was beautiful. With the billboard casting a pornographic red light on them, eyes closed, he looked like the child of an angel and a demon. His entire existence was ephemeral, his body a wonderland.

She sucked one of his perky nipples into her mouth. He arched almost entirely off the couch.

“I love you,” she breathed against him.

She liked the way the words sounded. For someone so afraid of admitting her feelings not so long ago, she’d come quite far. It had become her new favorite thing to say. Though the true weight of the statement came in the moments they were intimate. She could chant the same three words to him all day, but the second they were close to each other, touching where only they could touch, those three words regained their true meaning. It was sweet, almost innocent. The kind of love everyone wished for. An endless spiral of butterflies danced around in their stomachs.

Matt chuckled. The very same sound turned into a moan once her teeth dug into the flesh around his nipples.

“I’m worshipping you now,” she told him. Her kisses traveled down his body.

Her warmth on his chest disappeared. Instead, the hot trail of kissed lead to the opened button of his slacks. Her tongue played with his belly button, the happy trail leading into Neverland.

She kissed each scar on either side. “Perfect,” she hummed. “I don’t deserve you and yet you’re mine. This is mine. Only mine. No one else’s.”

“I’m yours.”

“Mine,” she kissed the lower part of his stomach. “Mine,” her lips landed on the hem of his boxers. “Mine,” it was an animalistic growl. She pulled down his underwear swiftly.

Matt didn’t have time to comprehend what was happening. He was so in awe of the way she touched and spoke of his body, he listened to her for the sake of having her praise him over and over again. The words carried innocence in their sinful ways.

He choked on air. His scars long forgotten, her mouth opened around its original destination.

“Lord have mercy!” he grabbed a fistful of hair.

Her tongue licked a thick stripe down his shaft.

Matt was a religious man. He prayed regularly and went to church and Sunday Mass. He swore never to take God anywhere other than he needed to be, but that woman and her cursed mouth made him see God in the fiery land of his unseeing vision. What they were doing was outright sinful. He knew he’d go to hell for saying the lord’s name in vain. He’d go to hell for everything he’d ever done and yet, while that was the truth, he didn’t care because, at that moment, he was living. He was alive. He’d gotten used to the thought of going to hell, seeking penance almost every day since. With her though, something had awakened inside of him. He couldn’t let it go. The Devil inside of him wanted to play.

Her mouth danced perfectly to the gospel of his moans, he forgot who he was. He tried hard not to push her head further down his cock, although the warmth of her throat sent him into pleasurable overdrive.

The cold air hit the head, falling from her lips like a wet towel. “It’s okay,” she said. “Take what you need.”

It was all the confirmation he needed.

His hips bucked up into her throat. She had laid off the gag reflex the first time she had his cock in her mouth, knowing the act alone could turn her on for more than one day. She could cum from simply touching him, hearing the dirty sounds slip past his swollen lips, and she’d be more than okay with it. The sounds he made were heaven’s gift to her, she was sure.

His cock twitched against her throat. She braced herself, eyes already closed. 

“Stop,” he choked out.

She instantly sat back on her heels, naked and worked up.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

“No, not at all.  I just… I need you.”

His chest heaved with the denied orgasm. The one he had denied himself. Anticipation rutted through his veins.

She swallowed the precum mixed with spit inside her hollowed-out mouth. The skin tingled. “You want me to-“ she pointed to his lap.

Matt sensed the motion. “If you want to,” he said. “But you can lay back and let me do all the work if that’s what you want. Just tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

Her thighs trapped his. She’d never been so comfortable doing that before. She was completely naked on top of him while he sat there, half-dressed, eyes searching for what he couldn’t see. Blood rushed to her cheeks. The position was compromising.

He pulled the hair from her face. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I don’t know what I’m doing but yeah, I’m sure.”

“You don’t have to. I’ve got you.” He pressed his lips to her collarbone. “Mine,” he licked a stripe up her pulse point. “Mine,” the spank landed right on her ass. The next touch of his fingers made her shudder. Her cheeks flooded red with blood. “And mine,” he parted his fingers between her thighs to spread the lips of her pussy wide open.

Part of her wanted to scramble away. He couldn’t see but he could feel everything. It was just about the same as having him watch every inch of her body closely. Every last crevice he wanted to memorize. She wasn’t sure what to think. Her brain refused to function. She was entirely bare to him.

“Matt,” she said his name.

“You’re beautiful. Nothing to be ashamed of.” He kissed her again. Passionate, loving. “Remember our safe word?”

“Hmm.”

“Tell me.”

“Red.”

He flicked the switch. “Okay, good girl,” the dark sound of his voice made all the embarrassment vanish. Instead, heat shot through her core. “Good girl, having your good little cunt spread for me. Just want to look at you the way I can. Want to see what’s mine. Want to feel how wet you are from riding my thigh. Oh, look at you!” he smirked. “This is turning you on, isn’t it? Your heart’s going crazy and you’re literally dripping.  You’re making such a mess on my good pants. You want to make a mess on my cock now too, don’t you? You want to be my good little slut and ride my cock?”

She only whined.

His hand slapped across her ass harder this time. The collision stung. “Use your words,” he demanded. “Use your words or I’m leaving you like this.”

“I’m sorry,” her voice came out sobbing. “I’m sorry. I want you inside of me. I want to be your good girl, I promise.”

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yes, please! Please fuck me, Matthew. I’ll do anything. Please!”

“Don’t cry.” He wiped her cheeks. “I know I’m good, but no need to cry. You’ll get what you want. Want to make you feel good, hm. You deserve it for always being so patient.”

“Yes, I’ve been patient. I’ve been good. So good.”

He laughed. “You’re already so dumb for me, baby. You sure you can take this?”

“Yes!”

“What’s your color?” The always caring Matt Murdock peaked out from under the dark, sex-crazed facade only she got to see.

