(slash the DIRTY WEIRD THREESOME FRICK FRACK I DONE CHICKENED OUT OF IN THE MIDDLE. how does matt react when he realizes OH NO both of 'em want Dat Ass?)
"I have no reason to kill you," Fisk said. Matt always forgot how low his voice was.
"Great," Matt said: he was still backing up, because - because the crucial thing was to keep out of Fisk's reach. "Desire isn't always reasonable, so -"
Vanessa Fisk came out of the bathroom in a cloud of - steam, sweet hot steam, and her hair, wet and hot and still smelling most strongly of some clean, simple flower - and sighed like they'd disappointed her.
"I told you, darling, really blind," she said, which was - oh. He tried not to make a face, and he also tried very hard not to look irritated or bored; this particular "test" had gotten old ten years ago.
"NLP," Matt said, sing-song, familiar, because he might as well, and sometimes patter distracted Wilso - Fisk. He might be able to work his way around to the door, take off for the night: breathing hurt, and had been hurting since Friday. He didn't particularly want to engage in a fight about Wilson Fisk's wife. "If that's a - a thing that you - you can - there are people you can hire," he said.
"Not quite," Vanessa said, and there was something...deliberate, in her tone. "You can't see me - your loss, if I do say so - so there's nothing improper, here," and Fisk growled, low and unhappy.
Matt went with "relax," even though that was probably the least helpful thing he might've said, but honestly: "no light perception, visual stimuli -" he waved a hand "- doesn't do anything."
"For you," Vanessa hummed. "But we can certainly see you." Her voice had gone low and speculative; her body was - she'd wrapped a towel round her hair, Matt could smell the cotton of it, but there wasn't anything covering her body, which meant that the clean salt-musk of...arousal, that was. That he could smell.
"No," Matt said, and wished for the power to take it back almost before it had left his mouth: he hadn't said no, before, not here, not like this, and - and he wasn't sure what would happen. But - but to - if he understood what she was suggesting, he wouldn't -
"No?" Vanessa asked; she was walking closer, with the slow and confident gait of a naked woman (they got hippier, when they lost clothes; Matt didn't know why). She caught his tie in one hand, standing far too close; Fisk remained statue-still, one hand in a loose fist. If Matt hadn't been paying very close attention he would've missed the - the signs of his arousal. Matt swallowed, hard. Her nipples brushed the loose folds of his dress shirt: "I do admire your taste in clothes," she said. "But that's not what I admire most: you should take them off."
"Not your best line," Matt said.
Vanessa laughed, tipping her face to his throat; the exhalations of her laughter tickled his throat. "Does it need to be, I wonder?" she murmured. "I've told Wilson how lovely you are; don't make me a liar, Matthew."
Re: Fisk/Matt/Vanessa - Mistaken betrayal 2.5
"I have no reason to kill you," Fisk said. Matt always forgot how low his voice was.
"Great," Matt said: he was still backing up, because - because the crucial thing was to keep out of Fisk's reach. "Desire isn't always reasonable, so -"
Vanessa Fisk came out of the bathroom in a cloud of - steam, sweet hot steam, and her hair, wet and hot and still smelling most strongly of some clean, simple flower - and sighed like they'd disappointed her.
"I told you, darling, really blind," she said, which was - oh. He tried not to make a face, and he also tried very hard not to look irritated or bored; this particular "test" had gotten old ten years ago.
"NLP," Matt said, sing-song, familiar, because he might as well, and sometimes patter distracted Wilso - Fisk. He might be able to work his way around to the door, take off for the night: breathing hurt, and had been hurting since Friday. He didn't particularly want to engage in a fight about Wilson Fisk's wife. "If that's a - a thing that you - you can - there are people you can hire," he said.
"Not quite," Vanessa said, and there was something...deliberate, in her tone. "You can't see me - your loss, if I do say so - so there's nothing improper, here," and Fisk growled, low and unhappy.
Matt went with "relax," even though that was probably the least helpful thing he might've said, but honestly: "no light perception, visual stimuli -" he waved a hand "- doesn't do anything."
"For you," Vanessa hummed. "But we can certainly see you." Her voice had gone low and speculative; her body was - she'd wrapped a towel round her hair, Matt could smell the cotton of it, but there wasn't anything covering her body, which meant that the clean salt-musk of...arousal, that was. That he could smell.
"No," Matt said, and wished for the power to take it back almost before it had left his mouth: he hadn't said no, before, not here, not like this, and - and he wasn't sure what would happen. But - but to - if he understood what she was suggesting, he wouldn't -
"No?" Vanessa asked; she was walking closer, with the slow and confident gait of a naked woman (they got hippier, when they lost clothes; Matt didn't know why). She caught his tie in one hand, standing far too close; Fisk remained statue-still, one hand in a loose fist. If Matt hadn't been paying very close attention he would've missed the - the signs of his arousal. Matt swallowed, hard. Her nipples brushed the loose folds of his dress shirt: "I do admire your taste in clothes," she said. "But that's not what I admire most: you should take them off."
"Not your best line," Matt said.
Vanessa laughed, tipping her face to his throat; the exhalations of her laughter tickled his throat. "Does it need to be, I wonder?" she murmured. "I've told Wilson how lovely you are; don't make me a liar, Matthew."