tuning in

There was nothing better than a cloudy afternoon in your apartment, the world outside muted and grey, while inside you had warmth, comfort, and the company of your boyfriend with a movie humming faintly in the background—something neither of you were really watching anymore—as you're sitting on the sofa, legs open, perfectly at ease, happy and relaxed, letting him do…

Well, that strange thing he’s been obsessed with for weeks now.

He's on his knees between your thighs, shoulders tense with effort, face buried right where the heat radiates from you. He hadn’t even touched your bare skin yet, just pressing his mouth to the thin cotton stretched over you. Your panties, damp from the earlier teasing were soaked through now, clinging to your feverish skin. His tongue moves against the barrier testing and pushing, little slow strokes that make you twitch because of the ticklish sensation that travels up your core to every place under your skin.

Then, as if something snapped loose in him, the licks came faster, so sloppy, as though he couldn’t believe you are letting him do it, as though he was scared you will take it away if he doesn't devour you every second.

At first, he seemed awkwardly harmless when he asked—shy, almost tripping over his own words. Typical Dex.

Up until then, your relationship hadn’t crossed the line of kisses and hesitant touches, so when he finally deigned to ask you that, your smile spread without you meaning it to. It wasn’t that you were shy—you knew eventually you’d ask him yourself—but there was something disarming about the way he rushed to get the words out, as if the idea had been gnawing at him for too long to keep inside.

The weight slipped off your shoulders in the moment he said it, he saved you from being the one to break that invisible wall first. Just a quiet, offhand question slipped between laughs during a silly conversation full of intimacy.

You could still hear his voice in your head, low and a little rushed, which made you think that if he said it too clearly it might sound like too much. And yet the request had been simple enough, almost innocent, if not for the heat behind it.

That way, he wouldn’t have to keep sneaking around, wouldn’t have to “borrow” your panties the way he had been doing—thinking you hadn’t noticed or that his little secret was safe.

The truth was that you had noticed. Of course you had, and the thought of him alone with something that belonged to you, so desperate enough to do that, all of it was too tempting to just stare at him as if he was a weirdo, that's not how you are, you're hyperaware of the fact you enjoy your awkward freak and you can't bring yourself to judge such act covered in worship.

“Dex,” you murmur, fingers curling into his hair, tugging just enough to make him look at you, “you know you can take them off, right? At this point you’ve kind of already eaten them.” The words slip out with a breathless giggle, the fabric clinging to you sticky and soaked from his persistence.

He doesn’t stop right away. He presses his mouth harder, trying to drink through the thin barrier, and there's a desperate noise vibrating against you when you finally tug him back, his lips are swollen, slick with spit and the product of your satisfaction.

“Yeah I know,” he says, voice a little muffled. He swallows hard before admitting, “but I don’t really know that,” his breath hitches, his cheeks flushing deeper, and he shifts like he’s embarrassed by the confession but can’t help himself.

“I like… I like how they taste like this, I also want to try more, but you'd probably be disappointed,” that last part comes with a breathy, nervous laugh that has you smiling.

He presses his mouth back to the soaked spot, dragging his tongue slowly over it until your breath stutters in your chest. The pressure isn’t nearly enough, not with the fabric still in the way, but watching him try to rut against nothing while he licks and sucks greedily has your whole body burning. He’s a mess somehow—hips jerking, shoulders tight with restraint, mouth working like he thinks if he just tries harder he’ll get to the sweetness beneath.

“You could never disappoint me,” you murmur, encouraging. “Besides, you already know some tricks,”

The small compliment makes him finally look up at you, pupils blown wide, lashes trembling with every desperate blink. His lips shine, wet and swollen, and he looks undone just from this. You giggle when he just stares at you like you just said something that he will never forget.

“Not that look…” you tease, laughter breaking the tension for a heartbeat.

He answers with a quick, clumsy lick against the damp fabric just where your clit is swollen beneath the material, like a puppy desperate to please, earning another little sound from your throat.

“Alright,” you exhale, your thighs twitching, the teasing burning into frustration, “this is too much. I’m gonna teach you Dex—so you can do it good and please me properly—because you’re making me go crazy here.”

Your words make him shiver, his hands tightening on your thighs like he’s bracing for a lesson he’s been waiting his whole life to take.

“Are you sure?” his voice makes your chest tighten, makes your pulse race in sync with the steady throb between your legs. You give him the smallest nod, and it’s all he needs. His face lights up, so grateful it nearly breaks you. “Okay… okay, thank you,” he whispers.

The way he looks at you makes your stomach flip, he always looks at you like you're something divine and painfully sacred that he still can't believe is by his side.

You can’t wait to show him what he’s capable of, to coax out that potential he’s so desperate to prove. With a quick hand, you hook your thumb into the band pressing against your swollen heat and peel your panties aside, just enough to expose the slick ache he’s been tormenting himself over all this time.