She shuddered. “I-“ words came harder than they should have.

His head titled. Worry spread across his face, ready to take back whatever he said.

“Green,” she eventually managed to say.

She only wanted the ache between her thighs to be numbed. She wanted him so incredibly deep inside of her, she could feel him bulge her stomach, everywhere he could be inside of her.

Matt smirked, and it only grew darker from there.

“Good girl,” he praised again.

She slapped her hand on her mouth. He bottomed out quickly, without warning. He penetrated her without thinking twice about it, burying himself so deep inside of her, he could feel her walls contracting around him with every inch. She sucked him in and she screamed. She was sure she screamed. Her hand was the only thing keeping the neighbors from knocking on their door. His name slipped from her lips like a prayer, like she was singing his name in church and the word echoed off the walls for everyone to hear. Except no one was supposed to hear this. It was just them. This was their safe space. They could be however they wanted to be like this, and only then they could touch each other so sweetly when the world wasn’t watching them and they didn’t have to worry about anything other than themselves.

The sound was new, even for Matt. He too was sure he let out the nastiest sound known to man, but unlike her, he had no intention of masking it. He bottomed out and he chose to stay like this for just a little while longer, waiting for her muscles to relax, waiting for her to enjoy this.

The impatient roll of her hips eased his worries.

“Okay?” he asked quietly.

She breathed through her nose, “Okay.”

“Then ride me.”

And she did.

She started with a slow pace, taking her time to adjust to his size. Every inch of her felt perfectly filled out. He managed to reach parts of her she never could’ve found on her own. He had this way with her body, it was like a high that never ended, the endless train on the river of sugar rush.

Her eyes trailed up his body. Head tilted back, his eyes fluttered with every thrust of her hips. One arm flexed with the pressure he applied to the leather seat, the other was placed softly against the flesh of her hips. He made sure she knew he was there if she needed him to take control, though, at the same time, the move seemed almost domineering, leaving her no choice but to do as he wanted. She was completely at his mercy. Even the slightest touch made her cave. He knew it and she knew it.

If he’d told her to drive to hell with him, she would have.

The slow and steady pace felt like heaven to him. Her hips drew patterns to chase that spot so very deep inside of her, only he could reach it. The swirl was delicious around his cock, the hot, soft flesh of her insides rolling against him, up and down and up and down. He listened to her heartbeat, strangled breathing, and the goosebumps on her skin. Moan after moan escaped her lips, growing louder and louder until she couldn’t hold it anymore. He filtered out every hint of discomfort or frustration. What she liked, what she continued doing, and what just didn’t seem to work. She explored herself without even realizing and it turned him on even more. He could’ve sworn he felt himself getting harder inside of her if that was humanly possible.

His ears only picked up on rushing blood and labored breaths. There was nothing else but the feeling of her body, the scent of sweat, and bittersweet arousal on his lips and tongue. He was entirely enveloped in her. Everything was about her. Her body, her wetness, her heart. The heart between her legs, loud and dominant.

She whimpered at the sight before her. Matt Murdock in all his glory, half naked with his shirt ripped at her fingers, fabric, and skin clutched between her nails. Sweat coated his forehead, mouth slightly agape. His lashes fluttered around his unseeing eyes. She didn’t even have to move. If she wanted to, the sight would’ve been enough to make her come undone in a matter of seconds. He was so comfortable in her presence, his shoulders slouched in absolute relaxation as her movement urged him closer to his own release.

The next time her hips rolled down into his, he met her movements. His hips jerked up with a purpose. That purpose lay deep inside of her and he knew where it was. The thrust from underneath made her cry out. The spongy spot inside of her danced with euphoria as the head of his cock brushed against it.

He chuckled breathlessly. “There it is,” his head stayed hung over the back of the couch.

She braced herself. The new wave of pleasure only spurred her on. The way he dove impossibly deeper into her with every brush against that sweet spot had him reeling, gripping the leather for any kind of support. She followed close behind, her hips beginning to move as if her life depended on it. With every thrust, she sped up. Although her legs slowly grew tired, all she could feel was the tingling knot deep in her stomach blossoming into a beautiful flower and waiting to blow.

The hand that had once laid around her waist landed around her throat instead. The leather wasn’t nearly enough to keep him composed if that was even possible.

Hell’s Kitchen always haunted him. Noise and smell followed him home, and the sound of innocent people getting hurt kept him from falling asleep most of the time. He couldn’t tune it out. The city was a part of him. Even asleep, he dreamed of all the bad that was out there and all the things he’d done in his life, the things that lead him there, the people he’d hurt. The city never slept and neither did he, not really.

Though with her, for the first time, he was able to breathe. She overwhelmed his senses to the point it almost became unbearable. Her touch singed his skin yet calmed his mind down to the point he could tune out everything else and just focus entirely on the woman atop him. Sight was overrated. He didn’t need to see to know the way she moved was graceful in itself. Everything she did, she did with passion. The rolls of her hips were angelic. With her head thrown back, sweat and tear all over her face, she was the most beautiful person he’d ever come across. He could feel every inch of her, smell her, taste her. The whole wide city disappeared in the wake of her existence.

She was his salvation. He was drowning.

“Matt,” she sighed. His name rolled sweetly over her lips like she was singing him to sleep.

He squeezed his fingers around her pulse point. The pressure caged her in, sending moons across the stars in her galaxy. She reached for his wrist, not sure if she wanted to keep him or push him away. The tingling traveled from her stomach into every last crevice of her being.

He twitched inside of her. His muscles tensed. She rolled against him again, chest to chest. Hard nipples brushed against each other.

She dove in for a taste. Sweat had nestled into his stubble. Air was overrated. She kissed him until her lungs had nothing left to give. Until there was no other way but to swim back to shore to take a deep breath.

