charlie

You can't remember the last voluntary movement you made. Time and memory have since become a foreign concept. There's only before the AC died and after, the latter of which stretches long and molten and winding around you, like pulled taffy.

"I'm going to die here," you mumble. "M'gonna die here and— and they're gonna find my body. And it's going to be"—you lift your head, realizing you've been muffling your voice in the pillow—"fused to this mattress."

There's space though, at least. Regarding the mattress in question, the two twin beds—Foggy's and Matt's—have been shoved together since April, a dubious project held in place by the wall on one side and dogged hope on the other. Even the sheets don't match—one's navy and one's a truly tragic shade of beige.

Right now, you're sprawled out and sweating across the seam where they meet, wearing nothing but a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt of Foggy's.

"Aw," Matt remarks from his desk. He's got his earbuds around his neck, one of them plugged in, listening to what you're pretty sure is a contracts textbook. In this heat. For fun. The angle with which he's leaning back in his chair makes you nervous. "Maybe the RA'll put a little memorial up. 'Here she melted. She was okay.'"

"Okay?!"

"Ah, I didn't wanna oversell it."

Oh, Matt.

Even after months of dating Foggy, you can't seem to parse Matt completely. Your boyfriend's best friend has never been fully hostile to you, and you know these little jokes are supposed to be just him teasing, but in actuality—you can never tell with Matt. One moment he's okay, one moment he's provoking you again: joking that you're stealing Foggy from him, teasing you, ignoring you. Bumping into you and crowding you. You're not even sure what you've done to him.

It's not like you can bring it up to Foggy, though. Just thinking of all the little things that've made you come to this conclusion is enough to know that you're going to sound crazy and delusional if you do.

Right now though: if you tease Matt back hard enough, you can ignore the fact that his shirt is off. Not that you're trying hard to not notice too much about his unclothed body. It's just— his skin's faintly sheened in the syrupy light coming through the window.

You'd grumbled about it: how guys always seemed to lose that battle so easily just because they had the option.

But it's okay—you can be normal, right? It's just bodies. It's just bodies.

"Hey," Foggy grunts from beside you. He's shirtless, too, clad only in basketball shorts. "She's more than okay, thank you very much. She's the love of my life and she'll be remembered as such."

You bat your eyes at him exaggeratedly. "Aw, Fog."

"'Here she melted. She was pretty hot.'" He turns his head back to grin at you, eyes crinkling. "Matt's just dramatic."

"You're both dramatic," Matt says.

"Says the man who pointed the single fan at himself," you shoot back.

The oscillating fan has indeed been hogged, rotating by the corner of Matt's desk in agreement. It ruffles the dark hair at his forehead before swiveling away again.

"I'm studying," he says mildly. As if that has anything to do with anything.

"You're hogging the breeze is what you are, Murdock."

Under the thick, stifling comforter of heat, though, it only just then occurs to you that Foggy's hand has been on your thigh, rubbing along the inside of it.

"Hey," he says to you, rolling onto his side to face you. His eyes are half-lidded.

You know this look. You know exactly what it means. It's the one that usually precedes him kissing your neck hotly and talking you out of whatever you were doing.

And the thing is, there's actually nothing you'd want more than to pull Foggy's shorts down now and ride him, but fuck. Matt's right there.

"Foggy. No."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your hand's saying plenty." You grab his wrist and lift it off your leg, depositing it back on his own chest. "It's a thousand degrees," you say, and then lower your voice in warning, "Matt's right there."

Foggy makes a sound like a deflating balloon. "Matt doesn't care. He's basically furniture right now. He's a lamp." And louder, he calls, "No offense, buddy."

"None taken." And then lighter, "I've endured worse from him."

"See?" Foggy's hand migrates back, and this time it lands on your hip, squeezing through the fabric of your shorts. "Lamp says it's fine."

"Yeah. You deal with the wandering hands for a few hours. I've had years of this."

Ignoring Matt, you swat at Foggy again, harder, trying for propriety, and he retreats with a dramatic wince.

"You are so— it's too hot, Fog. I'll literally melt. Do you wanna lose your girlfriend to, um— entropy?"

"Thermodynamics," Matt contributes from the distance, needling.

"Thank you, Lamp."

He shrugs. Foggy flops onto his back with a theatrical groan, arms thrown wide.

For a while, there's nothing but the faint whirring off the fan, and the muffled sounds of the dormitory drifting through the open window. Someone's playing Ke$ha downstairs.

You close your eyes. It's so, so hot. Your thoughts go slow and syrupy, circling into the ever-perilous drain of sleep.

"...anyway," Foggy's saying. And you realize that you missed the start of some conversation he and Matt have drifted into. "I'm just saying, you can't cite that for that proposition."

"But you're thinking of the Seventh Circuit dissent, not the—"

"Oh, the dissent, he says—"

"It's a famous one, Foggy."

"Famous doesn't mean right."

"Neither does loud."

You crack one eye open and find that they're grinning at each other. Jesus. It's your favorite thing about them, at least: the way they bicker like an old married couple that secretly enjoy it. Foggy catches you looking and winks.

"Back me up here, babe."

You shudder at the name. "I have no idea what you're talking about." Planting a kiss on his cheek, you say, "And I refuse to learn."

Matt barks a laugh at that. "Good, you know Foggy's a worse influence than he lets on."

"Oh, I'm the bad influence? That's rich coming from—" Foggy cuts himself off, waving a hand. "You know what, no. I'm not taking that bait."

"What bait?" you ask.

"Matt-bait. He does this thing where, you know, he says something provocative then he sits back and lets you—"

"Oh, come on, man. I don't do 'a thing.'"

"—crash and burn and flail. You know what this reminds me of?" Foggy rolls his head toward you, conspiratorial. "There was a time sophomore year— wait, was it sophomore year? Matt, was it sophomore year when the power went out in Carman the whole heatwave?"

"Yeah, uh," Matt taps his fingers on the table, licking his lips, "freshman year, I think?"

"Right, right. And we had to sleep with the door open and there was this guy from down the hall who kept walking by in his boxers—"

"I don't think he was even wearing boxers."

"Wow, I blocked that part out, thanks for that." Foggy waves a hand. "Anyway, we drank endless shots because Matt kept saying, you know, I don't even think you can handle it, over and over, so I kept doing it and he kept doing it, over and over, and then we ended up—" Foggy stops. "Uh. Anyway, it was a weird night."

Matt's fingers have stopped drumming on the desk.

"Ended up what?" you ask lazily, only half-listening.

"Nothing. Just— just talking. We stayed up talking."

You look between them, and find Matt grinning, like the cat who ate the canary.

"What?" you say, and now you're propping up on your elbow, curious. "What happened?"

"Nothing! Matt's just being— Man, you're being weird."

"I'm not being anything!" Matt leans back in his chair and tips it back onto two legs. His mouth's curled at the corners. "I'm just saying. It was a good night."

"It was a normal night—"

Matt scoffs.

"—that we don't need to—"

"Wait," you say. Something's assembling itself in your head, puzzle pieces slowly clicking into place. Foggy's blush. Matt's smirk. Even the conspicuous way Foggy derailed his own anecdote. Ended up—? "Wait. Hold on. Matt. What happened freshman year?"

Matt turns to face you. Without his glasses, those unfocused eyes are warm and brown, with flecks of pretty amber.

"We kissed," he says simply.

The fan clicks. Clicks. Clicks.

"You—" You sit up fully. "What?"

"MATT." Foggy jackknifes upright on the bed beside you, so fast the whole mattress-island wobbles, as if he's only just woken up from some dreamlike trance. "We had a pact!"

"That was two years ago!"

"What— When was—" You can't even gather your thoughts up quick enough to substantiate anything you're saying. Matt's kissed Foggy? Foggy's kissed Matt? "Sorry, what happened exactly?"

