damn she's dead

⏜︵ 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

Another bruising thrust has the man's vision blurring for a second; static invading the edges of his sight as the lengthy cock digging around in his guts forces yet another embarrassing noise out of him.

Every drag, every movement causes the wettest squelching you'll ever hear, partially from the lube, partially from two thick loads you'd already squeezed inside of his body. As Loki's forehead presses down on the table, his own twitchy cock prepares for a release he'd been denied twice before, drooling enough that it could already be mistaken for his release.

You promised him that he could cum, but only once you'd filled him three times. (And every multiple of three… but he doesn't need to know how much you intend to breed him upfront~) So, with your hips snapping forward in a broken rhythm, and soft grunts next to his ear, Loki greedily accepts your offer, awaiting the familiar surge of your seed before he paints the ground with his own, trembling all the way through.

“Gnngh… gods, you feel good…” you groan into the crook of Loki's neck.

He knows the words aren't empty praise — most of your weight is pressing him down, and you're drilling into him like a desperate mutt, with a grip so secure that he swears you're trying to embed your fingerprints into his sides. Whenever you aren't letting him know how deliciously wet he is around your cock, your praise comes through in whines against his shoulder, teeth grazing his pale flesh in tandem with your thrusts. Surely, it isn't all bravado.

The stickiness between Loki's legs gets worse as your wild pounding pushes more and more cum out of him, dripping down his legs and adding to the wet cacophony of noises. If you look down, you'd be able to see the myriad lines connecting yourselves, a sinful mixture of your own fluids and your lover's precum becoming one lewd mess. Were his hands not bound behind his back, he would be using them to add even more into the wet mix, stroking himself in time with your rough hip work.

Your voice cracks as you feel yourself nearing yet another orgasm, sweaty hair sticks to the edges of your face, and you hold Loki's hips tighter while you warn: “Haah– close a-again… going to… mmfh-!! B-breed you, fuuuck!!”

That warmth floods his entire body for the third time this evening. A flush of heat, creeping across his skin and stirring deep in the pit of his stomach.

‘Breed’. What a choice word for you to use — and a filthy one at that. Implying a sense of ownership, or type of procreation. …He'd be lying if he said that the implications of that didn't make his heart skip a beat. And the reaction between his legs isn't lost to you either…

Loki's breath hitches upon feeling your body come to a halt, burying your dick up to the hilt. Between three fat loads and your tip hammering them further inside, he's starting to feel bloated… if his belly bulges, wouldn't it look like he's…?

It's not particularly easy to piece his thoughts together with the way you're rutting into him, grinding so deep that his feet lift off the ground, but Loki manages to ask his question while catching his breath.

“That word you used, darling…” he swallows thickly, turning his head so you can hear him a bit clearer. “what was that about?”

Still connected by the hips, your dick already becoming soft after so much overuse, you tuck a lock of silky hair behind your beloved's ear. “You'll have to be more specific, love. I'm drawing a blank here.” an exhausted chuckle follows your sentence.

“I heard you use the term ‘breed’…?” he clarifies. An air of uncertainty in his words that you're not used to.

Hearing him actually say that out loud, well, you'd be crazy not to be a little hot and bothered. An embarrassing flush spreads beneath your skin at the reflexive twitch in your cock, and the realization that Loki probably felt it. “Oh, w-well… yes, that is the word I used…” you trail off. Your mind becomes lost amongst the various thoughts of your future, the expectations placed upon both your shoulders and your fiance's, and your own selfish desires.

A slight jingle followed by warm fingers curling around your wrist pulls you right out of your daze. That familiar touch that always grounds you when you're floating off in space.

“Out with it then, something has been bothering that pretty head of yours for days now.” Loki flips himself on the table. His gaze is expectant and slightly annoyed — as it usually is whenever you keep things from him, good or bad.

His palms cup your cheeks, and it's as if those worries that plagued you melt right off into the ether (even if the handcuffs hanging off one wrist look a bit silly).

One look into your darling's eyes has a confession rolling off of your tongue easily. “It's just… we're going to be married soon, and with marriage comes certain expectations from our parents…”

“You're not talking about political status, are you?”

You shake your head, face burning up as the truth finally slips. “No, I'm talking about them wanting grandkids, sweetheart.”