They’d fucked before. They had sex before. They’d done a lot of things. Whatever this was though, it counted as neither. Time was of the essence. Not too little, not too much. Just the right amount of time, simply savoring each other, getting to know each other as much as humanly possible in the most intimate sense. Subconsciously, they’d both been carrying way too much pressure. It showed in the way they craved each other. Starving animals in the middle of the desert preying for sustenance.

She scratched her nails through the hairs on his chin, leaving red marks down his throat. He groaned ever so softly into the depths of her mouth.

“I love you,” she said. His name came in serial moans. She breathed hard, heavy. Lost all sense of space and time, as if she couldn’t even believe it herself.

Matt tasted the salt on his tongue, wet strains of tears carried from her drenched cheeks to his. She was crying, whining, begging, and as lovely as it was to hold her like this, the words were the last straw to destroy his composure completely.

“I love you.”

He flipped her over like she was a doll, easily handled, thighs opened to grant him the space he needed to get between them. All the while his hand remained on its throne around her throat.

She moaned. The red lights of the billboard shone at him from behind, fading into hues of purple and blue with each thrust. His hips brushed against her clit every time he dove forward, hard and relentless, deeper and deeper. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. The lights became a distant memory. Nothing mattered but the hot pressure inside her lower abdomen, his weight on her, the twitch of his cock against the spot inside of her at the same time he brushed the spot outside of her and all eventually just became too much.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he demanded. “Look at me!”

She forced her eyes open. He loved it when she looked at him, vulnerable, exposed. And though she tried hard to obey, his pace made it almost impossible to keep her eyes open long enough. Not much longer and the only was about to snap.

“Who do you belong to? Who’s making you feel good?”

“You,” she gave him the answer he wanted. “Always you.”

“That’s right, sweetheart. Me, only me. You’re-“ he thrust his hips forward, “Mine. Mine.” he dug his teeth into her shoulder.

She sobbed. It was too much. Too good, too much. Her entire body was on fire.

“Matt, please.”

Waiting for permission, anything.

Fingers intertwined above her head on the armrest. She clawed onto him. His hand traveled down between their bodies, catching her clit just right between his fingers. Just a little more. Circles and triangles and more circles.

“All of this is mine, understood?” his face buried in the valve of her breasts. “I’m so in love with you,” he said. “So fucking in love with you.”

The Billboard outside exploded in fits of color. The coil snapped. She gave up the little control she had left, clinging onto him, shocks of pleasure wreaking havoc. Her pussy clenched around him. It was tight, so tight, and she kept him there until she could milk all he had to give her.

Matt stiffened. His mouth stayed open in a silent moan. Sound only came back to him once he came, hard. All the pressure from the week before unloaded and he fell on top of her, moaning, panting. His body vibrated with the aftershocks. The heat inside of her walls sucked him in until every last drop was spent, dripping along his softening shaft, out of her. 

The world stood still.

“I love you,” the admission blew hot against her sternum. Her hands raked through his hair, holding him.

She sighed blissfully. “I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Matt was a sensitive person after sex. During, he took control. He hardly left her any time to breathe or think. After though, the world came crashing back in, his senses so overwhelmed by everything, he just needed someone to ground him. His mind wasn’t back yet, ears rushing with blood and every nerve in his body straining. The only thing keeping him sane was the beating of her heart against his ear.

Not sure if she could trust her legs just yet, she gently rolled them over. “Come on,” she whispered. “I’ll clean us up.”

He lay there, eyes directed at the ceiling. Her warmth disappeared only to be replaced by a lukewarm washcloth on his stomach.

She helped him out of his pants. The cold air of the apartment eased the burning.

He had regained most of his consciousness by the time she laid back on top of him. The sofa wasn’t spacious and for the first time, he was glad there was no space for her to move anywhere but his bare chest. The skin-to-skin contact made the sudden awareness less unbearable. He needed to focus on the feeling of her. He needed to remember what it felt like to breathe.

She traced patterns on his skin. Eventually, she asked, “You okay?”

“Thank you,” he said.

“You know, I love you too. More than anything.”

“I know.”

“I’m in love with you,” she looked up at him. “I don’t just love you, I’m in it. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He couldn’t help it. “Oh,” the tears flowed freely.

“Hey-“

Matt choked out a laugh. “You’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said. "And I don't even know why I'm crying because I'm not sad, I'm happy."

Her eyes softened. She touched his cheek gently. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, kissing her palm, down to her wrist, and back up.

“I was thinking,” she broke the silence.

“Dangerous,” he muttered.

“Hey!” she slapped him only slightly, but it was enough to make him groan.

“I was thinking,” she began again. “How about, you and I,” her fingers traveled down his exposed chest, “take the day off tomorrow, stay in,” she kissed his throat, “and have absolutely filthy sex everywhere in this apartment until I can’t walk anymore.”

He moaned. “That won’t be so hard,” he said.

Needless to say, he didn’t buy any kitchen supplies that day, the day after that, or the day after that. Truth be told, she never got the chance to buy them.

“We can start today.”

The second they stepped into the shower, her chest was pressed to the cold tiles as he took her from behind.

Even if she’d wanted to, the throbbing between her legs the next morning made shopping for something as useless as kitchen supplies an impossibility. And as she sat on the kitchen counter in the morning, back arched with his head buried deep between her thighs, she realized she wouldn’t regain feeling in her limbs anytime soon.

[persephonewritessometimes]

Hi Lisa, can I make a Matt Murdock x reader request?

Reader is learning braille and reading a smut book. Matt is a little annoyed that you don't put this book down when he gets home and smells you getting wet reading it. One day he is home earlier than you and he starts reading this book and masturbates while doing so and at that moment Reader comes home.

Nonnie, thank you so much for your request! I was planning for this to be a short one, but I got carried away...