"It was— It was before you," Matt says, all quickly, like he's had that at the ready. "Obviously."

"Obviously," you echo, looking at Foggy. He's rubbing the back of his neck, not meeting your eyes. The flush is spreading from his cheeks down to his freckled chest.

"We were drunk," Foggy says. He drags both hands down his face. "It was one time— It was stupid, it didn't mean— I mean, it meant something, but not like— not like you mean something—"

"It was more than one time," Matt says pleasantly.

Foggy falters, losing his words. Meanwhile, something's happening in your chest. It's a mix of intrigue and jealousy, though decidedly not betrayal, not any of the things you should probably be feeling upon learning your boyfriend's kissed his best friend. What it is is more like a door opening, a window thrown wide in a room already hot, flushed with heat. Electric.

"More than once," you say.

Your boyfriend's blue eyes are so, so wide and worried, brow crumpled, looking so guilty. You can practically see the gears grinding behind his eyes.

"Was it good?"

Matt's eyebrows lift and Foggy's mouth opens, closes, and opens again.

"I—" He blinks. "What?"

"Was it good?" You cross your legs on the bed, your shorts riding up. "The kiss. Was it good?"

There's only silence.

And then Matt says, "It wasn't bad."

Foggy makes an indignant noise. "Wasn't bad? I'll have you know—" He sighs, giving up, and turns back to you. "Why aren't you mad?"

You consider this honestly. "I don't know. I don't know," you say. Your voice sounds different. "I think it's... It's actually kind of hot?"

Matt's chair comes down on all four legs with a soft thud.

Foggy's staring at you. "You— I, uh, what?"

"I get it. Matt's not hard on the eyes," you say. You drag your thumb along the ridge of his knuckles, feeling each soft dip and indentation. "So how many times? Three? Four?"

Foggy glances at Matt, then back at you. "I— Yeah? Why are you asking me this...?"

"Because I want you to do again."

Matt hasn't moved, but you can see the shift in his posture.

"Do it again," Foggy repeats.

"Yeah. Kiss him again. If you want."

"In front of—"

"Yeah."

He rubs his face again with both hands. "This is— Okay, this is insane. Matt?"

"I mean," Matt's tongue darts across his lower lip, quick and unconscious, "I'm not opposed."

"Oh, you're not opposed? Come on, back me up here—"

"Come on, Fog." Matt stands from the desk. He pads across the tiny room barefoot, and the orange-white sun from the window catches the planes of his stomach, the dark trail of hair below his navel. He stops at the edge of the pushed-together beds, standing over both of you. "She did ask nicely."

For a second, there's a beat where Foggy just looks up at him. You see something pass between them, some well-worn frequency that predates you. A contemplative look of shared history. Then Foggy exhales, long and slow, and tilts his chin up.

"If this is weird after," he warns, pointing a finger at Matt, "that's on you."

"Everything's on me," Matt says, and he leans down and kisses him.

It's careful at first. Almost... Chaste? Respectful. Matt's hand finds the curve of Foggy's jaw, and they press their mouths together so softly, so easily that it makes you stomach flip. Very clearly having done this before.

Then Matt makes a sound—quiet, like a suppressed groan—and kisses deeper, and Foggy's lips part, and suddenly it isn't chaste at all.

Your breath catches. Watching them from inches away, it's all close enough to see the way Matt's hand comes down to caress Foggy's neck. Foggy, in seeming retaliation, reaches up to grip the back of Matt's neck, pulling him closer.

Matt's on one knee on the mattress now, half-bracing himself over Foggy. The way their mouths are moving together makes you feel like you can't breathe. Foggy kisses the way you know, the way he does everything. Warm and generous, open-mouthed and giving. Matt's rougher, though. Like he's taking.

You press your thighs together. It's as if the heat in the room has narrowed to a single, pulsing point low in your belly.

Matt pulls back just enough to breathe, and his lower lip drags against Foggy's. And then he's kissing him again, much deeper this time. His tongue slides into Foggy's mouth. Your boyfriend makes a muffled sound, and from Matt's neck, his hand slides up into his hair, gripping. Matt shivers, and you watch the muscles in his shoulders flex.

"Don't stop," you breathe.

Matt smiles smugly against Foggy's mouth, and you suddenly know it for what it is: he's performing at least a little, and you don't mind at all. His hand plants itself on Foggy's bare chest, fingers spread wide over his pecs. Then it slides lower, palm dragging through the sheen of sweat, the downy blond hair of Foggy's soft stomach—

"Okay," Foggy breathes. He breaks the kiss and turns his head, eyes finding yours. They're dark. Heavy-lidded. Unmistakably turned on. "You— Come here."

You're lost in the daze, though, and Foggy knows you enough to not wait for you to obey. As Matt makes room for you, Foggy reaches out to hook the back of your neck and pull you in, and then his mouth's on yours. Hot and slick and tastes faintly of lemonade, of salty spit. Matt's spit, you think hazily. His tongue pushes past your lips and you make a sound into his mouth, only for him to deepen it. Kissing you like he's claiming you back. Like he needs to know the difference.

You slide your own hands up your boyfriend's chest, over his nipples and his stomach. His skin's so sticky under your palms and you love it, how alive he feels between the two of you.

But even as Foggy's tongue slides against yours, you feel Matt. His hands are on your hips from behind, chest pressing against your back, palms skimming up your sides beneath the oversized t-shirt. His fingers are long, longer than Foggy's, and they leave trails of heat across your ribs. He's so warm. Skin-on-skin where your top's ridden up, and you can feel his cock pressing against your ass through the thin layers between you.

"Easy, easy," Foggy mumbles into your mouth, directed past you. But Matt doesn't listen: his hands coast up higher, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts, and you jolt, gasping against Foggy's mouth.

"Not fair," Matt mutters behind you. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, open and hot, teeth dragging, and you shudder between them. "Share."

You break from Foggy—who chases your mouth with a lazy, half-lidded look to him—and turn your head. Matt must sense the movement, because he stops his groping and fondling, and tilts his head toward you.

"Hi," Matt says hoarsely, close enough that you feel the word on your mouth.

"Hi."

"You wanna?"

You do. Fuck, you do.

You tip your head and kiss Matt Murdock for the first time. It's absolutely nothing like kissing your boyfriend. Matt is teeth and tongue immediately, sharp and searching. Hot. Hypnotizing. A little mean about it, too. He bites your bottom lip and you make a startled sound, and feel Foggy laugh weakly between you.

"Yeah," Foggy says. "Yeah, he's like that."

"Mm-hmm," you mumble, having lost all language, and then Matt's back to kissing you.

When you break apart, you're panting. Foggy's turned his face to you and you kiss him again. It's easier. Home. He sighs into your mouth the way he does when you're alone. But even as he kisses you his hips are rocking forward into Matt's hand, which has snaked around from behind you.

Matt's other hand slides up your stomach again, and between the two of them your shirt gets tugged up over your head. And like that, you're bare from the waist up, sweaty and breathless. The feeling of being freed from your clothes is almost as good as the feeling of Foggy's eyes on you.

"Jesus Christ," Foggy breathes, so clearly ogling your tits.

Matt's hands drag across your nipples, pinching firmly just to see what noise you make. From the front, Foggy's mouth drops to your chest, tongue darting out to lick at one peaked bud. You cry out, hand fisting in his long hair.

Everything's slippery. Matt's chest against your bare back. Foggy's mouth on your skin. Hands, everywhere—you lose track of whose is whose.

You slide one hand down the front of Foggy's body—down, past the trail of hair at his navel—until your fingers bump the back of Matt's wrist where it's still under the waistband of Foggy's shorts. Matt stills. You can feel Foggy's thick cock under his hand, hot and heavy and straining, and the angle's awkward but you slip your fingers under alongside Matt's and feel your boyfriend twitch hard against both of you at once.

