He taps the head of his cock on your clit a few times, earning a whine from you. He has your ankles in one hand, pushing your legs back as you lie on the bed.
“Put it in already!”
You beg impatiently, squirming. He slaps the back of your thighs multiple times. “Behave.” He mutters, eyes too fixated on the movement of his cock between your pussy lips. Your slick trickles down to your other puckered hole, the sheets beneath you already getting wet.
He moves the length of his cock up and down, the head catching on your clit multiple times. Each time it goes down, he slips the tip in, then pulls it back out to repeat the cycle again. It was agonizing and frustrating.
“You’re a—“
He slaps your sopping cunt, right on your clit. “I’m a what, doll? Huh?” He teases. It’s a game to him. Seeing how far he’d push you before you start yelling or crying.
Today, it was the latter. He heard the sniffles first, and when he looked at you, a few tears of frustration were already falling down your cheeks. His cock twitches at the sight, a bead of precum falling right on your puffy clit. “Aw what is it, baby? Too much for you? Am i being too mean?”
You nod with another sniffle as he lets go of your ankles, letting each one rest on one of his shoulders. You can finally look at his face now, your eyes glossed over with tears and need. He leans over, pushing you into a mating press, and kisses you sloppily. His hand holds your jaw, pushing your head further against the pillows.
Then he finally slips it in, your mouth falling open as your back arches. You can feel him stretch you deliciously and that one prominent vein that runs along his length. He smiles at the filthy sounds escaping your lips— both lips actually. “Fuck… atta girl” He groans.
Dex was unfamiliar with the concept of physical touch and romance until he begins dating a seamstress that has rendered him desperately hungry for more, and he begins to understand why most people found dating enjoyable.
CW: SMUT, Fluff, implied that he's older, readers features are never stated, no use of Y/N, inexperienced Dex but it's not stated, he's a freak. HE'S FILTHYYYY!!!!
Word Count: 7k
AN: I don't have a dad so that probably explains why I like Dex so much... Dex having no play is cannon here.
To Dex, the physical topography of another human being had always been a calculus of vulnerability. His mind was a machine, capable of mapping the dimensions of an enclosed space within milliseconds and identifying the precise trajectory required to sever an artery. He understood the mechanics of the anatomy; he knew exactly how much pressure it took to snap a collarbone or drop a grown man to his knees. But touch and affection? Affection was a foreign, deeply distressing dialect. It was a sensory input that rendered his internal programming entirely mute. He knew every ligament in the body, where to assault to cause torment but God forbid he uses his hands for softness.
There was a profound, quiet irony in a man of his age and lethal competence being so utterly paralyzed by the simple proximity of soft skin. Hell, he almost pitied himself for it. For decades, the concept of a romantic relationship hadn’t been relegated in his mind. It had been buried beneath layers of institutional survival, psychological trauma, and the crushing weight of an existence spent entirely on the defensive. Dex was not a lover and he had never been, affection and care was unnatural to him.
He could still recall the sharp, sterile scent of the office belonging to his first therapist, the singular human anchor he had at the fragile age of sixteen. He had cared for her, though his developing mind lacked the emotional framework to define what care actually meant. To Dex, care was synonymous with structure. It was the methodical way she re-aligned his straying thoughts, the unnatural patience she extended far beyond the boundaries of her hourly compensation. That was the closest Dex ever got to care. And when death claimed her, his internal architecture had shattered into something feral and defensive. Standing beside her hospital bed, looking down at her failing form, he had chosen to weaponize his grief, hissing that he hated her. He didn’t hate her for who she was, but for the betrayal of leaving him entirely alone in a world without parameters. After that care became just another word without meaning to him.
Then came Julie.
Julie had been an exercise in aesthetic symmetry. She was safe, correct, and perfectly aligned with the script he desperately tried to perform. Dex had cared for her in the same detached, appreciative manner you might have for a beautiful painting in a museum. Admired from a calculated, safe distance, entirely devoid of genuine visceral heat or want. He never wanted Julie, despite how it might have looked, Dex wanted to be her. How easily life came to her was just so fascinating to a man like him. He remembered the exact moment she had offered him a farewell hug at the Suicide Hotline Center, just before he transitioned into the stark world of the Bureau.