Sweeter Than Fiction | Matt Murdock x Reader

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x afab!reader

Summary: You get a new book to learn Braille and Matt is curious about what you're ready (because why is this book getting more attention than he does?)

Word Count: 4.2k (how???)

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, masturbation, fingering, dirty talk, this is Matt we're talking about, slight voyeurism (?), slight Dom!Matt, not proofread

A/n: I have no words. My inner whore took over.

You’ve always admired how Matt navigates the world even with one of the most crucial senses missing. After he told you about the accident and how his other senses were heightened beyond average capacity, you thought he meant it in a way that made up for his loss of sight, but you soon realized you were wrong. 

Matt had to learn how to blindly navigate his way in the world just like any other blind person. He goes out at night to fight criminals, sure, and he has an impeccable way of knowing your body’s every quirk due to his enhanced hearing and sense of smell, but beneath all of that, he is still blind and he needs his world more accessible than you do. 

When you moved in together, you made sure not to disturb his system. He labels the jars in the kitchen and the food containers in the fridge. You got used to it, and now even add labels to your leftovers so he knows what you had–to be fair, that is something he can use his other senses for, but it makes it easier for him when he’s too tired to focus.

But it doesn’t stop there. 

You make sure everything always goes back to where it was, even when it comes to clothes. You told him where you keep your things and developed a system that fits you both best, and you made your world more accessible for him as your universes merged, and now you’re living together in perfect harmony. 

You would point out things to him whenever you go out, and he would listen to your detailed descriptions. Your voice has always been the most beautiful sound on earth to him, and he hears a lot of things every day. A lot of cruel things, too. You’re not like that. You’re not harsh or annoying, you’re calm and just perfect.

He gets lost in you, not just the sound of your voice. Even sweeter than your voice though is the way your body responds to him, and he makes sure to use every last trick up his sleeves to satisfy all four of his working senses, and all five of yours. 

Sex with Matt is phenomenal. He pays close attention to detail and he knows what buttons to push to drive you crazy, and he shamelessly uses his heightened senses to his advantage every time you’re together. That also means your love life never gets boring. You can be sweet and gentle, but sometimes you indulge in the most primal needs that drive you, and you lose yourselves in each other. 

A few weeks ago, you told Matt that you wanted to learn Braille. He was taken aback at first; Braille itself is complex to learn, but you are always eager to broaden your horizons, and when you told him that you desperately want to understand some of the things he reads with his fingers, he caved. You want to do this for him, and the love you show him is almost too much for his scarred little heart. 

You have been busy for days now, your mind reeling with the alphabet and the different sensations under your fingers as you navigate the Braille book you bought to learn the letters. After that, you started experimenting with his Braille typewriter, and once you felt comfortable enough to read something a lot more… challenging, you decided to put your newfound knowledge to the test. 

Braille may be complicated, but you feel so much better about yourself now that you can keep up with Matt. You’re not as fast and you still mess up some words, but even he told you that you’re getting there, and he showered you in kisses and ‘I love you’ for your effort. But you want to do it. You want to learn, and you want to do it for him because you have never loved a man more than him. 

The book you found is a little unconventional, to say the least. You’re not sure how long it’s going to take Matt to find out, but you found the ad online and you ordered it because it is the kind of book you like, even though you haven’t read one of these in Braille before. 

Matt is good in bed; you’re not lacking anything, and you know that if you’re desperate, all you have to do is spread your legs and he’s between them in seconds, even when he’s currently halfway across the city. He always comes when you need him, physically and emotionally, and that’s what makes your relationship so much fun. 

You didn’t buy this particular book because you’re lacking something in your sex life–you could have just watched porn if that was the case–you were simply interested in how it would be to read something a little more erotic than the teaching books Matt left you with, and so you bought it. 

Amazon delivered it on the first day after ordering it, and you opened it while Matt was in court, probably arguing his way through every case, charming every juror, and intimidating the prosecution–you can only imagine his demanding tone and the way he stands with his hands on his hips, showing that Matt Murdock does not live to mess around. He does everything with precision, and it makes you clench your thighs when you think about it again.

Surprisingly, the book is easy to read, and it is good. Your fingers trace the delicate dots on the paper, your eyes closed as you visualize the scenes. With every sentence, the need in your lower stomach grows. You’re lost in another world, and you’re oh-so-horny. 

Matt comes home triumphant with another win under his belt, but he’s tired from being on his feet for so long, and he barely had any chance to eat or had coffee today, so his body is in a weird state. He needs rest and sustenance, but most of all, he needs you. Not in a sexual sense, at least not yet, he just needs some kisses, a hug, and attention. 

After some time with you, you made it mandatory for him to ask for what he wants, and while he still struggles with that sometimes, he’s grown to love your affectionate nature, and he allows you to take care of him whenever he needs it. 

That’s where you seem to have heightened senses; when it comes to his well-being, you’re always the first to recognize the signs and act accordingly.

He’s so in love, he could burst, and it makes him the happiest he has ever been.

Stepping through the door, he listens for your heartbeat. It’s slightly elevated, but nothing serious. You’re sitting on the couch, your fingers gliding over the paper, and he figures you’re learning your daily dose of Braille again. 

He only notices the slight change in the atmosphere when he drops his bag and removes his jacket to feel the air in the apartment. He takes a deep breath. Usually, you smell of his body wash and soap and some kind of flower or vanilla, but today something else seems to dominate your naturally perfect scent. And it shoots straight to his cock.

You flinch a little when he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your shoulders. His head is buried in your neck. He wasn’t wrong; the air is thick with the sweet and metallic tang of your arousal, and he licks his lip to taste it. Whatever your fingers are gliding over, it isn’t one of his textbooks. 

Still, he doesn’t act, he just relishes your warmth. He waits. You sometimes forget he can smell you and hear the changes in your heartbeat and the distant pulse between your legs when you’re aroused. It makes things more fun, but today it doesn’t seem to be because of him that you’re horny, and it makes him frown a little.