Left without words, Loki blinks in astonishment. Grandkids. Kids. YOUR KIDS?! Together?!

Now this is something that genuinely stops the trickster in his path. You mean to tell him that you've been thinking about– no, fussing over the prospect of–

“Ah, I see,” he clears his throat, squirming as the fluid leaking out of his hole becomes undeniably more arousing than before. “and this is the only thing bothering you?”

You're quick to nod, alleviating your betrothed's worries on sight. “Besides a few pre-marriage nervous jitters, yeah. I'm just worried that I won't be able to deliver, haha…” the laugh falls clumsily from your lips, concealing a hint of insecurity.

But Loki won't have any of that. The handcuffs are back around both wrists immediately — you'd never know they were never off to begin with. His hands lift over your head and rest on the back of your neck, pulling you down into a gentle yet passionate kiss.

“Mm I don't know, if you ask me, I'd say you'll be quite thorough with this matter~” he purrs against your lips, spreading his legs underneath you. You're greeted to the sight of his already used hole presented just for you, and you easily take the bait.

A few strokes and the sight of your beloved so driven after your little chat is enough to get you hard again, easily sliding right back inside those warm walls.

You're yanked closer, buried in the crook of Loki's neck once more, trapped by his arms around your neck and his legs around your waist, rutting into him. He's still pleasantly tight, squeezing you in just the right ways that have your vision faltering.

On instinct, you keep your arms wrapped around your soon-to-be husband's body, dwarfing him in your shadow as your hips continue to pound him hard enough to leave stinging red marks. His body sucks you in without a second thought, eating up every inch. You tremble, and whisper 'I love you' into your darling's ear before cumming hard, turning the slick plaps from your bodies even sloppier as your seed overflows.

Never in his life has Loki felt so stuffed. You've filled him multiple times, each load is just as thick as the last, and you kept fucking it deeper inside, leaving little opportunity for it to leak out. Even now, pulling everything except the tip out and watching your own sticky fluids gush out and dribble down Loki's inner thighs, you swiftly angle his hips so that the rest can't escape from his fertile hole.

And after your conversation, it seems a fire was lit within yourselves, dispelling whatever exhaustion would have followed. Surely Loki's parents wouldn't be too upset with their son getting knocked up before the wedding… it's only a few more rounds…

It was the type of late-night heat that clings to you, a heavy, humid blanket that no fan or air conditioner could completely banish. You lay sprawled across your bed, a human starfish trying to maximize surface area for the cold air blasting from the box fan perched precariously on your bedside table. The whirring of the fan was a constant companion, a white noise machine battling the oppressive New York summer night. Your body lay entirely on top of the sheets, a futile attempt to escape the sauna your small apartment had become. Even with the air conditioning set to its lowest, most frigid setting, the heat was still too much to bear. It seeped in through the windows, a persistent, unwelcome guest that didn't just bother you—it had even managed to affect your frost giant boyfriend, Loki.

Your eyes, which had been squeezed shut in a desperate attempt to drift into sleep, shot open. Your mind, an internal alarm system, had become acutely aware of some unseen presence. You weren't dreaming; the feeling was too sharp, too real. Letting out a low groan, you slowly sat up, your muscles protesting as you scanned the surrounding darkness. The air was thick and still, and the only sound was the fan's incessant hum. You reached for the lamp on your nightstand, your fingers fumbling for the switch. The soft, yellow light cut through the gloom, illuminating the room and, more importantly, the figure standing at the foot of your bed.

Loki wasn't beside you like he typically was. He stood there, dripping with sweat, his clothes clinging to his lean frame. His usually impeccable raven hair, now soaked with moisture, was plastered to his forehead. His skin, usually an icy pale, was flushed and damp, a color you had only seen after particularly strenuous battles. He looked utterly miserable, a picture of a toddler about to confess to their parents that they'd just thrown up all over the rug. His blue eyes, which were typically sharp and full of mischief, were wide and glassy.

"Loki?" you whispered, your voice thick with sleep and concern. You reached a hand out, turning on the lamp to get a better look at him. His expression was a blend of irritation and childlike helplessness. You sighed, the sound a soft puff of air in the warm room, and got out of bed, the cool floor a welcome relief on your bare feet. You walked over to him, and he shuffled forward, wrapping his arms around you and resting his head against your bare shoulder. His skin, which you had always found to be naturally cool to the touch, was burning up.