The moment your cunt glistens in the dim light, his breath catches audibly. His eyes go wide, pupils swallowing the pretty hazel, lips parting like he’s about to pray. He stares at the way you shine for him, mesmerized, a wet sigh escaping from you as the cool air kisses your bare skin. His gaze flickers up to your face, only to fall again, drawn helplessly back down.

“Now,” you say softly, steadying his focus, guiding his hunger with a fingertip pointing where you want him. Your swollen clit, just a little below it, “start here with your tongue, yeah? Just a slow lick, baby.”

“Mhm,” he nods quickly almost trembling with the weight of your instruction, leaning in with both of his hands gripping your thighs.

He obeys instantly, no hesitation at all. His tongue drags up your folds with a shaky gasp, slow just like you told him. The sound of it—his raw need bleeding into every movement—makes you shiver. By the time his tongue slides up to touch your clit, your whole body is already leaning into him, greedy for more. His hands clutch your thighs like he’s terrified you’ll push him away, knuckles straining white.

“Good boy,” you murmur, your voice dropping lower, syrupy-sweet with approval. The effect is immediate—he has to take a moment to whine, then lick his lips to continue.

“Just like that,” you guide, and he follows before you even finish speaking, desperate to earn more of your approval. His tongue circles your clit in quick little swirls, messy but effective, each one sending sparks dancing through your belly.

Then he slides lower again, down to where you’re dripping, where your body pulses and clenches with every teasing touch. He pushes the tip of his tongue inside, shallow, but still enough to make your breath catch, to make your thighs tighten reflexively. He doesn’t linger long—only to taste a little bit of what's inside, enough to make you gasp—before moving back up to your clit, the rhythm is not overwhelming but it is intoxicating. Every pass feels better than the last, his tongue applying the right pressure, dragging the sweetest ticklish ache out of you until your lips part in a bitten-back moan.

He’s learning you on instinct alone, desperate, eager, and it’s already making you dizzy.

“Dex,” you gasp, tightening your grip on his hair “Please start sucking, your lips... Use your lips,” twitching and panting feeling pathetic, but no more than him because he nods so quickly, closing his lips around your clit making a little pout that makes you close your eyes and moan.

His muffled mhmm vibrates right against your clit, and the sound alone makes your legs tremble. His mouth doesn’t leave you, not even for a second—he’s latched on now, fully addicted, tongue moving in frantic little circles that border on sloppy but feel like heaven. Every desperate flick drags another wave of heat out of you, and when he sucks—lips pulling tight around your swollen nub—your cunt clenches against nothing, aching, your body trying to grasp at something that isn’t there.

The pressure is relentless, his tongue alternating between circling and pressing, abusing that bundle of raw nerves that has your hips rocking helplessly against his mouth. The broken moan that rips out of you only spurs him on, he groans louder, shamelessly, the sound spilling directly into your skin, feeding off your reaction.

He’s lost in it—lost in your taste, in the tug of your fingers in his hair, in the way you guide each quick movement like you’re conducting him. You don’t even have to look down to know what’s happening to him; you can feel it in the tremor of his shoulders, in the tiny twitch of his body pressed so close to your legs. He’s rutting against the air, straining for friction he can’t have, so turned on it’s almost painful, but he refuses to pull away from you.

The sight alone—his mouth worshipping you while his own body trembles with need—makes the burn inside you coil tighter, ready to snap.

Your free hand drifts down, resting on your lower belly, fingertips grazing your mound. His eyes flicker to the movement, wide and intent, but his mouth never falters against you. Then, suddenly, his grip shifts—he releases your thighs, and the absence of that bruising hold makes you whimper at the loss. Before you can even complain, his hands are sliding higher, thumbs pressing delicately to either side of your labia.

The breath catches in your throat when he parts you open, spreading the slick skin. He pulls back just enough to look, his mouth hovering, his eyes locked on you, on your most intimate part he needs to see. Adoration softens every line of his face, and the way he drinks in the sight makes you tremble.

“What are you doing? Don't do that… keep going,” you whine, the petulance in your own voice making heat rush to your cheeks, shame curling under the desire. You sound like a begging spoiled child.

He licks his lips, eyes flashing up to yours, caught between guilty and awestruck. “Sorry. I just wanted to see,” there's a very awkward pause, “...wow.” The last whisper is reverent, ragged, and before you can scold him again, his mouth is back on you.

This time he starts lower, licking and sucking at your entrance, his thumbs still holding you open so he can taste every drop. You shudder at the hot, sloppy attention, gasping when he drags his tongue back up and catches your clit again between his lips. The combination makes you arch, your back bowing against the sofa, hips rolling forward to feed him more.

Obscene wet sounds echoing between you as he works. Your body pushes into his mouth again and again, giving in completely while he laps and sucks like he’ll never get enough.