"Oh God," Foggy says hoarsely.

Matt pulls his hand out first, fingers bumping yours as he goes. You get off Foggy, and then Matt's hooking both thumbs into the waistband of Foggy's shorts and tugging.

"Up," he says. "C'mon. C'mon."

"Fuck, I can't believe this is happening," Foggy mutters, but he plants his hands on the mattress and lifts his hips anyway. Matt drags the shorts down his thighs in one pull, and Foggy's cock springs up against his stomach. Leaking already at the tip.

Matt's hand goes right back to where it was, working Foggy's cock so loosely, slick with precome and sweat, pulling pained groans from your boyfriend's pretty, pretty mouth. He turns his face toward yours and grins.

"You want a turn?" he asks you sweetly. Insufferably smug.

"Don't be rude," you spit at him, even as you're reaching.

Your hand closes over Matt's, closes over Foggy, who's making these tiny helpless hitches of breath, eyes squeezed shut. And when you grip him a little harder, he whimpers.

"See," Matt says to you, "he likes this sound."

"I know, Matt."

"Yeah? Do you know how to get five of 'em in a row?"

"Matt, stop— Stop being mean," Foggy says through gritted teeth. You laugh, and you can't help the little squirm you do. You're so turned on you're lightheaded. You want out of your shorts, out of your panties, now.

You wriggle out of them in an undignified sort of shimmy, and your bare thighs stick instantly to the beige sheet. God, it's so hot in here you're going to combust. Seeing you're naked, Foggy reaches back and shoves Matt aside, grabbing your thigh and hauling it over his hip. Hooking you around him, and making you fit yourself against his hardness. You grind down once and cry out.

"Matt," you rasp. "Come back."

He crawls back in, a long lean creature stalking up the seam of the sheets, and when he gets close enough, you grab the waistband of his shorts yourself and tug. Like a cat being lifted out of a lap, he lifts up obligingly and you drag down his hips and he kicks out of them and then he's bare too, all three of you bare. The head of Matt's cock is flushed an angry pink. He's leaking onto himself.

"What a mess," you say teasingly. "All for us, huh?"

But your teasing's barely potent: Matt's smirking, and you kind of want to slap him and also kind of want to climb him.

"Here," Foggy says, pushing you off again to gentle you down against the mattress. "I'm gonna move you, okay?"

You go where he puts you—with him behind you, cradling your body. Another round of kisses with your face turned to him: deep and slow, the way he kisses you when he's about to fuck you.

You expect Matt to crawl up in front of you, ostensibly to fuck you, or kiss you too. Instead, he's between your thighs and nudges your legs open with his shoulders. You suck in a breath so hard you make yourself dizzy.

"Wait, wait, wait..."

"Mm?" Matt tips his head up, all puppy-like. "I can stop."

You look down your body and there he is. His cheek almost on your thigh, and he's waiting. For you; your permission.

"Don't stop," you say. Twice now you've said that—you're starting to think it might be your permanent answer from here on out.

Matt smiles and drops his face to you.

You don't get much more than one swipe of his tongue, though, before Foggy's mouth is back on yours, catching all your noise. Your hand flies out to grab Matt's hair and hold him there.

"Mm, oh my God," you gasp. "Foggy, he's—"

"I know, I know. He's showing off, huh?"

"A little, a little..." Matt keeps at it, and he's good at it. The worst part, you think, is that he knows he's good at it. You can feel him smiling smugly against your cunt every time your thighs twitch around his ears. Foggy's got his hand in your hair, petting you, stroking you, whispering sweet, dumb things in your face—that's it, no, I know, he's being such a show-off, isn't he? you're doing so, so good, sweetheart—and you don't even feel real anymore. Swimming in heat.

Matt pulls off, and you make a noise in protest.

"Don't be selfish," he says. Mouth slick and eyes glassy. "Save some for Foggy."

"Matt, don't be an asshole."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Come here."

Matt obeys. He crawls up your body, heavy over you, and Foggy drags him into a kiss so filthy right from the jump. You lie there with your chest heaving and watch two men who have known each other longer than they've known you eat each other's mouths above your face. Matt's tongue flicks out and there's a smear of you on his chin. Foggy licks it off him.

"Jesus," you breathe.

They break apart and Matt sinks back on his heels. Foggy leans down and gives you a peck, almost apologetically, and then he's sliding back. Adjusting you until you're on all fours on wrinkled sheets. And just like that, he's lining himself up with you and you're so wet it's embarrassing. He slides against you twice just to coat himself, and you whimper.

"Please, Foggy..."

"I got you, baby." He pushes himself in, one slow slide and you push yourself back onto him, feeling him stretch you out. "Jesus fuck," he curses loudly, as he starts to move. "You're so wet, babe."

"S'Matt..." you mumble. "S'all Matt..."

Kneeling by your hip, Matt's still there, stroking himself slowly to the sound of Foggy fucking you. Little wet catches of sound, your panting, Foggy's groaning. The bed squeaks under you, creaking every time Foggy thrusts into you, and you don't even care if the whole thing collapses, as long as Foggy's using you to feel good.

"Matt," Foggy pants, not looking away from you. "Get up there."

"Hmm?"

"Her— Her mouth." He palms your ass, gripping it as he fucks you. "Okay, right, baby? You want—?"

You nod so fast, and drop your head against the pillow. "Yes, yes please—!"

"Mm, I don't know," Matt says, tugging at your hair to lift your head back up. He's fucking smiling. "Should I? Do you want it?"

"Uhuh, uhuh, please..."

"Say it, then. 'Matt, I want you to fuck my mouth.'"

Behind you, Foggy groans, his rhythm faltering for half a second before recovering. You swallow, peering up at Matt with big, wet eyes. "I— I want you t— Please..." Matt laughs as you falter and stutter, smiling at you so coyly. "I want you to fuck my mouth—!" you finally yelp, as Foggy drives into you especially deep.

Matt doesn't say anything more, though. He kneels in front of you, cock bobbing above your mouth. You open for him immediately. Tongue out, hungry—and you must look wild. Must look half-gone already. Matt breathes out hard above you, and slaps his cock on your lips once, twice, before feeding himself into your mouth.

"Open up," he grunts. "Suck. Yeah, just like that—"

Your eyes sting at the stretch of him. He's big, but not as thick as Foggy. Still, he's long, and doesn't give you a lot of warning before he's nudging the back of your throat. You breathe through your nose and fist the sheets, letting him set the pace, and his hand comes down to cup your cheek.

"Taking me so well, Jesus," Matt hisses. "So good at this, huh?"

Foggy's fucking you harder now, like Matt's praise has him wound up. The angle changes and he hits that place inside you that makes your throat close up, and you try to moan around Matt's cock and end up just making a gurgled sound that's got Matt swearing above you.

"Do it again," he pants.

"Working on it."

Foggy does it again. And again. And Matt rocks down to meet your mouth and the three of you find a rhythm for about thirty seconds before it devolves into something messier. More animal and desperate. With Foggy's hips slapping against your thighs, and Matt's balls brushing your chin, your hands grope blindly for any purchase you can find: Matt's hip, the bunched-up sheet beneath you.

And Matt— Matt who's been holding himself in careful check, at least, loses it. His hand tightens in your hair and his thrusts go shorter, sharper. He stops pulling back far enough for you to catch your breath.

"Matt," Foggy warns. "Hey. Easy."

"I'm being easy," he lies, voice ragged, and rocks forward again so deep your eyes water. Your fingers scratch at his thighs and you gag, and instead of pulling back he shudders and pushes deeper.

Your eyes sting and you're making sounds you can't control—high, broken things—and you feel yourself starting to slip, the world going hazy at the edges, too much heat and too much Matt and—

Foggy snaps at him. "Matt. Hey. Off."