He wants to have your attention, not that stupid book. 

You cradle his cheek, but your eyes remain glued on the pages before you, which is ironic because they’re just dots, he knows that better than anyone, and yet you’re very focused on that text. 

“Hi,” you murmur. “How was your day?”

“Alright,” Matt replies, snuggling closer. “Just very long.”

The dramatic sigh goes right over your head. “Maybe you should take a shower then,” you suggest. “There’s leftovers in the fridge that you can eat.”

His lips press to your cheek. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

You are still not putting the book down.

“Take a shower with me,” he’s pulling all the registers, but you still won’t budge.

“Already did,” you say. 

He interrupted you during the best scene in the book so far, and that’s what you want to get back to. 

Matt’s lips move to your neck. “Then take another,” he says.

“My hair will get greasy.”

“Tie it up.”

“No.”

He pouts. Since when has he become worth less than a book? One that gets you wet, no less.

He gets jealous easily, he would never deny that, but he thought he would be better than a book. He never thought he could be envious of one, either, or of the language he had to learn how to read because he lost his eyesight. He never thought he’d see the day he would become envious of a few pages with dots on them, but he is, and when you happily indulge back into your back while he gets ready to shower, passing you half-naked and still not eliciting a reaction, he gets frustrated.

He makes a plan.

The next day, you’re at work, and he has some time to spare. The paperwork is done and Foggy sent him home earlier while you texted him you had to work late, and that he could cook or order food and you would just warm it up after. 

He makes his way to your side of the bed and grabs the book you took with you last night. 

“Let’s see how good you really are,” he says to himself. 

Matt always thought you to be a person with impeccable taste, but he never thought it would extend to your choice of erotica books. He’s never read the ones you usually keep around–he can’t read them, obviously–but this one, he can read, and his breath gets stuck in his lungs.

He’s done the things you’re reading about, but it still sends a flush straight to his cheeks. The rest of his blood instantly travels between his legs.

It’s not the story itself or the words, it’s the faintest scent of your arousal still lingering on the paper, and suddenly you’re right next to him, whispering these sweet words into his ear, and his hand finds its way into his slacks he hasn’t yet taken off. 

The smell of your pussy gets him high. You taste as sweet as you smell, and if he could dive deeper every time he eats you out, he would. He has explored every inch of you he can, but it can’t ever be enough, not with you. 

His hand turns into yours as he traces his fingers over the pages wildly. He’s so painfully hard; all he had to do was think about you spread out on the bed like the lady in the book, your nails raking over his skin and your cunt hugging his cock as he pounds into you hard like the man in the book does, and he’s done for.

He can’t control himself. He knows it’s wrong because it’s not just the text, it’s you he’s jerking off to like a teenage boy, but you smell so good, the memory of your voice sounds so sweet, and he can’t help but imagine the feel of your body as he works himself higher and higher and higher with his own fist until his cock aches and his balls tense up with his impending orgasm–and then it is roughly taken from him as reality seeps back in.

And it is your fault. 

“So that’s why you were so needy last night,” you say. Your voice isn’t quivering. You’re not shocked.

Your heart is pounding in your chest as you lean against the doorframe to the bedroom, and your eyes trail over your boyfriend’s disheveled frame. His cock is hard, weeping in his hand. There is pre-cum everywhere. His thighs are shaking, and the orgasm that had been building fades away. His fist doesn’t loosen, but his eyes point in your general direction as shock and embarrassment flood his cheeks. 

He looks beautiful with his cock in his hand. You’re desperate to reach out and help because he hasn’t done anything bad, has he? But then you look at the book–your book–he’s tracing his deliciously thick and calloused fingers over, and you click your tongue.

You should have known he wouldn’t let it slide that easily that you got off from a book while he was so obviously desperate the night before. 

Matt swallows. “You were so wet,” he says, his voice sounding more like a growl than a husky whisper. “You were so wet, I could smell you the second I got in the door.”

“And when you realized it wasn’t you who got me so wet?” you question. 

The mattress dips until your weight as you crawl toward him. 

He tosses the book aside. “I was jealous,” he admits. He meets you halfway in the middle of the bed, his face close to yours now. 

“Jealous?” you ask.

“Yeah, jealous.”

“Of a book?”

“Can you blame me?”

You bite your lip when he smirks at you like a devil – the devil of Hell’s Kitchen, that’s who he is, and he is yours. Always, forever, but especially right now.

He manages to look adorable yet irresistible every time; you can’t help but stare back at his cock. It’s still hard, just resting against his stomach, and he has no shame. He knows what he’s doing to you. But you’re also not having a much different effect on him, it seems, because when you reach for his face and press your lips together, he moans.

His nerves are on fire. Even the simple act of kissing manages to shoot straight to his throbbing cock, and your hands are magical as they work through his hair next, along his scalp, and down his neck where you only seem to pull him closer into you. 

He flips you over so you’re on your back underneath him. “Tell me,” he says between gentle nips to your neck, “What exactly turned you on so much about that book to get you so fucking wet without even touching yourself?” 

You want to snap at him that he was getting off on it too just as you came in, but then his hand slips into your pants and your underwear, and you moan instead. 

“And you’re wet again,” it’s a statement he makes as he smirks into your neck, his fingers parting your slick folds and testing the waters. You’re soaking, he can tell, but he already smelled it when he flipped you over. 

You arch your back into his touch, chasing more friction. He complies. His middle finger starts circling your clit. “Did watching me jerk off get you so desperate?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you breathe. 

“Oh, you’re dirty, aren’t you?” 

“Matt–“

He kisses you to shut you up, his middle finger speeding up. He paints the most colorful masterpieces over your sensitive bundle of nerves. Matt plays your body like a fiddle, and your moans are the melody. 

“What was your favorite part?”