Nothing stops until the pressure inside you finally snaps. Your body seizes against his mouth, your cunt pulsing around his tongue just as you told him to fuck you with it. He does—shoving it as deep as he can, sloppy and relentless, his nose rubbing against your clit, smelling your natural scent that makes him leak inside his pants. The combination has you crying out, thighs trembling around his head, heat spilling over his tongue as he drinks down every second of your release.

It takes everything in you to push him back, gasping, overstimulated, your body still twitching from aftershocks. He resists for a moment, groaning into your folds like he’d happily drown there, but when you tug his hair firmly, he pulls back. Thin threads of saliva and your slick joining his lips to your cunt, he stares up at you like you’re his vice, his drug.

“Wait—please, please, again, again,” he whines with his pretty voice breaking, his face still close enough that his breath fans over your flesh.

You shift on the sofa to glance down at him properly. He’s still moving his hips against nothing, rutting air like a desperate animal. He must be so hard it aches, but he doesn’t reach for himself, doesn’t even think to—his whole world is focused between your thighs. The sight makes you chuckle, a giddy little sound of satisfaction, because you’ve never seen him look so undone.

“Yes,” you breathe, stroking his hair, rewarding him. “Yes, you can do it again.”

The joy that breaks across his face is pure, grabbing your panties, tugging them back over your swollen cunt, covering you again. And he dives in again, pressing his mouth to the damp fabric like it’s his altar, licking and sucking through the soaked cotton as if he can’t bear to let you go bare for too long.

“Weirdo,” you purr while stroking his hair and he starts giving little kisses to your puffy cunt, loving how the soaked fabric feels against his lips.

“Don’t be mean,” he mumbles against you, words muffled by the constant, sloppy way his mouth keeps working over the damp fabric. The vibration of his voice only makes your thighs twitch tighter around his head.

“I’m not…” you coo, tilting your head, watching him like he’s the sweetest, dirtiest thing you’ve ever owned. Then, with a sly grin, you drop the bait. “You know… if you come just from this, I’d let you keep them. You could lick them whenever you want.”

You wink at him, voice dripping with tease, and the effect is instantaneous. He almost chokes on his own breath, groaning into you, eyes squeezing shut as though the promise alone might undo him. His hand jerks downward, clutching himself hard through his jeans, desperate for some kind of hold to keep from blowing too soon.

The sight of him—mouth glued to your cunt, nose pressed into the damp cotton, one hand trembling as it grips himself like a lifeline—makes your chest tighten with wicked delight. He’s so close, you can feel it in every frantic lick, every needy sound he pours into you.

⏜︵ 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

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ His control by sensory overload

It's not a shocking new that Matt knows every flinch, every twitch of breath, every helpless sound you make when he plays with you—and he’ll use it against you with precision so cruel it borders on artistry. He drags you right to the edge of breaking, the tremor in your thighs, the arch of your spine, the way your chest stutters with little pathetic gasps—he reads it all and keeps it inside his mind until it's time to use it.

He’ll hold you there until your face is soaked, until those tears blur your lashes and your skin shivers so hard it’s like your body is begging for mercy in place of words.

And right when your nerves start to dull, when your body dares to begin adapting to the unbearable heat of his attention, he pulls back just to snatch away that relief, to remind you that release isn’t yours to have. It’s his to grant—or withhold.

That’s what makes him smile, all dimples and teeth, the smile that tells you he’s savoring your frustration more than he ever would enjoy your pleasure. He delights in the way you shake, when your voice breaks, when you beg for more while hating him for the way he denies it like an hypocrite.

To him, your suffering is sweeter, more intoxicating, than any orgasm he could ever wring out of you.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ Lack of discipline takes to painful consequences

With him, the rules are mercilessly simple—move when you shouldn’t, speak when you’re not spoken to, gasp too loud while he’s working you open, even breathe wrong when he’s focused between your legs, and everything stops. No matter how good you feel, no matter how much he’s enjoying the way you fall apart, he’ll cut it off cold.

Discipline is more important than pleasure, he wants obedience first, and he’ll make sure you never forget it.

That’s why sometimes—just sometimes—he reaches for a belt you never thought he owned. He won’t raise his voice, won’t look angry for you. He’ll fold the leather in his hands with that terrifying patience, then order you to bend, and the first lash will land hot across your back, then your ass, then the soft give of your thighs, the leather snapping so sharply you can’t bite back the cry.

When he aims between your legs, dangerously closer to where you're throbbing, at the tender inside of your thighs, the sting borders on unbearable, only designed to make you flinch and understand what you shouldn't do.