"I'm fine, she's fine—"

"Off. Now." It's the voice Foggy uses when he means it. Not Foggy being silly or Foggy being sweet, but the one who'll go to the mat for you without thinking twice. Matt goes still above you, breath heaving, and then reluctantly pulls out of your mouth.

You gasp, spluttering. Coughing. Your jaw aches and there's spit all down your chin. Matt sits back on his heels, his cock bobbing wet against his stomach, and he looks—chastened. Pouting, like a kid who's had his favorite toy taken away.

"She was fine," he mutters.

"She was crying."

"She liked it." You did.

"Not for you to decide, buddy." Foggy's slowed inside you but he hasn't pulled out, and his hand comes to your back, stroking affectionately. So gentle that it's at odds with the filthy state of you. "Hey. You okay, baby?"

You nod, still catching your breath. "M'okay. M'good. Really good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Fog, I promise."

Foggy looks down at you so tenderly, and he pulls out and the sudden emptiness makes you whine.

"C'mere," he says, shifting onto his back. "Come up here, baby. You ride me."

Yes. God, yes.

You crawl over him on shaky limbs—your knees are shot, thighs trembling—and Foggy's hands find your hips and guide you down. You sink down onto him and oh, oh— you always forget how thick he is until you're taking him from this angle, feeling yourself stretch and spread around the fat head of him.

"There you go," Foggy murmurs, stroking your sides lovingly. "You set the pace, okay? There you go, that's it. Take your time."

You don't though. With an impulsiveness you realize is more aligned with Matt, actually— you bottom out in one slow slide and Foggy groans beneath you, hands clamping down. You plant your palms on his chest and start to move.

The pace you set is filthy, almost punishing. You roll your hips and lift up until he almost slips out, before slamming back down. The two beds are definitely drifting apart beneath you, the gap at the seam widening with every bounce, and Foggy's hands are everywhere. Waist, your tits, your thighs.

"Fuck!" he says. "Fuck, baby, you feel so—"

Foggy's eyes are so dark they're almost black, and his hips start to rock up into you, hard.

You glance over your shoulder and find Matt where you left him—and he's got one hand wrapped around himself, working himself fast and rough. His lips are parted, brows drawn up, and he's making these soft little whimpers, as if he can't stand being excluded.

"Fog," he says, and his voice cracks.

So that's what Matt sounds like when he's desperate.

"Matt," Foggy says, not unkindly. Watching him.

Matt's hand drops from himself, shifting forward on his knees until he's pressing up against Foggy's leg, straddling it. Cock dragging against the sweaty muscle of Foggy's calf, and he starts to rut. Grinding himself into Foggy's leg like a dog, whining so reedily. You clench so hard around Foggy that he chokes.

"Jesus," Foggy breathes, watching Matt rub himself off on his leg. "Matt. Matt, hey, come here—"

"Wanna—" Matt's voice is barely there. He's flushed from his ears down to his strong stomach, and there's precome smeared all along Foggy's leg. "Foggy, I wanna—"

"I know you do, puppy. C'mere. Come up here."

Matt crawls up behind you again, and you feel his chest against your back. Bare and scorching skin. His cock presses into the curve of your ass, and he's so hard it must hurt. His mouth finds the crook of your neck and he whimpers against your pulse point.

And then he shifts, adjusting his angle. His cock slides down and nudges against where Foggy's already inside you.

You freeze.

"—Oh," you whimper.

"Mm," Matt mumbles against your throat, rubbing his cock along your entrance, right alongside Foggy's shaft.

"Matt, mm!"

"Please." It doesn't even sound like Matt anymore. "Please, I need—"

Foggy's looking up at you, and then past you, at Matt's face over your shoulder.

"Baby," he groans, "You could— You could let him in too."

Your heart's pounding in your chest. You can barely even think. "Both of— both of you?"

"Mm-hmm. Both of us."

"At the same... time...?"

"We'll—" Foggy's chest heaves. "We'll go slow. I promise. We'll go so slow, baby. What do you think?" He glances at Matt again. "I think you can take it. Can you take it for me, baby?"

You should say no. You're already stretched around Foggy and he's thick, and Matt isn't small—

"Yes," you say.

"Yeah?" His voice drops, so sweetly. "Okay?"

"Mm-hmm. Okay."

"Good girl." Foggy licks at his lips, and turns to Matt. "Okay, Matt. Slow, okay? You hear me? Slow and easy."

"I know, I know."

"She tells you to stop, stop."

"I'll stop. I'll stop." Matt's forehead drops to the back of your neck. You feel his breath shuddering out. "I promise, Foggy. I promise."

"Good boy."

Feeling him twitch hard against you, the blunt head of his cock nudges insistently at where you're already full. You breathe out. Trying to relax, to let yourself go soft— but it's hard. Every instinct's telling you there isn't room, there can't possibly.

Matt pushes in anyway.

Just the head, just the very tip of him. Pressing in alongside Foggy.

"Oh God—" Your nails dig into Foggy's shoulders. "Oh my God, oh fuck!"

"Breathe, baby. Breathe for me. It's a lot, huh?"

"Mmm..."

"Mmm. I know. I know it is, you're doing so good, huh? So brave."

Matt's hips push forward another inch and you cry out. Almost pained.

"Sorry, sorry—" Matt grits out, trembling against your back. You can feel the effort it takes him to not rut the way he was rutting before. "Sorry. I'll wait. I'm waiting."

You breathe. In, out, in, out. Foggy's still whispering to you, so good, Jesus, I'm so proud of you, baby—and you feel yourself softening. The stretch going from painfully full to something warm. You press your forehead against Foggy's collarbone and nod.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay, I can take more."

Slowly, Matt slides all the way in, and all three of you stop breathing.

Full. You're so full it's like you can feel them everywhere. Foggy's cock and Matt's cock and the way they're pressed together inside you. Separated by nothing. Skin on skin through the slick squeezing of your body, feeling them against each other. They're so close together inside you that every movement's shared.

"Fog," Matt breathes into your shoulder. "Can feel you."

"I know, man. Can feel you too."

Matt presses a kiss into your cheek, more into your hair, really. "Can I move?"

You nod.

They don't coordinate, and they can't, you think—it feels too new and strange and overwhelmingly good. So what happens instead is a kind of stuttered rhythm. Matt pulls back and Foggy pushes up; Foggy drops, Matt thrusts forward—so that you're never empty. Never not full. One of them's always bottomed out inside you while the other slides against him.

The friction of them moving against each other in your cunt is—

You can't think anymore.

You're dripping. Around them, between them, all over Foggy's thighs. Every thrust pushes more out of you, slick and warm and running down your skin. They're both losing it. Foggy's hands bruise at your hips, pulling you down onto them both, and Matt's arms are locked around your waist from behind, his face buried in your hair.

"You're so good," Foggy pants up at you. This awful sticking melting heat's turned you fully stupid, and sweat is dripping from your chin onto Foggy's chest and he doesn't care. "You're so good, baby, you're taking both of us, you're perfect, you're—"

"Harder," you cry.

Matt answers; it seems he always answers when you tell him to be worse. His hips snap forward and Foggy's eyes fly wide because he can feel it—Matt's cock shoving alongside his own, the friction and the pressure doubling—and both of them groan in unison.

They find it, then. The rhythm. Not staggered anymore but together, both of them thrusting up into you at the same time, splitting you open on every upstroke, and you're not bouncing anymore, you're being fucked, held in place between their bodies and fucked open by two cocks that slide and press and rub against each other inside you with every stroke.

"I'm—" Matt's voice is wrecked, bitten-off. "Foggy, I'm close, I'm gonna—"

"Me too, buddy. Hold on. Baby—" Foggy grabs your chin and makes you look at him and his eyes are blown wide and desperate. "You close? Can you come for us?"