The physical contact had been an absolute shock to his nervous system. And he remembers it even now years later. First came the ice, a sudden, freezing sensation that trickled down his spine the precise millisecond her palms pressed against his biceps, his body mistaking the gesture for an ambush. His muscles had coiled instantly like overwound springs, his vertebrae stiffening in a violent protest against the proximity. But then, right before he could pull away, the ice had thawed into an invasive, confusing warmth. Before his mind could categorize or fixate on the sensation, she had already retreated, leaving him standing in the corridor, thoroughly deregulated by a three-second interaction.
That brief, fleeting embrace had been the absolute zenith of his experience with physical intimacy. Dex didn't do hugs, or anything else for that matter… His subsequent, half-hearted attempts at dating in his early twenties had been a disastrous blur, locked away like radioactive material in the darker corridors of his subconscious. The entire experience had felt extremely uncomfortable, unfulfilling, and complicated in ways that insulted his intelligence.
The sheer volume of unwritten variables was maddening. He had to speak enough to demonstrate engagement, but not so much to appear self-absorbed. Connection required vulnerability, but a fraction too much was classified as forward or desperate. He couldn't request another date too quickly or too frequently without crossing into the territory of predatory. Touch was a minefield; it was deemed acceptable only if initiated by the woman, yet society dictated that a man should assert dominance and assume leadership. Hold her hand, the script said, but don't apply too much pressure to suggest control. Open the door for her, but don't infantilize her or imply incompetence.
By his third official date, Dex had quietly withdrawn from the field entirely. The sheer unpredictability of the social ritual was entirely too volatile for his psychology to parse. He vividly recalled sitting across a woman in a dimly lit restaurant, completely incapable of processing a single syllable falling from her lips because his entire focus had been hijacked by a fork. Her elbow had accidentally nudged the cutlery, leaving it misaligned by less than half an inch from the knife. The asymmetry had screamed in his mind like a siren, drowning out her voice, preventing him from formulating the carefully curated, charming responses necessary to foster romantic banter. He had stared at the silver, suffocated by the lack of order, and realized he was entirely unfit for the performance.
So, he surrendered the idea. He locked his focus onto the FBI, dedicating his life to a rigid, bureaucratic institution that allowed him to believe he was doing good for society while keeping his demons safely behind bars. Years had dissolved into the background of that singular pursuit, and the concept of dating became an obsolete idea of a past life.
Even more now that his world had been violently upended; he had broken out of the prisons meant to contain him, shed the skin of a government puppet, and stripped away the illusions of the system. He was older now, his features hardened by violence, but he was entirely free from the invisible snares that had once dictated his value. Standing in his late thirties, Dex felt a strange sense of selfhood that had completely eluded him in his twenties.
His daily routine remained his mandatory sanctuary, waking up exactly the same hour, executing a flawless military tuck on his bedsheets, consuming a balanced breakfast before physical regimen, and then work. But the internal shift was tectonic. He no longer walked through the streets of New York like a fraudulent actor trying to mimic human behavior and integrate himself into civilization. He knew the truth now: there was no grand order to life. There was only the winding, bloody path he had been carved out to walk. He no longer craved the external validation of a badge or a supervisor’s praise to consider himself a whole entity. He was fucking Bullseye.
And the concept of a "North Star", the desperate need for a perfect, external moral anchor to keep him sane, had been forcibly buried deep within a vault next to his most violent, unpacked trauma. Though sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, a phantom tension would ripple through his chest, an instinctual tug toward the comfort of connection, but he would quickly dismiss it as mere human biology. He didn't need a North Star. His life was already perfectly illuminated by his own design. Or so he continuously told himself.
Until he walked into your boutique.
The shop was situated a short distance down the asphalt stretch of Hell’s Kitchen, a stark, hyper-feminine building in an otherwise gritty neighborhood. The interior was an absolute assault of pastel pinks, a visual sensory overload that normally would have triggered his defense mechanisms, but the hand-painted sign outside promised custom tailoring services. And Dex needed his belongings fixed the moment he noticed imperfections.
He carried two specific items across the threshold that afternoon. His utilitarian jacket that had suffered a tear against a rusty fire escape during the previous night's "hero work," and a pair of heavy tactical gloves that needed the seams to be adjusted for a better grip.
You'd been seated behind the polished wooden counter, a needle held between your hand, your hair slightly disheveled as you worked. When you looked up and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in your doorway, your face had broken into a smile so massive, so genuinely warm, that Dex had felt an involuntary, almost evolutionary impulse to mimic the expression. He stood perfectly rigid as your small, incredibly nimble hands took the damaged fabric from his grip, your fingers tracing the torn nylon of the jacket with a professional, practiced ease.