He makes you count every strike, your voice shaking, tears going down and if you lose track, stumble over a number, he just starts again from one, calm as ever, like he has all the time in the world to break you down until you learn the lesson properly. By the time he’s satisfied, your skin is burning, raw, alive with pain—he has that pleased look on his face, that controlled calm that makes the punishment cut deeper than the belt ever could.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ Slaps on the cheeks of a pretty face

He isn’t shy about it—his hand cracks across your cheek mid-thrust, hard enough to sting, not enough to bruise. For him it’s not about pain, Matt likes it because it is about shock, about the way it snaps you out of your daze and throws you right back under his control. He does it to see the tears spring fresh, to hear the way your breath stutters as if you’ve just been reminded who owns your body.

Every slap is a reminder that you don’t get to drift, you don’t get to forget, you’re here to take what he gives you.

Sometimes he saves it for when you’re on your knees. You’ll be working your mouth over him, lips stretched around the thick weight of him, when his hand suddenly lands against your cheek. The raw sting makes you jolt, and before you can recover, his fingers thread into your hair and shove you down deeper, forcing his cock further into your throat while your skin still burns from his hand.

The mix of shock and suffocation is exactly what he wants—your mouth full, your eyes watering and your voice gone.

When he’s frustrated, he gets meaner with it. He’ll pull out just to slap the heavy head of his cock against your cheek, leaving wet smears across your skin like he’s marking territory. Then he taps it against your tongue, a mocking little gesture before pushing past your lips again. Your mouth is his to use and your face is his to strike.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ Forced to swallow everything he gives

He’ll grip your jaw in one strong hand, thumb digging into your cheek until your lips part, until you’re forced to open up for him like something to be used. He doesn’t rush—he leans over you, adoring the way your heart beats faster with pure need, before letting spit gather in his mouth and fall onto your tongue.

The string breaking across your lips, the wet heat pooling where he wants it. Then he waits—he makes you hold it, his palm still clamping your jaw tight—until he gives the order. Only when he tilts his head in approval, that subtle nod, you swallow.

And he listens closely to the way your throat works around it, smug satisfaction painted all over his face.

When he’s in a good mood, all playful and mean—he doesn’t even aim for your mouth. He lets it drip lazily down your face, onto your chin, across your chest, the mess running sticky and warm until you’re painted in it. He smears it in with his thumb, rubs it across your lips, pushes it down your throat with his cock sometimes if he feels like it. He murmurs that you’re beautiful like this, prettier ruined and wet, covered in what he gives you.

And unfortunately you love it—you prove it every time you wait, obedient and trembling, mouth open, not daring to swallow until he decides you’re allowed.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ No mercy in his rhythm

When he’s in that mood, there’s nothing gentle in him. His rhythm is merciless, hips snapping into yours with bruising force, every thrust landing heavy, like a punishment. He doesn’t care if you’re gasping, if your body is straining to keep up—he’s not chasing your pleasure, he’s using you to wring out his own. Your wrists are pinned above your head, his fingers bruising into your skin, his weight pressing you down so hard into the sheets you can hardly breathe.

Sometimes he shoves your face into the mattress, muffling your cries, whispering in your ear that the way you fall apart because of him is humiliating and he feels nothing but pity for you.

He doesn’t stop when you’re trembling, doesn’t slow when your body begs for a break under him—if anything, it pushes him harder. He uses you until he’s finished, until he’s spilling into you, grinding deep as if he wants to carve the reminder of him into your body.

And when it’s “over”, he barely gives you time to catch your breath before he’s on you again, flipping you over, dragging your hips back, shoving inside your sore, overstretched body with no warning. You whimper, protest, beg—but he’s already gone again, chasing his next release, using you all over until you’re nothing but sweat, tears, and the bruises he leaves behind.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ His mockery and constant degradation

He likes to whisper cruel little things in your ear, feeding you the kind of words that make your stomach twist with humiliation and heat, using pet names in a way you know it's everything but sweet, his full of poison.

“You let me use you like this, do you even want it, sweetheart?” He times it perfectly—each word whispered right when you’re weakest, right when you can’t hold back the noise spilling out of you. And when you moan too loud, when your voice cracks like you’ve lost every ounce of control, he laughs. A cruel, delighted laugh that tells you he makes your shame his sick pleasure.

“Greedy,” he purrs, grinding harder, making you take every inch while you writhe under him. “Can’t get enough, can you?” His hand comes down sharp across your cheek, the sting making your eyes water, his smirk widening as you whimper.

Try to protest, even gasp out a shaky no, and his fingers close around your throat, enough to remind you who decides when you speak, who controls every desperate sound you make. His grip tightens when you squirm, loosens only when he wants to hear you choke out your submission.

Every sound you let out will be used against you. He’ll press his lips to your ear again, mockingly soft this time: “You love this. My little toy. Say it.” And he won’t stop until you’re the one repeating it back to him, ruined and trembling, confessing your own degradation while he grins into your skin.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ Beliefs used in the wrong way

Sometimes he drags you into something even darker, pulling faith down into the sheets with you. He’ll press the cold beads of a rosary into your skin as he fucks you, dragging them over your throat, your chest, your hips—branding you with devotion twisted into punishment.