"Yeah—yes—please, Fog, please—"

"Come on, then. Let go for me. Let go."

So you do.

Like a wave. A wall. Like the floor dropping out from under you. It's these you feel, clenching so hard around both of them that Matt groans and Foggy's hips bow off the mattress as your cunt spasms around them, milking them, squeezing them together inside you.

"Fuck—fuck, baby, I'm—"

You can't tell anymore who comes first. At once, they're both pulsing inside you at almost the same time, filling you up from both sides. There's so much of it, and you sob against Foggy's chest and feel them throb as they empty into you.

And then it's very quiet after.

Quiet except for breathing.

Matt pulls out first, and you feel a rush of warmth follow him out. It drips down over Foggy where he's still inside you. Matt collapses beside you both like a marionette with its strings cut, spent arms splayed out, chest heaving.

"Holy shit," he pants to the ceiling.

Foggy lifts you gently, so gently and slips out of you himself, and another gush of warmth follows. It's running out of you in thick, lazy rivulets of white, pooling on the sheets and on Foggy's thighs.

"Oh my God," you mumble into the pillow. You genuinely can't move. Ruined and leaking cum onto the tragic beige sheet; you're never getting up again.

Maybe you were right; this is where they'll find your body after all.

Foggy tucks you against his side, his hand strokes up and down your arm. Your eyelids are already dragging shut.

"Hey, Matt?" Foggy says, after a minute. Matt lifts his head. "Wanna clean her up?"

There's a pause. A long one. Matt blinks, and wordlessly—he shifts down the bed.

You feel his hands on your thighs, parting them carefully. You shiver; you're so oversensitive you think a strong breeze could finish you off. He settles between your legs and you feel his hot breath ghost over you and you twitch.

"It's okay," Foggy murmurs into your hair. "Just let him. He's gonna take care of you."

Matt's mouth starts on you and you whimper. He's gentle this time, at least. There's none of the earlier show-off bravado, only slow, careful licks, cleaning you up, lapping at the mess of cum leaking out of your swollen, fucked-open cunt. His tongue dips inside you and you jerk, and Foggy's arm tightens around your shoulders. Holding you still.

"Good boy," Foggy says quietly, and it's directed at Matt.

You lie there and shake. Matt eats you out until there's nothing left to clean, and then he keeps going, just enough that a second orgasm catches you by surprise. It's just a soft, warming thing that barely makes you gasp, a slow tightening and release. Foggy presses a kiss to your forehead as you come down from it.

Matt crawls back up the mattress and collapses on Foggy's other side. He throws an arm across Foggy's chest and his fingertips brush your shoulder. The three of you lie there in the terrible heat, sweating and sticky and wrecked, breathing together.

"I can't believe," Foggy says slowly, staring at the ceiling, "that we just did that."

Matt grins, loose and lazy and entirely too pleased with himself, and you watch his hand find Foggy's on the mattress. Their fingers lace together. You drape your arm over Foggy's stomach and let your hand rest on top of theirs and nobody says anything about it.

"Hey, Matt," you say, drowsy.

"Hm."

"You're more than okay, you know."

A pause. Matt's fingers twitch against yours. He barks a laugh and says, "Yeah, you too."

a/n: average college dorm activities be like...

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

matt pretends to be unbothered by how forward you are, but he absolutely notices every suggestive comment, every lingering touch, every flirtation. it always gets under his skin more than he lets on. he’ll smile that smug little half-smile, tilt his head like he’s trying to read you, and say something like, “you really don’t hold back, do you?” — but it’s always a little breathless.

he’s always listening. you think you’re being sneaky when you touch yourself in the other room, but matt hears everything. every breath, every rustle of sheets, every quiet whimper. it drives him insane. he’ll usually let you keep going for a while (just to hear it). eventually he’ll show up in the doorway, arms crossed: “having fun?” and the moment you smile at him, it’s over.

he likes the chase. you being constantly turned on doesn’t bother him, but he enjoys making you wait. you’ll try to crawl into his lap when he’s doing paperwork or patching himself up, but he’ll smirk and say, “you want something?” like he doesn’t already know.

he has rules, but you’re the exception. matt tries to set boundaries. “no distractions before patrol.” “not while we’re in public.” “not when i’m bleeding.” yet, somehow, your lips on his neck or your hand creeping under his shirt makes him forget every one of them. you’ll hear him groan out, “you’re gonna be the death of me.” while pulling you closer.

you fluster him more than he’ll admit. you’ve whispered things to him in church before. at nelson & murdock while foggy’s in the other room. across a dinner table while he's pretending to focus. every time, you catch the faint pink in his cheeks, the way he adjusts his posture like he’s suddenly uncomfortable in his skin. “you’re incorrigible.” he’ll mutter. and then he’ll kiss you like he’s punishing you for it.

sometimes, when you’re being especially over-the-top — dropping innuendos in public, texting him filthy things while he’s in court — he’ll give you that warning tone. quiet, dangerous, voice low and right at your ear.

when you’re feeling particularly needy, he’s infuriatingly good at switching the roles. “oh, now you want my attention?” he’ll murmur, catching your wrists as you crawl into his lap. “you seemed just fine earlier.” he knows exactly how to drag it out until you’re the one begging, and when he does finally give in, it’s intense, focused, and a little overwhelming in the best way.

aftercare means a lot to him, even if you’re the one instigating all the time. he’ll kiss your shoulder, your knuckles, the top of your head. he’ll ask, “you okay?” even if you’re giggling and glowing. “again? insatiable.”

on a heavier note, sometimes your intensity stirs something deeper in him. his own guilt, his conflict between pleasure and penance. there are moments when he’ll gently pull back, not to reject you, but to steady himself.

sometimes he worries he’s not enough. he knows you’re intense, that your needs don’t exactly quiet down. even though he’s more than capable of keeping up, there are nights where he wonders if he can keep satisfying you.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

notices everything. every suggestive glance, every teasing touch, every time you slide up beside him wearing next to nothing. he won’t always react — not right away — but you’ll catch the slight tilt of his head, the shift in his breathing. he’s got that stillness that says don’t push me unless you mean it. and you always mean it.

he’s not one for words, especially not when it comes to sex. so when you’re being flirty, constantly on him, slipping innuendos into everyday conversation, he mostly just hums or raises a brow. when he does speak, it’s in that rough voice — something like, “you keep talkin’ like that, you’re gonna find out how far i’ll take it.”

he holds back for a while. you’re always testing the line, always touching, always turning things suggestive. he plays it cool at first, lets you push and push. once he gives in, he doesn’t hold back. it’s intense, fast, physical — he grabs, lifts, pins. after he’s quiet again. catching his breath. wiping his hand down his face like you’ve just unraveled him.

tries not to act like he cares about how much you want him, but the truth is it gets to him. you wanting him like that, so openly, so often; it gets to him. there’s something healing in it, something anchoring. sometimes when you’re curled up next to him afterward, he’ll press a kiss to your forehead and murmur, “you’re trouble.”

he doesn’t judge. never once makes you feel like you’re too much. your neediness, your teasing, your constant desire doesn’t scare him, doesn’t annoy him. if anything, it pulls him in. you’re real, alive, shameless about what you want. frank’s been in the dark too long not to be drawn to that kind of light.

he tries to ignore you when he’s focused, but you are relentless. sitting in his lap while he’s working on something. whispering, “wanna take a break?” with your fingers ghosting over his chest. he doesn’t look at you at first — keeps his hands busy — but his jaw tenses and his breath slows, like he’s trying to pray his way through it. “i’m tryin’ to get this done.” he’ll rasp. you smirk, “i’m trying to get you done.”

he doesn’t like being teased when he’s busy, so when you push him too far, pressing against him while he’s fixing something or whispering filthy things in his ear when he’s trying to clean a gun - - he’ll give you a warning. just a look. if you ignore it? he shuts the whole world out and shows you exactly what happens when you don’t listen.