"I don't feel well," he grumbled, his voice muffled against your neck. He clung to you, his grip surprisingly tight, as if afraid he might topple over.

"Oh, no kidding," you muttered, pulling back slightly to look at his face. "You're burning up. What's going on? Are you sick?"

"It's this dreadful place," he complained, his eyes closing as he leaned his head back against your shoulder. "This Midgardian heat. It's... disgusting. It clings to you like a particularly persistent insect. It's unnatural."

You couldn't help but huff out a small laugh. You had a feeling this was going to be a long night, filled with Loki's dramatic complaints. You gently put a hand on his forehead, confirming your suspicions—he was definitely running a fever.

"Unnatural or not, you're hot," you said, a teasing lilt in your voice that he ignored.

"Of course I am," he deadpanned, without opening his eyes. "I am a god."

"No, I mean you have a fever," you clarified, rubbing his arm gently. "A very high one, it feels like."

He groaned again, the sound low and mournful. "It's the air. It's humid and... and heavy. It's suffocating. It feels as if I'm being slowly boiled alive."

You shook your head, already knowing he was going to be a drama queen about this. It was just a fever, likely from being a little overheated.

"Let's get you to bed," you said, trying to lead him back toward the bed. He resisted, his arms still wrapped around you.

"No," he whined, sounding more like a petulant child than a powerful sorcerer. "The bed is a furnace. It's warm. The sheets are warm. Everything is warm. This mortal coil is entirely too delicate for such conditions."

You managed to pry him off of you, and with a soft smile, you grabbed his hand, leading him over to the bed.

"We can put some cold washcloths on your head," you suggested, sitting him down on the edge of the bed.

He sat there, looking profoundly offended by the suggestion, his arms crossed over his chest. "I do not require a mortal's rudimentary remedy. It will pass."

"Loki," you said, your tone firm but gentle, "don't be a pain. Let me help you."

He sighed dramatically, his entire body seeming to deflate in a gesture of ultimate defeat. "Fine. But I am not enjoying this. And when I am better, I am personally going to put an end to the summer season."

You just chuckled, already making your way to the bathroom to get him a cool towel.

You returned from the bathroom with a damp washcloth and a glass of cold water. Loki was still sitting on the edge of the bed, a picture of sulky misery. He watched you approach with narrowed, weary eyes.

"This is completely unnecessary," he said, even as you sat beside him and began to dab his forehead with the cool cloth. The sudden chill made him flinch, but he didn't pull away.

"Just relax," you soothed, gently moving a few damp strands of hair from his face. "It's just a fever. It’ll pass. You’ve just been in this apartment for a few days, and your body is probably just trying to adjust to the Midgardian climate."

"Adjust?" he scoffed. "I am a god, not some… common mammal. My body does not 'adjust' to such a degree. This is a personal assault by the elements themselves. They know I am here, and they despise me."

You couldn't help but smile at his theatrics. "Oh, I'm sure the weather is plotting against you. Now, drink some water."

You held the glass to his lips, and he took a small, reluctant sip. His usual arrogance was a thin veil over genuine discomfort. His skin was still radiating heat, and his breathing was shallow. He was tired, and despite his protests, he leaned into your touch as you continued to press the cool cloth against his skin.

"You're going to be fine," you whispered, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He didn't respond, instead just resting his head against your shoulder again. He felt heavy, his body completely relaxed against yours.

"I am a son of Jotunheim," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Frost runs in my veins. This… is not right. It’s a violation of my very nature."

You gave him a gentle squeeze. "I know, I know. It's just a temporary inconvenience. Tomorrow, you’ll be back to your usual self, plotting something and walking around like you own the place."

He let out a weak chuckle, the sound a low rumble against your collarbone. "I do own the place. And you. And this wretched apartment."

"Sure you do," you said, a soft smile on your face. You helped him lie back down, pulling the cool sheets over his legs while leaving the rest of his body exposed to the fan. He was still radiating heat, but the cool cloth and water seemed to offer him some small measure of relief.

He reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. His grip was weak, but his touch was warm. You held his hand, rubbing the back of it with your thumb. The fan blew cold air over the two of you, and in the quiet of the night, with the gentle hum of the fan and the soft yellow light of the lamp, you watched over your frost giant, who for once was a little too warm.