Every thrust feels like a blasphemy and a benediction all at once. He tells you to pray, voice low and commanding, ordering you to choke out between broken moans. The cadence of your prayers stumbles, ruined by the rhythm of his body slamming into yours, and he only smiles, moans at that twisted feeling, whispering that God’s listening. He'll worry about the guilt later.

He mixes devotion with degradation until you’re dizzy, unsure if you’re being blessed or condemned. One moment he’s calling you holy, sacred, whispering like you’re some offering he’s chosen.

The next, he’s snarling that you’re a sinner, that your body was made to be ruined and used. His crucifix might dangle and smack against your skin as he holds you down, his breath hot in your ear as he asks if you feel absolved, if you feel cleansed while he fucks you raw. And by the end, you don’t know if you’re praying for forgiveness, for mercy, or for more.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ Humiliating releases

He’ll drag you right to the edge, teetering on the brink until you’re shaking, incoherent, voice lost in desperate whines and half-formed pleas. He’ll let you hover there, quivering, heart racing, until your body is raw with need—and then he’ll push you into release in the most degrading way he can imagine.

Maybe he shoves you onto his thigh, forcing you to ride him like a trembling, desperate mess while he has that cruel smirk, laughing at the way your hips flail, the way you're a mess that can't reach the needed release by yourself.

Sometimes, he doesn’t even touch you that much. He’ll slap your thighs, maybe moan in your ear while he touches himself, mocking your desperation, call you filthy and greedy until your body betrays you, trembling and spilling by the smallest touch. He loves the way you can’t control yourself, how your body folds into the humiliation he orchestrates.

Everything is for him, a trophy of obedience, proof that even in shame, you’re utterly his. By the time he lets you catch your breath, you’re raw, wet, and exposed—completely undone, and he’s already smiling at how easy it was to ruin you, again.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ His silence weighs more than anything

The most terrifying part of him isn’t the words, because sometimes there are none. No warnings, no teasing whispers—only the iron grip in your hair, and the relentless, rough thrusts that leave your body hurting and your eyes watering. He doesn’t need to speak, because every pull, every slap, every dragging motion across your skin says it all.

The way he pins you, uses you, forces your hips to meet his, presses you into the mattress like you’re nothing, proves that he owns you without ever opening his mouth.

Your body reacts before your mind even catches up, flinching at the sting, shuddering under the pressure, quivering with overstimulation. And that silence—it’s heavier than any words could be. It makes you realize, horrifyingly, that his control doesn’t rely on commands or insults. He doesn’t need to tell you you’re his, since you can feel it in every bruised curve, every aching nerve, every gasp that leaves you breathless.

The couch again, always the couch. His apartment is complete—there’s a bed, a whole room, a place you could both actually stretch out—but somehow it never matters. Somehow you always end up here, crammed into the cushions, swallowed by the soft material like it’s the only place the two of you belong.

And it's ironic, because now that you both have become more intimate, his bed is no longer a place to spend time with you.

Day after day after that first, reckless kissing session, the bed has become useless. Every time you come over, no matter how much you try to aim for anywhere else, the end point is always the same.

It’s muscle memory now, you barely get to sit down before he’s on you—crawling, clumsy, desperate. He kisses you like he’s starved, mouth pressed to yours with no patience, no hesitation, nothing soft about what he's doing. His body wedges between your legs as though he can’t stand the idea of not touching you, not feeling the heat of you right up against him.

Other times he just drags you into his lap, clutching at you like he did that first night, keeping you locked there like a possession while you both practice.

It’s been weeks since that first kiss, since that sloppy, embarrassing mess where his mouth bruised yours and his pride cracked open under the weight of how bad he was and you making fun of him like the good friend you are. He’d left you both raw-lipped and laughing, though he hadn’t laughed much—too mortified, too frustrated at himself, and then you had offered to help again, to fix him.

In other words, to train him.

Since then, it’s been practice, relentless, weeks of it. He’s still not good at it and he has to be perfect because there's still too much tongue, teeth scraping where they shouldn’t, biting your lip until it bleeds.

Sometimes he misses entirely when he goes in so eager, ends up with blood on his mouth and shame in his eyes. But he’s better now, hungrier.

He learns fast, and he learns with a kind of hunger that makes your head spin. Every mistake is full of want, every bruise, every sting, every little slip of his mouth feels like proof of how badly he craves you, how much he’s willing to break himself just to taste you properly.

He’s been thinking about your mouth constantly, always on his head when he’s supposed to be focused on work, when duty demands discipline and attention and still, there it is—your mouth, soft and warm in his memory, distracting him worse than any weapon ever could.