when you’re being dramatic about needing him, he’ll act annoyed, but deep down it kills him in the sweetest way. “frank,” you’ll whine from across the room, “i’m bored and horny and you’re ignoring me.” and he’ll sigh like you’re exhausting — but then walk over and manhandle you into his arms without a word. picks you up and lays you out like he’s been waiting for you to ask.

he worships your body in private. all that heat and teasing you throw at him gets returned in full once he’s got you alone. he takes his time, holds you still, tells you exactly what he’s going to do in that deep, steady voice. “you want this?” he’ll ask, even though he already knows.

but he’s also so soft after. runs his thumb along your cheekbone like he’s checking you’re real. presses a kiss to your shoulder, your forehead, the curve of your hip.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

he is constantly flustered. like. constantly. you’ll say something absolutely filthy with a straight face while he’s drinking his morning coffee and he’ll choke every time. stammering, red in the face, eyes wide. “you — you can’t just say that while i’m holding hot liquid!”

he brags to matt. not in detail (he’s respectful, okay), but he definitely walks around with that post-you glow, hair messy, tie a little crooked, sipping coffee like he’s untouchable. matt raises a brow. foggy just shrugs. “what can i say? i’m being thoroughly appreciated.” — casually mentions to karen that he “had a very energetic weekend” while sipping his fourth cup of coffee.

he pretends to be shocked, but he loves it. he lives for it. he’ll say things like “you are so inappropriate” while his hand is already on your waist, pulling you closer. he’s not fooling anyone, not with that little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

he loves making you feel good. your neediness doesn’t put him off, he’s just thrilled to be the one you want. he takes his time with you. he listens. and when you’re breathless under him, gripping the sheets and begging for more? he looks at you like you hung the stars.

you make him feel like a king. you’re bold about it. you want him, loudly and often, and foggy melts. literally melts. “you want me that bad?” he asks, half in disbelief, half smug. and when you say yes without hesitation? he gets that cocky little glint in his eyes.

you make him nervous in the best way. like, this is a guy who can argue a courtroom into submission, but the second you lean in at the office and whisper something filthy in his ear, he loses all ability to function.

public teasing turns him into a mess. you run your hand along his thigh under the table, whisper dirty things while you’re walking beside him, and he’s just trying to not combust. “can you not?” he hisses through a grin, but there’s no real protest. he’s into it.

he calls you a menace all the time. lovingly. half-scold, half-swoon.

he tries to retaliate. he’ll flirt back. maybe even whisper something filthy of his own, thinking he’s got you now. you double down. he immediately regrets it in the best way. “okay, okay, you win,” he laughs, hands up. “you’re dangerous.”

he’s an aftercare king. gets you water, fluffs your pillow, runs a bath. holds you close while you both come down. if you so much as hint at being ready for another round he’ll fake-complain (“you’re trying to kill me!”) while already kissing down your neck.

when he tries to keep up with you, it’s adorable. you’ll say something filthy and he’ll try to match you with a slick comeback; but the timing’s off, or he blushes halfway through, and it just ends up being the cutest thing you’ve ever heard.

he’s a cuddler with no shame. after you’ve exhausted him (and let’s be honest, you do), he’s all tangled limbs and sleepy kisses. “you’re insane,” he mumbles, burying his face in your shoulder. “i love it. don’t stop.” his voice is warm, a little hoarse, completely smitten.

he can’t keep secrets. not real ones. if he’s been thinking about you all day, he’ll tell you. “you left me like that this morning and expected me to go to work like a functioning adult?” he texts you during court. you send back a selfie in something slightly obscene. he slams his phone face-down on the desk and mutters “i’m in hell” with a dazed smile.

“no more sending suggestive photos while i’m at lunch with matt’s priest friend.”

he loves you exactly the way you are. loud, needy, bold, inappropriate — he eats it up.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

she tries to be professional. she’ll be typing up a story, dead focused, and then you saunter in, leaning over her chair, whispering something that should absolutely be illegal. her jaw tenses, her eyes stay on the screen. “i’m working.” but she’s already shifting in her seat, biting her lip.

she has a secret mouth. when she wants to, she’ll say something so filthy it stuns you into silence. usually in a whisper. close to your ear. “you gonna beg for it, or just keep looking at me like that?” and then she just waits. calm. still. eyes on you, daring you to do something about it.

you flirt like it’s breathing, kiss like it’s urgent, touch like you need her; it leaves her reeling. she’ll try to keep her cool but you’ll catch the way she exhales a little too hard, or stares at your mouth a second too long.

she teases right back. once she’s comfortable with you, you’re in trouble. she’ll wait until you’re the one trying to focus, then lean in and say something devastating in that soft, matter-of-fact voice. “if you keep looking at me like that, we’re not making it to dinner.” and then just walk away. smirking.

but you also unravel her. she’s used to bottling things up, being composed. you’re all touch and need and hunger and affection. it pulls something raw out of her. when you’re whispering her name, clawing at her shirt, telling her how good she makes you feel, she loses her edge.

she’s fiercely attentive. your hypersexuality doesn’t scare her, doesn’t make her pull away. if anything it makes her want to understand you better. know your needs, meet them fully, love you through it. she’ll read you like a book — figure out exactly what makes you tick — and then use it.

she absolutely uses your energy to distract you. when she wants your attention, she’ll give you that look, chin tilted, eyes sharp, and say something devastating in a calm voice. “get over here.” and suddenly you’re the one undone, aching and obedient.

she knows when you’re trying to seduce her and lets you. she’ll play along like she’s unfazed, arms crossed, head tilted. “you think you’re being subtle?” she’ll say while you’re practically crawling into her lap. but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth? the way her eyes darken just a little? yeah, you’ve already won.

she does not shy away from intimacy. your neediness doesn’t embarrass her, it draws her in. she’s not here to shame you or play coy. she wants to be wanted like that. to be touched like she matters. when she gets overwhelmed, she clings. yeah, you’re the hypersexual one — but when she finally lets go, she gets wrapped up in it too. hands in your hair, lips on your throat, whispering your name like it’s the only thing that matters.

she absolutely teases you in public. she’ll press up behind you at the grocery store, whisper something obscene with the most innocent look on her face, then walk off like nothing happened. you’re the one standing there stunned, clutching a box of cereal like it just said something inappropriate.

gets handsy when she’s tired. maybe it’s after a long day, maybe it’s when she’s half-asleep on the couch, but her hands start wandering, slow and lazy and full of intention.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

absolutely thinks it’s amusing. from the start, she watches you with that signature, smug little smile every time you throw yourself at her like a live wire. her eyes are dark, hungry, like she’s daring you to want her more.

she matches your energy with terrifying ease. you flirt to fluster — she flirts to destroy. you say something filthy and she just smiles, leans in, and whispers something ten times worse in your ear while touching you exactly where it counts.

you don’t scare her. she welcomes all of it. feeds off of it. where others might pull away, elektra leans into it. and when you beg? her grin gets sharp.

she teases you to the edge of madness. she’ll touch you under the table during dinner, drag her nails over your thighs when you’re trying to focus, kiss your jaw and say, “you’ll behave, won’t you?” in public — knowing damn well you won’t. she wants you to break. that’s the game. taunts you when you’re needy. you’ll whine, cling, kiss her like you’re begging for something, and she’ll laugh — low and wicked. “you’ll have to earn it.” she’ll purr, dragging her fingers down your back.

she owns the aftermath. after you’ve lost your mind on her, desperate and clinging, she turns soft. unexpectedly so. hands gentle, voice low, fingers brushing your hair back as she says, “look at you. i do love how pretty you are when you fall apart.”

she lives for your attention. she won’t admit it, at least not easily, but the way you’re always reaching for her, needing her, dragging her in like you’re starving for her? it feeds something in her. reminds her she’s wanted.