The morning had brought little relief. Loki was still running a fever, though it wasn't as high as the night before. His color was returning to a more natural, albeit still pale, shade, but his dramatic flair was at an all-time high. Every movement was an epic struggle, every quiet moment an opportunity for a new complaint. He had spent the better part of the morning whinging about the terrible sheets, the "unbearable" temperature of the room, and the "agony" of his headache. You had to physically resist the urge to suffocate him with a pillow just for a moment of blessed silence. It was a close-run thing, especially after the tenth time he tried to pull you closer, whining that he was cold, despite you telling him repeatedly that you did not also want to get sick.

It was now mid-afternoon, and you were at your wit's end. The apartment, which had been your sanctuary, now felt like a prison with a particularly demanding, god-like inmate. Loki was sprawled across the bed, his long legs tangled in the sheets, a picture of pathetic grandeur. You had been in the kitchen, making him a mug of chamomile tea, hoping its soothing properties might have some effect on his temperamental spirit.

Just as you poured the steaming water, you heard it again—a long, drawn-out cry from the bedroom. "Darling! Are you abandoning me to my fate? I believe I'm on the verge of fading into the ether!"

You sighed, a sound that held all the weariness of a thousand years of dealing with a drama queen. You picked up the mug, the warmth of it seeping into your hands, and walked back to the bedroom.

You found him in the same position, one hand dramatically flung over his forehead. He looked up at you with wide, puppy-dog eyes that were meant to illicit sympathy but instead just made you roll your own. You set the mug of tea on the bedside table with a firm click, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

"You are so incredibly lucky that you're sick," you said, your voice low and even, "or I would genuinely consider strangling you for how dramatic you're being."

His hand came away from his forehead, a mock-offended look on his face. "Strangling? After all I have endured? The constant heat, the suffering, the very air itself assaulting my senses..."

You cut him off with a pointed stare. "You have a minor fever, Loki. It's not the end of the world."

He sat up, propping himself up on an elbow. "It is the end of my world, which is, I might add, far more important than the world of a mere mortal. Now, come here. I'm cold." He reached for you, his hand outstretched.

You took a step back, gesturing to the tea. "Drink your tea. And if you ask me to come closer one more time, I'm going to put you in a cold shower."

Loki's hand remained outstretched, a silent, pathetic plea. He looked at you, then at the mug of tea on the nightstand, and let out a long, theatrical sigh. His entire body sagged in a gesture of utter defeat.

"Fine," he grumbled, pulling his hand back. "But I would prefer a bit of kindness and affection over this... this 'tea.' It tastes like old weeds."

You watched as he cautiously took a sip, the mug held between both hands as if it were a fragile artifact. His face, already pale from the fever, contorted into an expression of profound distaste.

"It's chamomile," you said, crossing your arms over your chest. "It's supposed to calm you down."

"It is not calming me down," he whined. "It's making me feel as if I'm being punished. Surely you have something stronger? Something that will make this heat... and this mortal coil... bearable."

"That's all you're getting," you said firmly. You sat down on the edge of the bed, a safe distance away from him, and began to scroll through your phone. The quiet of the room was interrupted only by the whirring of the fan and Loki's occasional, mournful sips of tea.

After a few minutes, he broke the silence. "Are you not going to... comfort me?"

You looked up from your phone, an eyebrow raised. "Comfort you? I'm sitting here, aren't I?"

"I meant... closer," he said, shifting so that he was sitting up straight. "And perhaps a bit more... attentive. A gentle touch, a soothing word. Something to indicate that you haven't forgotten about me in my time of need."

You sighed, putting your phone down. "Loki, I've been with you all morning. I've been bringing you water and tea, and trying to get you to take some medicine. I haven't forgotten about you, I've just reached my limit for your whining."

He frowned, a look of genuine hurt on his face. "Whining? I am merely expressing my discomfort. It's a fundamental right."

"It's whining," you said, a small smile playing on your lips. You stood up and walked to the other side of the bed, getting into your own space. You gave him a look. "Drink your tea and try to get some rest. I'm going to take a shower."

You left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind you. You could still hear Loki's protests, muffled by the door, but for the first time all day, you had a moment of peace.

