thoughts should probably read...uh...useless porn? idk.
The first night they invite him to dinner, he'd brought - oh, some Arbor Mist peach-wine-cooler thing with a bow on it, right? And Vanessa had no idea what it was, but she just knew it was gonna be disgusting. Fisk recognized it immediately, because he grew up like Matt did, he knows 7-11 wine mom coolers, so he's like "...all right, you wanna disrespect the food, fine, I'll bring out the good crystal, you're the one with the hypersensitive tastebuds."
(Look, if you ain't never got yourself buzzed on 7-11 wine, it. uh. it gets everybody wine-drunk way faster than they anticipate, and it will leave you with the worst hangover on god's green earth?) So Vanessa drinks it with them, and they're weirdly good sports about Matt's fuck-you, and Vanessa in particular wakes up with a hangover, a legitimate horrifying hangover, and she texts Matt pitifully about it.
Which, I think, is when Matt would go... "oh no" because here's this woman who got giggly and ridiculous last night before she tied him up and blew him until he couldn't see straight, and now she's texting him about how his gas station wine wine got her so hungover she can't see straight.
(Vanessa knows that the best lies are the ones based on truth, and it's all true: she might not have shown him how hungover she was, a month ago, but now? It's true, but it's the kind of truth that makes him stop angling to make sure he's the closest one to the nearest exit when he's in a room with her.)
**
So a couple of weeks after Vanessa first suggested "handling" his senses, Matt came to dinner. (Everyone understood this to be a night of truce, in the uneasy peace that they were making for themselves; at least, until about two in the morning, which was when Matthew usually woke up enough to get uncomfortable and leave.)
He was uneasier than normal. Distracted; unable to focus. She wound up raising her eyebrows at Wilson halfway through the meal: was there some disaster taking place, outside the penthouse, that might have set him off his game? but Wilson shook his head, so slightly: no. Their boy was just a mess. (Their boy, Vanessa thought: oh, dear.)
"What time is it?" Matt asked, finally.
"Quarter of seven," Wilson said. "If there's somewhere you need - "
"No," he said, faintly, and wiped his mouth with a hand. "I. No. I."
**
"Oh." She didn't meant to let it slip out, and she certainly didn't mean to let it slip out in such an - obviously hungry, intent tone, but. But Matthew had brought earplugs.
"You said. You'd. I'd." He licked his lips; his breathing was already visibly unsteady. "If you." He shook himself, and sniffed, once, and said: "I need to make a call by nine, and I want my hands free."
Wilson walked to Matt's side, slow and careful to telegraph his movements, and tilted his head up, and kissed him. Matt melted into it, which was a sign of just how serious this was: he rarely lost himself in physical affection before an orgasm. He came out of it a little steadier, it looked like: Vanessa met Wilson's eyes. It wasn't ideal; to think that he'd surprised them! but at the same time, he might not muster the courage again, and she did hate to say no to him.
"Yes," she said, and "yes," Wilson said, and Matt looked like he would fall down.
"Just," she said, softly, "just let us take care of you, sweetheart."
Matt buried his face in Wilson's shoulder.
**
He'd been half-hard before they managed to get him undressed, and it had been distracting enough that Vanessa had found herself without a concrete plan: it was so rare to see him so undone, this quickly.
Wilson had stepped in, though; he'd pulled Matt to sit on his lap, straddling his thighs, one arm tight around his chest to hold him up.
"Matthew," he said, close to Matt's ear, "what are your words?"
"Green yellow red," Matt said, automatically, "but will I need them if you two are just going to sit and stare all night?"
**
He'd started panting for air when he'd put the plugs in, and he'd clutched at Wilson's forearms like a drowning man, and she'd watched his cock swell and twitch even before she kissed him, started tracing careful and delicate patterns on his body. He was moaning on every exhale, and breathing fast: Matt was generally vocal in bed, but equally stubborn about covering his own mouth with a hand or a forearm, to muffle the noise. This time? She licked his pretty cock and all that self-control vanished. He twitched and yelled and clung to Wilson's hands and curled his feet under Wilson's shins like he was holding on for dear life.
It was extraordinary, and beautiful, and when she bit a nipple and he made the closest noise to scream she'd ever heard from him (including the time she'd seen him take a three-inch knife to the thigh), she tapped his thigh, three times, and pulled away. He was gasping like he was dying.
"What," he managed; she nodded and Wilson pulled the earplugs out. "I didn't tap out," he said. Slurred. Cracked. "I."
"I did," she said, and cupped his face with her hands.
"What did I -? No, I can do better," he said.
"You're doing so well already," Wilson said. Matthew groped behind him, caught Wilson's head, leaned back for a kiss; there was a shock. He so rarely initiated physical affection: oh, Vanessa thought. We have you, sweetheart. And then, more troubling: and I want to keep you, I think.
**
She brought him water.
His hands shook; Wilson helped him drink a cup, and kissed him again, and bit at his throat.
She straddled Matt, angled him into her body; he lasted less than two minutes.
**
She passed him his phone at quarter to nine. He'd slumped into a dozy half-sleep, curled up on the big bed, and when she reminded him, he jerked to attention. "Oh," he said. He called a number. "Yeah, it's - it's fine," he said: he didn't sound quite so slurred, anymore.
**
It was the first night he didn't leave in the middle of the night.