When he bathes, it’s the same, the steam clings to him, but his mind drifts back to the press of your lips, the way you taste, the wet sounds burned into him. Even when he eats, when food is right in front of him, nothing satisfies him because nothing compares to your taste. His jaw moves, his throat swallows, but his mind won’t leave your mouth behind, it gnaws at him, a craving that grows sharper every single day and unfortunately to top it all off, his eyes betray him.

Tonight, you catch it again, that slip. The way his stare stays in your mouth is too long, so heavy and filled with something more than casual thought.

He’s not subtle and it's not like he's trying to be. His gaze clings, imagining, replaying, begging in silence for something else, you already have an idea of what it could be.

But still—he kisses you like he’s desperate, since it feels nice. His mouth moves against yours fast and messy, like he’s terrified of losing you if he slows down for even a second. His hands clutch at your shirt, knuckles white, tugging you closer until the fabric strains. His body trembles beneath your weight, the shiver running straight down into his hips where he grinds against you without even realizing it.

The sound he makes when you lick into his mouth is obscene. A needy whine that slips out of him to mix with yours that he chases, tongue pressing to yours like he’ll die if he can’t have more. His cheeks are already hot, flushed pink under the low light, sweat gathering at his hairline.

And when your hand finally leaves his chest, sliding lower—over his stomach, dipping towards the belt—he flinches, that little twitch that is a betrayal of nerves. His breath stutters like the idea alone is too much for him. And it's not because he wants to stop you. God, never that, but because he has no idea what to do with himself if you actually touch him there.

You grin against his lips, lips slick with spit and swollen from how hard he’s been kissing you. “What—are you shy now?”

His head tips back a little, hazel eyes finding yours. They’re already drowned in black, pupils blown wide until there’s barely any color left. His mouth opens, closes, and finally he mutters, voice unsteady: “Stop with that. It’s just that, well—”

You cut in, already guessing, already smiling too wide. “Don’t tell me no one’s ever gone down on you?”

The silence stretches, thick and humiliating. His lashes lower, his lips part, and then—soft, broken, muffled against your chest where he's hiding —“...No.”

Your laugh cuts sharp and delighted through the air. It makes him groan, because of course you’d tease him, of course you wouldn’t let him live this down just like you didn't let the first kiss situation go. His hands fist harder into your shirt like he wants to crawl inside you and hide.

“Jesus, Dex,” you murmur between giggles, dragging the words out just to watch him squirm. “The hell did that single past date do with you?”

“Definitely not this,” he says defensive. His cheeks burn red as the words leave him, like he instantly regrets saying them out loud. “And none of your business, by the way.”

You're unbothered by his little outburst. “Ah, okay, okay. Lucky me again, then.”

You press against him, palms flat to his chest. He gives easily under the pressure, almost relaxing himself.

He looks startled, caught off guard by how fast you flipped the moment on him. His legs open more without him meaning them to, thighs splayed wide. His hands stay on your hips, uselessly —fingers twitching like he doesn’t know if he should be shoving you off or grabbing hold of you to keep you there.

You don’t give him the chance to decide, your mouth is already on his throat, tasting the sweat gathering there, biting gently just to feel the inhale it drags out of him. Then lower—his collarbone, his shoulder, his neck, the frantic beat of his pulse beneath your lips.

You tug his shirt up as you go, mouth trailing down over skin that twitches at every touch. His chest jerks under you, muscles tense, nipples pebbling under the brush of your breath. He’s flushed all the way down, freckles scattered across soft, pale skin stretched over the build of muscle he doesn’t know how to use right now.

Then lower still—his stomach, tight under the heat of your mouth, the faint tremor of his abs betraying how badly he’s trying to hold still. Your lips drag over the thin trail of hair leading down into his jeans, and the sound that claws its way out of his throat is a choked little whimper.

He wants to scream, you can see it in the way his head tips back against the couch, in the way his teeth sink into his lip to keep the sound caged. His body betrays him anyway, jerking under your mouth, thighs twitching open wider, begging without words.

“Wait—what are you—” His voice cracks halfway through the question. You glance up, just in time to catch the look on his face—horror and arousal together and he can’t decide if he should bolt or beg you to keep going. Your fingers toy with his zipper and for some ridiculous reason he actually thought you were about to take him in your mouth with his jeans still on.

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head at him. “Relax. You’re gonna like it... You're as hard as a rock for me to leave you like this.”

And instead of relaxing like you said, he blurts out the dumbest thing he could possibly say in this moment.

“I didn’t shave.”

You pause, fingers stilled against the metal teeth of his zipper because your brain needs a second to process how the fuck that’s relevant in this moment.

Slowly, your brows lift as you meet his wide-eyed stare.

“So?” you shoot back, incredulous. “What—do you want me to shave you myself? Why does it matter?”

He’s dead serious, absolutely stone-faced, even though his cheeks are burning scarlet. “No—it doesn’t, or—I don’t know.” He stammers, words tripping over themselves like he’s trying to make sense of his own panic. “I’ve never done this, so. Just letting you know, because you never know.”