“What?”

“The book,” he asks, “What was your favorite part?” His finger slips from your clit, between your folds, and right to your entrance. “Was it this–” 

Your eyes roll back when he inserts the first finger into your tight cunt. 

“Or when he did that–” Matt slides another finger in, curling them up at the same time to brush your G-spot. 

Your lips part in a lewd moan. “Fuck!” Your fist tightens around the silk sheets. “Matt, please…” 

He keeps fingering you at an agonizingly slow pace, just like the scene in the book, but he puts the cherry on top when he ghosts his thumb over your clit. 

“What was it?” he asks, head dipping to capture your lips. “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me and I’ll show you something sweeter than fiction.”

His silver tongue will be the death of you one day in more ways than one. 

He thrusts his finger faster now, slowly reaching the pace you yearn for. With every thrust, he massages the spongy spot inside of you just right, and you’re moaning and whimpering beneath him as he works you closer and closer to the edge within minutes. 

He knows your body inside and out, and you fall victim to his games every time. He wants to hear the cacophony of your moans; he thrives off of hearing the effect he has on you, and yet it’s never enough. He wants more. He’s greedy. He wants to listen to you moan and scream for him until your voice is hoarse, the sheets are soaked and your pussy is stuffed to the brim with his cum. He’s only satisfied then, but it doesn’t last long because as soon as he smells you again, he will worship at your feet all over again until you’re a cockdrunk mess and can’t walk straight for a week. 

Your eyes fall on the book that’s now on the floor, his lips ruthlessly attacking your neck, his fingers moving faster and faster and faster–your orgasm is about to crash in, but you manage to cry out, “Page fifty-eight!”

Matt stops, pulling away slightly to feel your eyes on him. His hazel eyes turn black. “Is that so?” he asks. 

You nod. 

“Alright…” He pulls his fingers out of you. 

You scramble to get out of your clothes while he does the same, but he’s impatient, and soon enough your shirt is a ripped mess on the floor, and he’s towering over you again.

Your hands trail over his chiseled torso and the many scars that never fail to fill you with wonder for the man he is, the wars he fought, and the battles he survives, and you take a moment to feel each other up. It’s always like this; no matter how intense it gets between you in bed, the first few seconds are spent with you touching each other, feeling the goosebumps you cause on each other’s skin, and only when you’re fully satisfied in that regard do you focus on what other needs you find brewing within you.

He kisses you hard, his hand wrapping around your neck possessively, and he pulls you closer. You moan. His tongue slides into your mouth. You surrender to his control. 

His large hand keeps your thighs spread wide open as he thrusts his cock into you. He doesn’t wait; like on page fifty-eight, he thrusts into you, and he throws your leg over his shoulder without a warning or a moment to adjust.

You wrap the other leg around his waist. The pace he keeps is brutal, and your breath gets stuck in your throat as you let out a lustful cry, followed by a string of curses because damn him for knowing exactly what to do. 

This is better than anything you could possibly read. The angle is perfection, and with every hard thrust, he buries his cock to the hilt inside of you. He fills you up to the brim, and every time he pulls out, he makes sure to drive back in just as fast. 

Tears are streaming down your cheeks, but you don’t want him to stop. He keeps stroking the fire inside your belly. Your head is void of any thoughts. His moans reach your ears, and you clench around him; he always sounds so sweet when he’s being vocal for you, showing you he’s enjoying this as much as you are, and it encourages you to let every last sound tumble from your lips. 

Skin slaps against skin in the dimly light bedroom. The silk of the sheets sticks to your sweaty body. Matt hoists you up suddenly as he gets on his knees, and that wasn’t in the book, but he still pulls you forward to meet his cock ruthlessly. Your back arches so far, you feel like you’re floating. Luckily, he thinks about putting a pillow underneath to make it more comfortable for you. Though it’s not the ache in your muscle you can focus on. 

Your walls contract, hugging him even tighter, and the way he throbs sends shivers down your spine at the same time his moans cause your body to shiver even more. 

The coil in your stomach is so tight, and with every thrust, it keeps growing bigger and bigger and bigger until the glass is threatening to overflow. He doesn’t look like he intends on stopping, and when you open your eyes, the sight is enough to make you convulse underneath him. 

His head is thrown back. You’re half-resting on his muscular thighs. With every thrust of his cock into your tight cunt, his abs tense up. The light falls upon his body, and he’s glowing brightly in the colorful serenade of the billboard outside. He thrusts harder and harder, and his muscles do the lord’s work in stimulating you. He’s absolutely divine, and you could stare at him forever without getting sick of him. Especially sweaty, with his eyebrows furrowed and lost so deep in pleasure as the noise of the world fades into the background, he looks ephemeral. You want to stay like this with him forever. 

His hand splays across your stomach, pushing down where his cock seems to be, and the added pressure makes you clench down on him so tight, you’re sure you might burst any second now. Feeling his cock bulge your belly is too much. 

His thumb rubs rapid circles over your clit, and his pace falters. He falls back over you, hugging your thigh around his waist as he turns to deeper strokes, and you try to lean into his touch as much as you can, meeting his thrusts. 

Your jaw slacks, moaning into his ear. He kisses you in return, his hand coming back to rest around your neck, and your vision blurs with the pressure in every part of your body. 

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he grunts, “I know you want to. C’mon, come for me.”

You tangle your hand in the pillow above your head, the other digging into the skin of his back and surely drawing blood, but it’s all you can do when the full power of the held-back orgasm crashes into you, and all lights go out. 

Your body convulses, your walls flutter uncontrollably around him, and you are sure that your scream echoes in the room and reaches your neighbor’s apartment, but it feels too good not the let the world know the name of the man who is making you feel like heaven and hell at the same time, driving you over the edge like a man on a mission–because that is precisely what he is. 