The cool water of the shower was a welcome escape. You let the steam fill the small bathroom, washing away the heat and the frustration of the afternoon. Loki's muffled complaints from the bedroom became a distant, almost comical sound. It was the first moment of genuine quiet you'd had all day, and you savored it, leaning your head against the tiled wall as the hot water cascaded over you.

When you emerged, wrapped in a towel, the apartment was eerily quiet. Too quiet. A quick glance into the bedroom confirmed your suspicion: Loki was asleep. He was still tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown over his head, but his breathing was deep and even. The mug of tea, half-finished, sat untouched on the nightstand. The fever, it seemed, had finally won the battle against his ego, at least for now. You moved quietly, picking up his clothes from the floor and setting the mug in the sink. You checked his forehead one last time; the heat was still there, but it was less intense.

You slipped into your pajamas and returned to the bedroom, climbing carefully into your side of the bed. You gave Loki a wide berth, but he seemed to sense your presence even in his sleep. He shifted, his body turning toward you, and an arm draped over your waist, pulling you against his warm back. You let out a soft sigh, resigning yourself to your fate. You gently untangled yourself from his grip, creating a small, safe space between you. You settled back into your pillows, finally allowing yourself to relax, and drifted off to sleep to the low hum of the fan and the reassuring presence of your dramatic, fever-stricken god.

A couple of days later, the tables had turned with a vengeance. Loki was finally back to his usual self—his skin was cool to the touch again, the sparkle of mischief had returned to his eyes, and his dramatic complaints had been replaced by a familiar, condescending quiet. The apartment no longer felt like a sauna, but a tomb of your misery. The inevitable had happened: his inability to stay away from you while he was sick had gotten you sick as well.

Being human only made it worse. You weren't a frost giant with a minor fever; you were a regular person with a full-blown cold. Your nose was a faucet of snot, your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and the occasional, violent bout of vomiting made you want to curl into a ball and never move again. You were a mess, and Loki, in his infinite self-pity, refused to admit that he had been the cause. The truth was, though, you didn't care. In fact, you were relishing the chance to give him a taste of his own medicine.

It was now late in the afternoon, and you were sprawled across the sofa, an entire box of tissues on the floor beside you, a damp rag on your forehead, and an array of medication and a mug of tea on the coffee table. Loki stood over you, arms crossed, his expression a mixture of annoyance and thinly veiled concern.

"I still fail to see how this is my fault," he said for the tenth time, his voice a low grumble.

"You were all over me while you were sick," you wheezed, your voice thick with congestion. "You hugged me, you touched me, you breathed on me. How could it not be your fault?"

"I was not 'all over you.' I was in a state of distress, and you were providing comfort," he argued, a flicker of irritation in his eyes.

You managed a weak, sarcastic smile. "Right. And now I'm in a state of distress, and you are... standing there. Judging me. How very helpful."

He sighed dramatically, the sound almost an imitation of your own sighs from a few days ago. He moved to the other end of the sofa, a respectable distance away, but still close enough to see.

"You don't even have the proper decorum for an illness," he said. "Your nose is... running. Constantly. It's a rather grotesque display."

You reached for a tissue, wiping your nose with a loud sniffle. "Yeah, well, you were whiny. I think a runny nose is an improvement."

He glared at you, then at the mug of tea you hadn't touched. "Are you going to drink that, or will you just sit there and make yourself look more pitiful?"

You closed your eyes, a groan of pure exhaustion escaping your lips. "Just... go away. I want to be left alone."

"I cannot go away," he said, and you could hear the subtle tremor of concern in his voice. "I am responsible for you, apparently. And a proper caregiver stays with their charge."

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. "A proper caregiver doesn't stand ten feet away. Come here and get me something."

He hesitated for a moment, then moved to the sofa's edge. "What do you need?" he asked. "A better pillow? A different blanket? A more... appetizing drink?"

"I want you to be quiet," you said, your voice a little stronger now, filled with the satisfaction of turning the tables. "And I want you to sit here and suffer with me. Just for a little while."

He looked at you, a flicker of a smile on his face, a ghost of the smirk you knew and loved. He reluctantly sat down beside you, leaving a small gap between your bodies. He leaned back against the cushions and folded his hands in his lap, looking every bit the dutiful boyfriend.

"Happy?" he asked.