His voice cracks again on the last word, his jaw clenched like he’s giving you an official report instead of confessing he’s nervous about the state of his hair down there.

“Right, thank you, the proposal still stands though.”

The second you tug him free, it’s overwhelming—his cock already stiff, flushed a raw shade of red, twitching in the air like it’s been waiting for this moment longer than he has. He’s painfully hard, hissing because of the cold air of the room, and you just sit there for a moment, staring. Your lips part, tongue wetting them unconsciously, and you hold the stare too long—long enough for it to turn uncomfortable, for him to squirm under the weight of it.

His thighs are tense, muscles jumping as if he’s fighting the urge to close them, but he can’t—he’s spread open and helpless, your eyes locked onto him like you’re taking inventory of every shade, every twitch, every vein. And there’s already a creamy drop—fat, clear, spilling from the slit, sliding down over the swollen flushed head. Embarrassing, really, how little it took to get him like this.

Instead of taking him inside your mouth as quickly as you need to, you drag your thumb right over the tip, pressing into the slick mess and smearing it across the crown. The reaction is instant—his stomach jerks, his mouth drops open, and a strangled tiny noise tumbles out before he can bite it back. You watch his face twist, caught between shame and raw pleasure, sadly he doesn’t know which one to surrender to.

“Damn Dex,” you sound mean and there's no regrets, rolling the slick between your fingers just to make him twitch. “You’re so easy.”

Then you lean down, and the heat of your mouth closes over him. The first taste hits immediately—bitter, salty, a heaviness that coats your tongue and clings stubbornly. He chokes on his own spit at the contact, the wet warm of your mouth wrapping around the swollen head. His head knocks back against the couch with a dull thud, his throat straining as a noise breaks out of him.

He whines at how you suck him slow, dragging your tongue under the ridge, tasting everything, swallowing his taste and the sounds he can’t hold back. His thighs shiver beside your face, the muscles trembling as if they’ll snap shut at any second, but you’ve got him right where you want him, spread open and leaking.

“W-Wait…” His voice cracks on the word, nothing but panic and need braided together. His hand flies down, fisting in your hair in a grip like he can’t decide if he’s supposed to yank you off him or shove you down further.

You only hum around him, the sound vibrating down his length as you sink lower. The head presses heavy against your tongue, then past it, and you let your spit slip free, spilling down your chin, dripping over his shaft. Sloppy, wet enough to make obscene sounds fill the place.

His breath comes in ragged little gasps, each one broken off and he’s forgetting how to breathe properly. His chest rises too fast, heaving under the strain of trying to keep control. He can’t keep his eyes steady—every time he glances down and catches the sight of your lips stretched wide around his cock, he jerks away, staring at the ceiling, the wall, anywhere else, as if pretending it isn’t happening will save him from the way it feels.

When you finally free him, it’s with an obscenely wet pop that echoes, string of spit connecting your lips to the glistening head. You lick them slowly, savoring the salt he left on them. “Hmm, you taste so good.”

Your finger taps against his slit, rubbing lightly, smearing the fresh precum across his sensitive tip. He twitches hard, his hips pushing out of the couch. “You’re so hydrated, congratulations,” you tease, dragging the words out, mocking the mess under your finger. “How much water do you drink?”

He sobs at your question, he doesn't even know if he should answer or you're only doing it to make him throb.

“S—Shut up”

The way his cock leaks makes you wonder if he already came. The sticky mess coats your finger, so wet it drips down the side of his shaft to pool at the hair on his base. He’s humiliating himself without even meaning to, making a spectacle of how easily he unravels.

“Stop it—” he chokes, his voice breaks apart into something desperate, almost a sob. “Please do that again…”

The plea rips out of him raw, pathetic and he doesn’t care how it sounds. His grip on your hair tightens, shaking, and his whole body trembles as if the idea of you putting your mouth back on him might kill him but not having it will be worse.

It doesn’t take long. Of course it doesn’t. He’s sensitive, too inexperienced, his nerves stretched thin as wires. His whole body, the shock running through his legs, his chest, his throat. His hips buck hard into your mouth before he even realizes he’s moving, chasing the slick heat of your tongue with no control left in him.

The sound that breaks out of him is absurd—half sob, half curse, and he’s gone, spilling down your throat in uncontrollable pulses. It’s too much, too fast, hitting the back of your tongue before he can even gasp for air.

You swallow what you can, grateful, greedy, but you let some slip back out on purpose, let it dribble past your lips. When you pull off him, there’s a wet line of spit and come clinging to the corner of your mouth, and you smear it away lazily with the back of your hand, just to watch him stare at it. His expression is priceless—horrified yet so fascinated at the fact you swallowed it all.

“Already? That’s it?” Your voice comes cruel, perfectly mocking. “Didn’t even last a minute, Dex. Poor, sensitive thing.”