His fingers dig into your thighs, leaving their marks, as do his lips on your neck. He grunts as your orgasm washes over you. He fucks you through it, the tightness engulfing his cock just right, and with one last hard thrust to your G-spot, his legs shake and he comes too, his hot seed spilling into your needy cunt as you take all he can humanly give you, sounds, liquids and all. 

You find his lips, swallowing his moan of your name. The kiss is more a clashing of teeth and tongue instead of anything else, but the closeness is exactly what you both need. 

Matt fucks his cum deep into you as he always does, making sure not a single drop is spent, and only when you’re about to squirm away from the overstimulation, he stops stroking your clit and stops thrusting, and he drops on you. 

Your lungs open to grasp a deep breath. “Holy shit!” you choke out. 

He takes a moment to return to his body. The world spins until it doesn’t, and he can finally move his limbs again. Your heartbeat coaxes him back to consciousness, allowing him to lift his head and relish in the way your hands cup his sweaty face. 

He’s never himself after sex, it takes a few minutes, and you’re more than ready to be the one to coax him through the aftershocks. You always do. 

“You okay?” you ask him softly.

He nods. “Fuck,” is all he can say. 

“Yeah.”

You cradle his head in the crook of your neck. Silence settles back in between you. 

“I love you,” he whispers. 

You smile, pressing a kiss on his scalp. “And I love you,” you answer. 

Another beat of silence passes. “Oh,” he says, and you can feel him smile against your collarbone this time when he tells you, “Next time you read porn, make sure to tell me exactly what you’re reading so we can do that again.”

A chuckle passes your lips. “Oh, Matty,” you stroke his hair, “That can be arranged.”

Matt Murdock Smut Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @lina-mar @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @mattkinsella @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky

[persephonewritessometimes]

Up Against The Window | Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Matt punishes you. That's it. That's the fic.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), unprotected p in v, cream pie, cum eating, oral f!receiving, slight Dom!Matt (but he's also soft), slight exhibitionism (they're doing it against a window), use of "good girl", mention of masturbation & sex toys, aftercare, basically PWP

Word Count: ~2k

A/n: I'm on my period and seeing the DDBA set pics made me feel... things. I'm sorry. This is just porn. No, actually, I'm not sorry. We're going right into it under the cut, so be prepared. (Also, this gif, I-)

If you look close enough, you can count the raindrops pattering against the window outside. If you squint your eyes just a little more, you can see your reflection in them. Jaw slack, hooded eyes, and the top of your dress pulled below your breasts. Your aching nipples press against the cold glass of the window, and with every thrust of his thick cock between your slick folds, you find yourself pressed harder against it. 

“Fuck,” you moan, reaching forward to brace yourself. The tip of his cock brushes that spot inside of you—that spongy spot only he knows how to find because he can sense it. 

His calloused fingertips rub circles over your abused clit, the bundle of nerves burning with the sheer overstimulation, but God, you love it. 

You’re aware that the whole of Hell’s Kitchen could see you like this if they only took a peek through the window. They would see you with your legs spread, dress bunched up around your waist, and Matt Murdock’s cock buried so deep inside of you, you can feel him bulging your stomach. 

He’s pounding you relentlessly. When you woke up this morning, this is what you craved. You needed him biblically, but he wasn’t home. He went to the office early, allowing you to sleep in, but as kind as that was of him, it didn’t take away the ache you felt in your cunt from not being able to have him early in the morning, tangled in the sheets as he sloppily fucks into you from behind. You didn’t get to wrap your legs around his head while he ate you out for breakfast, almost suffocating him between your thighs. You didn’t get to feel his fingers curling deep within you, bringing you closer and closer to the brink of orgasm. And you didn’t get to ride his cock until you were full of his seed. 

You had to reach into the bedside drawer and pull out the vibrator you keep there for lonely mornings and nights. Matt doesn’t mind when you do it, but you know better than lying to him about it.

This morning, you touched yourself, making yourself come to the thought of him, and his scent stuck to the sheets. You moaned his name so loudly, for a moment, you thought the neighbors would come knocking. 

He heard you. Across Hell’s Kitchen, Matt heard you. At first, he thought you might be in danger when he heard his name slip your lips, but the way you said his name quickly gave it away. And he wasn’t happy with the picture it projected into his mind, the smell of your arousal thick in the air. 

He had to have you, and when you came over for lunch, he didn’t hesitate to push you up against the window and fuck you senselessly for everyone to see. 

With every thrust, your nipples rub against the cold glass, and it adds to the inferno building in your lower abdomen. He’s playing your body like a fiddle. Every thrust, every flick of his fingers against your clit is calculated, aimed to please and drive you crazy to the point you lose your mind and slip into the endless abyss of ecstasy. He wants you to scream his name again, and he wants to soak it all up while you come all over his cock. 

His hand finds yours against the window. Your fingers intertwine. As animalistic as this is, there is a certain level of intimacy that only two people who truly love each other can share. 

Matt grunts into the crook of your neck. Your sweat tastes salty on the tip of his tongue. He reaches around your body with his other arm, keeping you upright. 

“Do you have any idea what the fuck you’re doing to me?” he growls. “Touching yourself, screaming my name for the whole neighborhood to hear, thinking I wouldn’t hear you?”

You love it when he gets like this. So… possessive, yet he doesn’t care that you’re pressed up against the window with open blinds, and you’re almost naked. But he knows better than to let anyone see you. Even while fucking you, his senses are on high alert. The thrill is still exciting though, and if you were to get caught, you wouldn’t even care. You’re not ashamed to let the world know who’s making you feel so good every day and every night. 

He grabs a hold of your hair and hauls your body back. “Answer me,” he says. 

“Fuck, Matthew!” you cry out again when his cock drives into you at such an angle, stars take over your vision. “I’m sorry,” you whimper. “I shouldn’t have… I just needed you.”