she doesn’t believe in moderation. so you being constantly touchy, constantly turned on? she meets it with equal force. doesn’t ask why you want her again, just laughs, low and cruel, “on your knees, then.” like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

she gets mean when she’s turned on. in that smirking, dominant, slightly dangerous way. “what’s the matter, sweetheart?” she’ll say when you’re writhing under her, voice honey-sweet and mocking. “this is what you wanted, isn’t it? all that begging…”

she tests how far you’ll go. she’ll push you in public, press a hand between your thighs under the table, kiss your neck just a little too long, and ask in your ear, “going to behave, or make a scene?” and when you shiver, grip her wrist, beg for more — that’s when she grins like the devil. “that’s what i thought.”

watches you like prey. doesn’t matter how many times you’ve kissed, or how many times you’ve begged her to take you apart, she always looks at you like she’s deciding where to sink her teeth next. you flirt with her in front of someone else? challenge her in that low voice? she’ll take you home and ruin you.

when you come onto her in a bad mood she melts. she could be fresh off a mission, furious, bloodied, but you crawling into her lap and saying, “let me help”? she softens instantly. not in a weak way, in a worshipful way. like your desire grounds her.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

at first, he doesn’t know what to do with you. you flirt like it’s breathing, kiss him like it’s urgent, touch him in casual greedy little ways that short-circuit his brain. he tries to act normal, tries to hold himself together, but you catch him clenching his jaw, fingers twitching, chest rising a little too fast.

he gets obsessed fast. the second he realizes how much you want him — how openly, constantly, shamelessly — you flip some hidden switch in him. he wants more. needs it. suddenly he’s tracking your every move, memorizing the way you kiss him, the way you look at him like he’s the only thing on your mind.

he follows instructions like they’re oxygen. “sit.” “stay still.” “hands behind your back.” you say it, and he does it. instantly. without blinking. it’s instinct at this point — his body reacting before his mind catches up. the second he obeys, he’s looking up at you, waiting for approval, wide-eyed and aching for your praise.

he’s dangerous when you rile him up too far. you flirt too much, grind against him when he’s trying to behave, whisper something filthy in his ear when you’re supposed to be focused, and he snaps. drags you somewhere private, presses you against the wall, and just takes. it’s quiet, intense, almost reverent. “you drive me crazy.” he groans, forehead to yours.

he doesn’t know how to handle being needed. you tell him you want him — again and again and again — and it undoes him. makes him shaky. makes him cling. sometimes after you’ve worn each other out, he just holds you too tight and buries his face in your neck. like he’s afraid if he lets go, it’ll all disappear.

he gets flustered in the cutest, darkest way. you say something explicit and he freezes — eyes dark, jaw clenched, pulse ticking in his neck. he doesn’t laugh it off or blush. he stares. silently. like he’s deciding how many rules he’s willing to break right now. spoiler: it’s all of them.

he’s so good at ruining you in return. the minute you start pushing him he gives it back, tenfold. pins your wrists. makes you beg. says nothing for most of it, just stares at you like you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen. when you come undone he whispers, “look at you… look at what you let me do.”

your neediness makes him feel safe. he doesn’t always say it. but knowing you want him that much? that openly? it quiets the noise. the guilt. the rage. he touches you like you’re salvation. holds you after like you’re the only thing keeping him on the edge of sanity. you are.

he spirals when you tease him and then act innocent. you’ll straddle his lap, whisper something obscene, kiss his neck, then just walk away like it didn’t happen. dex sits there, frozen, jaw clenched, staring at the wall like he’s trying not to snap a pencil in half. by the time he finds you again, he’s feral. “you think this is a game?”

he thrives when you lose control. the moment your composure cracks — the moment you beg, or whimper, or grab at him like you can’t take it anymore — his whole demeanor shifts. his lips curl into this possessive little smirk.

he's insatiable once you’ve broken the seal. if he’s gone too long without touching you he gets ravenous. rough, shaky hands. kisses that don’t stop. taking you again and again, like he’s trying to make up for all the hours he went without you.

he doesn’t know how to take it when you praise him. he stares at you like he doesn’t know how to absorb it. like part of him doesn’t believe he deserves that softness. but he needs it. and when you say it again, gentler this time, he kisses you like he’ll die without it. he adores being praised. when you tell him he’s good, or strong, or perfect, his whole body trembles, just a little. his breath catches. it’s like he’s hearing it for the first time, every time, and it shakes him to his core. “you like that, don’t you?” you’ll tease. and he’ll look at you with this raw, desperate expression. “say it again,” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, “please.”

he gets needy in the best way. the more you touch him, the more you praise him, the more desperate he becomes. the man who usually has all the control suddenly becomes weak for you. he’s a mess when you praise him during sex. when you tell him he’s good in bed, that he’s making you feel good — that’s when he absolutely falls apart. his hands go slack, his body goes rigid, and he’ll mumble, “don’t stop.” over and over. every word that spills from your mouth is like a drug, and it’s ruining him in the best way possible.

he loves when you take control. push him down. tell him not to move. give him orders like you expect them to be followed — because he wants to follow them. he wants to earn your touch, your words, your love. when he gets it he’s panting, melting, gripping the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away.

his obedience isn’t about power — it’s about love. he doesn’t kneel for you because he’s weak. he kneels because he trusts you. because he knows that when you give him orders, you’ll also give him affection. and that means everything to him.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

tries to be cocky about it at first. smirking while you straddle him, talking shit like, “gonna take what you want, baby?” but the second you actually do — grab his wrists, grind down, whisper “be good for me” — his whole body shudders. the smirk fades. his jaw clenches. and he’s whispering, “fuck… okay. okay.”

he gets jealous of your attention. not just who you give it to — but when you withhold it. you tease him, flirt then walk away, or spend more time on your phone than in his lap, and he’s immediately pressing up behind you, voice low: “what, you done using me already?”

you catch him off guard constantly. dragging him into the nearest room, climbing into his lap during meetings, whispering something unholy while he’s trying to concentrate. and he plays it cool, sure — but the way he grips the edge of the table or clenches his jaw? oh, he’s losing it.

he becomes so obedient under the right pressure. you tell him stay still and he does. every muscle tight, breathing uneven, eyes locked on you like he’s waiting for his next instruction. he looks cocky, but that tension in his body? that’s need. he wants your praise. needs your permission.

he thrives off your desire. knowing you want him all the time, that you’re always thinking about him — it makes him feel powerful. desired. worshipped. he’ll tease you for it —“you really can’t keep your hands off me, huh?”

but the more you want him, the more needy he becomes. it stops being a game and starts being obsession. now he’s the one touching you constantly, dragging you into bed at all hours, whispering, “just one more time, baby. can’t stop thinking about you.”

he’ll let you use him. no ego, no fight — just “tell me what to do.” if you’re extra desperate, pulling at his clothes and grinding on him like you’ll lose your mind without it, he lets you take it. lets you pull his belt loose and ride him breathless. hands on your thighs, eyes locked on you like you’re holy.

he melts for praise but tries to hide it. you call him good and he lets out this shaky breath, head dropping back, hands fisting the sheets. “fuck,” he whispers, like he’s embarrassed at how much it affects him. you tease him for how much he likes it. “look at you,” you’ll purr, dragging your nails down his chest, “mr. billy russo. ceo. soldier. killer. begging for my approval.” and he groans. because yeah. he is. and when you call him your pretty boy, your sweet thing, your favourite toy — he thrives. eats it up. all of it. he follows instructions so, so well. you train him without even meaning to. tell him how to touch you. when to stay still. where to put his hands. he gets desperate for your praise. he’ll push himself to the edge trying to make you feel good, looking up at you like a starved thing. “you feel good?” he pants.