He groans and covers his face with both hands, palms pressing hard against his burning cheeks. He thinks he can hide from you like that, block out the shame radiating off him. But you don’t let him recover, not even close.

Your hand wraps around him again, stroking the length that’s still twitching, slick with spit and come. His raw cock jerks helplessly in your grip, and you take him back into your mouth anyway.

“Hold on—” His voice cracks again, higher this time, utterly desperate. “Please, please—”

He’s begging, but you ignore him. You suck mercilessly, cheeks hollowing, tongue dragging over the head until he’s thrashing in tiny, frantic movements. Your other hand grips his thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and when his hips try to squirm away you slam your palm down flat on his stomach, pinning him to the couch. He’s trapped under you, forced to take every wet drag of your mouth.

The noises spilling from him now are frantic, humiliating—whimpers that trip over themselves, breaking into almost-whines when you keep flicking your tongue across the swollen head, tasting his milky pleasure. His stomach clenches when you manage to swallow him whole, your nose touching soaked curls at the base and you close your eyes, everything in your head is Dex, Dex, Dex... His taste, his smell, the weight of him on your tongue, the way he leaks, and his hands fist at the cushions like he’s trying to tear them apart.

You release his twitching length to start spreading wet kisses all over the warm skin of his cock, leaving a special one right on his frenulum that makes him hiss and look down at you with puppy eyes that make you hungry, letting his cock touch your cheeks, rub it against your nose, making a sweet mess all over your face yourself only to make it worse for him.

“Too much, huh?” you murmur against him, pulling back just long enough to spit directly on his tip. It dribbles down the length, mixing with what’s already there, gluing him shiny and wet. You lap it up immediately, messier this time.

He nods frantically, looking so adorable in his ruin—eyes glassy, wet at the corners like he’s seconds away from crying. His face is flushed a violent red, mouth working uselessly as he babbles. You can’t even tell if he’s saying “please” or “stop” or both, words blurring together into noise. He tries to curl in on himself, trembling, but you keep him open, keep him helpless, and keep your mouth working until he’s nothing but broken sounds.

You don’t stop, not when his voice breaks, not when his thighs try to close, not even when his hands claw uselessly at your shoulders. You keep your tongue flicking, circling, punishing. Every sound that falls out of him is weaker—little sobbing gasps that hitch and stutter like his lungs don’t know how to keep up.

His body jerks helplessly with each pass of your mouth, every lick making him arch his back. It doesn’t take long before he cracks again, just pathetic. The second orgasm tears through him raw and painful, leaving him collapsing against the cushions with a strangled cry.

It is less than the first time—thin spurts, almost nothing—but still, you catch it all, hold it inside your mouth like it’s something precious.

When you finally pull off him, your lips curve into a sticky smile. You wipe the wetness from your mouth with the back of your hand, casual, before crawling up over his shaking body to straddle him again.

He blinks up at you, fuzzy and confused, pupils blown wide, cheeks streaked pink with sweat and humiliation. You tap his cheek lightly, coaxing his eyes to focus and he parts his lips like he’s about to ask something, but you don’t give him the chance.

You kiss him hard, pressing your mouth against his and he goes still for a second, then melts when the taste hits him. His own taste, his eyes squeeze shut as you force it onto his tongue, every drop, every bitter-salty trace you’ve been holding back. You don’t let him escape, sealing your mouth over his until he has no choice but to take it.

When you pull away it’s obscene, licking his lips with your tongue. Thin lines of spit and come still connect your lips, glistening in the low light until they snap and dribble down your chin. You pause, catching your breath, only to realize—he hasn’t swallowed.

He’s just sitting there, glassy-eyed, his mouth full, staring at you like he’s waiting, like a dog waiting for his owner's command, and your chest flutters at the sight to then nod once, subtle, and watch as he obeys—his throat working in a slow gulp, swallowing down everything you’ve given him. His face twists as he tastes it properly, your spit mixing with the tang of himself, he doesn’t complain, it is just something new to himself.

“That’s a good boy,” you purr, voice thick with satisfaction, pressing your forehead against his damp one. His breath shudders out of him all at once, like you’ve just given him permission to exist again.

“Thank you…” The words come out in the smallest whisper, soft and sweet and it's pure gratitude slipping from his swollen mouth as his hands finally work again, sliding up to rest on your waist.

The smile on your face is inevitable, tilting his chin up just enough to see his face. His lips are raw, his eyes glassy, his whole expression dazed and reverent. “So—first blowjob, and you already look like you got fucked in the ass. No offense.” You pause looking how he rolls his eyes. “What’s gonna happen when I do it again?”

A low groan comes out of his mouth, his body tensing under you as the words land. His cheeks flame a deeper red, and instead of answering, he buries his face into your neck. You feel the hot rush of his breath, then the soft scrape of teeth as he nips at your skin, playful, almost shy.