Re: Fisk/Matt/Vanessa - Mistaken betrayal THOUGHTS?
The first night they invite him to dinner, he'd brought - oh, some Arbor Mist peach-wine-cooler thing with a bow on it, right? And Vanessa had no idea what it was, but she just knew it was gonna be disgusting. Fisk recognized it immediately, because he grew up like Matt did, he knows 7-11 wine mom coolers, so he's like "...all right, you wanna disrespect the food, fine, I'll bring out the good crystal, you're the one with the hypersensitive tastebuds."
(Look, if you ain't never got yourself buzzed on 7-11 wine, it. uh. it gets everybody wine-drunk way faster than they anticipate, and it will leave you with the worst hangover on god's green earth?) So Vanessa drinks it with them, and they're weirdly good sports about Matt's fuck-you, and Vanessa in particular wakes up with a hangover, a legitimate horrifying hangover, and she texts Matt pitifully about it.
Which, I think, is when Matt would go... "oh no" because here's this woman who got giggly and ridiculous last night before she tied him up and blew him until he couldn't see straight, and now she's texting him about how his gas station wine wine got her so hungover she can't see straight.
(Vanessa knows that the best lies are the ones based on truth, and it's all true: she might not have shown him how hungover she was, a month ago, but now? It's true, but it's the kind of truth that makes him stop angling to make sure he's the closest one to the nearest exit when he's in a room with her.)
**
So a couple of weeks after Vanessa first suggested "handling" his senses, Matt came to dinner. (Everyone understood this to be a night of truce, in the uneasy peace that they were making for themselves; at least, until about two in the morning, which was when Matthew usually woke up enough to get uncomfortable and leave.)
He was uneasier than normal. Distracted; unable to focus. She wound up raising her eyebrows at Wilson halfway through the meal: was there some disaster taking place, outside the penthouse, that might have set him off his game? but Wilson shook his head, so slightly: no. Their boy was just a mess. (Their boy, Vanessa thought: oh, dear.)
"What time is it?" Matt asked, finally.
"Quarter of seven," Wilson said. "If there's somewhere you need - "
"No," he said, faintly, and wiped his mouth with a hand. "I. No. I."
**
"Oh." She didn't meant to let it slip out, and she certainly didn't mean to let it slip out in such an - obviously hungry, intent tone, but. But Matthew had brought earplugs.
"You said. You'd. I'd." He licked his lips; his breathing was already visibly unsteady. "If you." He shook himself, and sniffed, once, and said: "I need to make a call by nine, and I want my hands free."
Wilson walked to Matt's side, slow and careful to telegraph his movements, and tilted his head up, and kissed him. Matt melted into it, which was a sign of just how serious this was: he rarely lost himself in physical affection before an orgasm. He came out of it a little steadier, it looked like: Vanessa met Wilson's eyes. It wasn't ideal; to think that he'd surprised them! but at the same time, he might not muster the courage again, and she did hate to say no to him.
"Yes," she said, and "yes," Wilson said, and Matt looked like he would fall down.
"Just," she said, softly, "just let us take care of you, sweetheart."
Matt buried his face in Wilson's shoulder.
**
He'd been half-hard before they managed to get him undressed, and it had been distracting enough that Vanessa had found herself without a concrete plan: it was so rare to see him so undone, this quickly.
Wilson had stepped in, though; he'd pulled Matt to sit on his lap, straddling his thighs, one arm tight around his chest to hold him up.
"Matthew," he said, close to Matt's ear, "what are your words?"
"Green yellow red," Matt said, automatically, "but will I need them if you two are just going to sit and stare all night?"
**
He'd started panting for air when he'd put the plugs in, and he'd clutched at Wilson's forearms like a drowning man, and she'd watched his cock swell and twitch even before she kissed him, started tracing careful and delicate patterns on his body. He was moaning on every exhale, and breathing fast: Matt was generally vocal in bed, but equally stubborn about covering his own mouth with a hand or a forearm, to muffle the noise. This time? She licked his pretty cock and all that self-control vanished. He twitched and yelled and clung to Wilson's hands and curled his feet under Wilson's shins like he was holding on for dear life.
It was extraordinary, and beautiful, and when she bit a nipple and he made the closest noise to scream she'd ever heard from him (including the time she'd seen him take a three-inch knife to the thigh), she tapped his thigh, three times, and pulled away. He was gasping like he was dying.
"What," he managed; she nodded and Wilson pulled the earplugs out. "I didn't tap out," he said. Slurred. Cracked. "I."
"I did," she said, and cupped his face with her hands.
"What did I -? No, I can do better," he said.
"You're doing so well already," Wilson said. Matthew groped behind him, caught Wilson's head, leaned back for a kiss; there was a shock. He so rarely initiated physical affection: oh, Vanessa thought. We have you, sweetheart. And then, more troubling: and I want to keep you, I think.
**
She brought him water.
His hands shook; Wilson helped him drink a cup, and kissed him again, and bit at his throat.
She straddled Matt, angled him into her body; he lasted less than two minutes.
**
She passed him his phone at quarter to nine. He'd slumped into a dozy half-sleep, curled up on the big bed, and when she reminded him, he jerked to attention. "Oh," he said. He called a number. "Yeah, it's - it's fine," he said: he didn't sound quite so slurred, anymore.
**
It was the first night he didn't leave in the middle of the night.