he wants you to ruin him. not physically — emotionally. he wants you to strip him down. take all the masks off. make him yours in a way no one else ever has. when you say, “mine,” and grip his chin so he has to look at you? his body goes limp. he nods, quiet, obedient.

he’s competitive about keeping up. you want it again? again? oh, he’s rising to the challenge. he won’t back down — won’t let you think for one second he can’t handle it. but by round five, he’s on his back, breathless, hair damp, muttering, “jesus christ— what are you trying to do to me?”

he starts scheduling around your sex drive. literally moves meetings, delays calls, closes his office door and texts you a simple: now. and when you show up already knowing what he wants? he just leans back in his chair, unbuttons his shirt, and smirks — “i knew you couldn’t resist.”

but the second you get needy? oh, he crumbles. you press up against him, whine a little, tell him how bad you want him — and suddenly the smug façade shatters. he’s flustered, hands already on your hips, murmuring, “yeah? tell me what you need, baby. i’ll give you everything.”

he keeps things on him just in case. backup condoms. lube in his desk drawer. a change of clothes. because he knows you — knows you’re unpredictable, insatiable, always two seconds from crawling into his lap and making him lose every ounce of professionalism he has left.

he talks a big game but loses it so fast. he’ll say shit like “you gonna ride me like you mean it?” or “hope you can handle what you’re asking for”— and then you do, and suddenly he’s gasping, clutching at you, swearing under his breath like his whole body’s going haywire.

your appetite breaks his composure. you get him worked up in public, and suddenly mr. smooth-talker is stammering. distracted. flustered. he’ll pull you aside, grab your face, and growl, “you need to stop or i’m gonna fuck you in the nearest locked room.” (spoiler: you don’t stop.)

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

slow mornings where you can’t keep your hands off her while she’s brushing her teeth, trying to read case files, trying to drink her coffee — she doesn’t stop you, just mutters “insatiable” with a smirk. late nights on the couch with your legs tangled over hers, your fingers tracing the scar on her side, whispering everything you want to do to her — she listens quietly, then pulls you into her lap.

you call her detective when you're being flirty — she pretends to be annoyed, but the flush in her cheeks always gives her away.

she’s the calm to your fire, but when she snaps, when she lets go — you learn that she’s been holding back so much more than you thought. your need for touch grounds her; sometimes it’s the only thing that pulls her out of her head after a long day.

she’s not overly verbal during sex, but you are — and she loves it. loves how uninhibited you are, how you make her feel wanted in a thousand ways. sometimes she doesn’t say anything at all — just looks at you with that heavy gaze, hands on your hips, and you know exactly what she needs.

you send her texts during work: i need you, thinking about your hands, wear that button-down tonight — she leaves you on read, but always shows up exactly how you want.

she’s the type to make you wait. edge you for hours just because you’ve been too much all day and she wants to remind you who’s in control.

she sets boundaries with you early on — not because she wants distance, but because she knows your appetite could swallow her whole if she let its “you don’t get to touch me just because you’re needy,” she says, low and measured, her hand firm on your wrist — but she never pushes you away, not really.

she gives you rules. no touching without asking. no teasing when she’s on the phone. and god help you if you break them — she doesn’t yell, she disciplines. when you push too far, she doesn’t lose her temper — she goes cold, calculated. “take your hands off me. now. you don’t get me when you’re acting like a brat.” she uses your hypersexuality to train you — gets in your head, turns your hunger into obedience.

you test her constantly, and she lets you — up to a point. then it’s “knees. now.” and you’re on the floor before your brain can catch up. she loves that you want her all the time — but she makes sure you need her on her terms, not yours.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

he’s amused by how needy you are — not mocking, just indulgent. “insatiable little thing, aren’t you?” he says without looking up from his glass. he doesn’t initiate in public, but you can feel it in his stare across the room — the promise of what he’ll do to you later if you don’t behave.

he makes you ask. always. “use your words.” and if you whine or pout? “that’s not asking. that’s begging. i haven’t decided if you deserve it yet.” his discipline is precise — never cruel, always controlled. he doesn’t punish out of anger, but out of principle.

you learn very quickly not to touch him without permission. not because he doesn’t want you to — but because he enjoys denying you just enough to keep you desperate.

“if you can’t sit still through dinner without thinking about my hands, maybe you don’t need dessert tonight. or tomorrow.”

he knows your body like a weapon — keeps you right on the edge with barely a touch, just his voice, just the way he looks at you when you’re squirming in his lap. he buys you luxury — lingerie you’re not allowed to wear unless he puts it on you, jewelry that marks you as his, bruises that match your diamonds.

there’s a cold satisfaction in how he makes you obey. “no talking back.” if you try to argue he silences you with a kiss, a firm grip on your jaw, “i’ll speak when i want. you’ll listen.” he loves the way you bend to his will.

when you’re on your knees, obedient and desperate, he takes his time with you, savoring the control he has over your every move, over the way you look at him like he’s the only thing that matters. he loves when you’re desperate, when you can’t hide how much you crave him. “beg for it,” he’ll say, casually, and the way you do makes him smile with that dangerous satisfaction.

in those rare moments when he decides you’ve earned it, he’ll show a sliver of tenderness. a brush of his fingers on your cheek, a gentle word in your ear — it’s the only time you get a glimpse of the softer side he hides behind his icy control.

he doesn’t let you forget who’s in charge. if you slip up, if you get too demanding or bratty, he’ll pull back with a simple “that’s not how this works. try again.” he holds back just enough to make sure you’re always wanting more. when he finally gives you what you crave, it’s a slow, calculated act — drawing you to the brink, then pulling you back again, just to see how much you’ll beg.

“you’re not getting anything until you prove you can behave.” — you have to be good for him to get what you want.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

he calls you his favourite canvas, but he never means it metaphorically. his fingers drag across your skin like brushes, like he’s trying to paint need into your bones. he doesn’t understand restraint — when you want him, it feeds something primal in him. “say it again,” he demands, breathless and too close.

blood on his hands, paint under his nails, and you pulling at his shirt like you’re starving — he doesn’t care what time it is or what mess he left behind, not when you’re looking at him like that. he laughs when you get desperate, but it’s not mocking — it’s delighted. “look at you,” he purrs, “so hungry. like a little beast. i could make something beautiful out of that.”

he marks you in more than bruises — red smudges from pigment he won’t name, his fingerprints staining your thighs, your back, your neck — like he’s signing you. he gets obsessed with patterns — the way your body responds to certain touches, sounds, pressure — like he’s studying a new medium. “arch your back. no — slower. let me see the shape of it.”

he doesn’t like being told no. not because he’s cruel, but because he can’t comprehend being denied something he craves. your desire fuels his delusions of devotion. when you touch him, it drives him manic — like being wanted back is a concept he can’t entirely believe, and he spirals into reverence or obsession. sometimes both.

he doesn’t knock when he enters — he appears, silently, suddenly, like inspiration itself. and when you look at him with need in your eyes, he exhales like he’s relieved. “oh good. you’re ready for me.” he doesn’t understand why you crave him so often — but he adores it. treats it like proof. like you were made for him. like your desire validates the madness in his head.

he feeds on your desperation — physically, mentally, artistically. your need becomes his muse, your body the altar he builds madness on. when he ties you up, it’s not just for control — it’s a frame. your body, trembling and aching, becomes the exhibit. “stay still. you’re art now. don’t ruin it.”

he’s rough, but never careless. every bruise is intentional. every handprint, every bite — a signature. he gets frustrated when you wear something that hides his marks.

after, when you’re ruined and trembling and boneless, he presses his forehead to yours, whispering in rapid, breathless phrases: “my perfect, filthy little thing.”

and then he sketches. right there, with you still shaking, sprawled over his lap — he sketches the aftermath. the glow. the way you fell apart.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.28.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025