“You needed me?” his voice takes on a sweeter tone, but it’s mocking. You know he’s mocking you. 

“So badly,” you answer. 

“You needed me so badly you couldn’t wait?”

“I’m sorry. Please, I—”

“Shh,” he shuts you up by hauling you in for a kiss, your back now pressed flat against his muscular chest. You can feel each of his abs straining with every thrust. 

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Matt breathes into your mouth as your tongues clash, “I’m going to fill up your pussy until it’s overflowing with my cum, and you’re going to take it like the good girl you are, and maybe then I’ll let you come.”

The moan that escapes your throat is as lewd as it is broken. 

“Are we clear, sweetheart? Use your words, c’mon.” He accentuates every single word with a harsh thrust against your G-spot. 

Your fingers clench around his at the same time your walls clench around his cock, trapping him there. Your hands are still tightly intertwined at your side. Your moan comes gurgled, but you manage to say, “Yes.”

“That’s my girl,” he says, and the smirk in his voice is audible. 

You catch yourself against the window again, and he speeds up. You are on the edge, but you know that if you come now, you will never hear the end of it. The coil in your stomach turns into a painful nod. He rubs at your clit like a madman, and his cock drives even deeper. You don’t know how it is possible. He’s so thick, you should be in pain, but you are nowhere near close to your breaking point. 

This is what you wanted, and he is giving it all to you. 

“Matthew, please,” you find yourself begging. You hate begging, you hate pleading with him because it gets you nowhere, but you don’t know how much longer you can hold off. The avalanche is about to crash into you. 

Matt delivers a slap to your bare cunt, and you howl. 

“So fucking perfect,” he murmurs as he pulls your lips against his again. “I love you,” he’s breathless, and the way his cock pulsates inside of you tells you that he is close. 

You choke out, “I love you.”

“You’re mine.”

“Yours.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna–”

“I know.”

He kisses you to silence the shout that threatens to escape him, and his hot cum spurts into your tight walls. He fills you to the brim, his orgasm dragging on for what feels like an eternity, and he’s the match that sets you on fire completely.

Just when you think he will finally have mercy on you, he pulls out. You want to cry at the sudden emptiness. 

He can sense your disdain. “It’s okay,” he coos, “you can come. I just need to taste you when you do.”

That’s enough to make you weak in the knees. Matt turns you around, forcing your back against the window, and now it’s your ass on display for the whole city to see. You still can’t find it in yourself to care though. 

He throws your leg over his shoulder, pulls you closer, and places his mouth right on your cunt. You throw your head back. His lips suction around your clit, softly at first, but then he sucks as if his life depends on it. As if he will die if he doesn’t get to taste your cum on his tongue and drown in you. 

Your fingers tangle in his hair. He lets you. You’re so close to the finish line. The way he licks and sucks at your swollen folds is overwhelming yet not enough at the same time. It’s torture.

The coil starts to tighten again, more forceful this time, and before you know it, you’re rocking your hips against his mouth mercilessly, chasing that sweet release he denied you before. 

You come, crying his name as you cover his face in a mixture of you and him, and sweat. Your legs shake. Your lungs burn, and you can’t see anything but white light coming right at you. It’s an explosion straight from hell. 

“Okay, easy,” you can faintly hear him say, but you’re too far gone to notice. 

Matt catches you in his arms before you can collapse on the dirty office floor. “Shh,” he breathes into your hair, “You did so well, sweetheart. You’re okay. I’m so proud of you.”

You cling to him, your fingers digging into his suit jacket. You’re still burning. Your clit pulsates, his cum and your arousal are both dripping down the inside of your thighs, and you’re shaking. You’re a mess of cum and tears of pleasure in his strong arms; your brain refuses to function. 

He gently pulls your dress back up to cover your bare chest, and he pulls it down over the lower half of your body. “Just breathe,” he coaxes.

It’s hard to breathe when the man who is holding you so gently in his arms rocked your world not even a minute ago. When the same man who is stroking your back just ate his cum out of your pussy and got off on it. When the same man who is telling you he loves you just called you his good girl as he pushed you up against the window, breasts all out, and fucked you for touching yourself before coming to visit him. It’s hard to breathe when the orgasm he gave you broke you like a fragile vase on marble floors. 

You don’t know who to thank for bringing Matt into your life, but you are certainly not complaining. That is the last thing you would ever do—complain. 

Matt pulls you away from his neck slightly, grabbing your face with his large hands. He’s sweaty, his hair is a mess, and God, he looks so good. You lick your dry bottom lip. There’s blood, you can taste it. 

He tilts his head. You’re not the only one aware of the metallic taste in your mouth. He can smell it. “You bit your lip,” he says, touching his thumb over the cut. “Are you okay?”

The guilt on his face almost makes you bawl. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m okay.”

“I didn’t hurt you?”

“No.”

He listens to your heartbeat. You aren’t lying. You would never lie to him. 

“Thank God,” he murmurs before pulling you back into his arms. 

You bury your face in the crook of his neck. He took it out of you. It’s merely noon, and you’re already beyond exhausted. But it was worth it, in the end. It’s always worth it when it’s Matt. 

You take a shaky breath. His fingers dance against your scalp. Your eyes roll back into your head. The way you purr reminds him of a cat. “I think—” you say. “I think you fucked out my brain.”

That elicits a laugh from him. “Alright, sweetheart. Maybe you should call in sick for the rest of the day,” he says. 

“Hm. And you?”

“I’ll tell Foggy and Karen that I had to leave to take care of my sick girlfriend. We’ll get you home, and then I’m gonna spoil you.”

You smile. “You sure they won’t be mad at you?”

“Nah,” he kisses your forehead, “Nelson, Murdock, and Page can survive without me for half a day.”

And he doesn’t have to tell you twice. 

Matt Murdock Smut Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @mattkinsella @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617