When you looked up and informed him that the repairs would only take sixty minutes, his sharp brows had risen in mild intrigue at your efficiency.
"I work fast," you had offered, your voice bright and entirely unbothered by his silent, imposing intensity.
Dex returned to the shop precisely the sixty-minute mark, not a second early, not a second late. You were already waiting for him at the counter, the jacket neatly pressed and the jagged tear now entirely imperceptible, executed with a level of craftsmanship that deeply satisfied his need for perfection. Then he slid his large hands into the resized tactical gloves, flexing his fingers to test the tension of the thread.
Whether you had recognized the subtle Bullseye emblem stamped into the leather, you made no verbal indication. Instead, you merely bit your lower lip, your gaze tracking the movement of his hands before you boldly, without an ounce of hesitation, reached out and gripped his gloved hand. Your fingers guide his, pointing down to the specific cross-stitch where you had loosened the seams to accommodate his knuckles.
The ice returned instantly. It danced down the length of his spine, a freezing jolt that made his chest tighten. But as your warm skin remained pressed against the heavy material of his glove, the sensation mutated into something remarkably pleasant. Dex let out an involuntary exhale from your touch as your index finger trailed a slow, deliberate line down the length of his hand. Was this flirting? No, this was her job….
"If you need it bigger I can make that possible," you offered softly, your eyes lifting to lock onto his with a quiet, grounded confidence. And Dex paused, taking in the intimacy of your closeness. Okay…. Yeah, this was flirting. He deduced at its baseline before he found himself engaging.
Dex couldn't understand the sequence of events that followed, birthed from that moment alone. His memory, usually so linear and mathematical, became a blur of transitions. And normally the haze would eat away at him till he lost his mind, if it weren't for the fact that the stages that followed were extremely enjoyable. All he knew was that the rigid wall of his isolation had suddenly breached, and he was taking you on a first date. Then a second. A third. A fourth. The unwritten variables that had paralyzed him in his youth seemed to dissolve in your presence; you didn't demand a script, and your effortless need to keep talking filled the awkward silences he usually created. Dex was thankful for it. He was thankful for all of you.
By the time the fifth date happened, you were both standing inside the threshold of your private home. And Dex was fucking ecstatic. The realizations hit him in waves during his nightly routines: life was simply greater, sharper, and infinitely better with your existence woven into it. Within the calculated grid of his mind, he had rapidly come to view you as an essential, non-negotiable component of his daily structure. A connection he needed desperately to maintain that he was fully prepared to execute any measure necessary to ensure you stayed. You were kind, sweet, and giving in a way that defied his understanding of human nature. How were you so willing to offer the world everything you had without demanding anything in return?
Because he couldn't comprehend it, he studied you. He watched you with a hyper-attentive, microscopic focus that would have terrified a normal civilian, tracking the micro-expressions of your face, the cadence of your breaths, and the specific pitch of your laughter. And you let him. To you, that intense, unblinking gaze didn't feel like surveillance; it made you feel entirely seen and warm.
Dex had learned you. He played every single card in his hand with absolute precision to ensure he kept your favor, but you made the act remarkably easy. He found himself wanting to give the world to you, a new directive that lingered constantly. While on missions, he's doing this to make the city better for you. He had to come home safe because you'd be so devastated if anything happened to him. You needed him in your life so he had to make sure no wounds took over his body. These thoughts progressed over time, though they were already brewing the minute he stepped out of your boutique. Dex brought you a perfectly curated bouquet of flowers on your very first date, quickly logging the fact that you flourished when things were done for you. From that moment on, his chivalry became non-negotiable. He opened doors before your hand could even approach the handle; he pulled out chairs to the exact angle required for your comfort; he even leaned across the console of his vehicle to buckle your seatbelt for you, his large frame momentarily shielding you from the world. A thought that appears constantly in his mind at night.
And now, those correctly executed actions had granted him entry into your sanctuary.
Walking through the door of your brownstone, his analytical eyes immediately deduced that you and your work were a singular entity. The space was less a traditional home and more an active studio. A heavy, vintage treadle sewing machine sat prominently in the center of the room, positioned directly in front of the television, while two antique, velvet-upholstered couches framed it on either side. Dex made a silent, permanent mental note of that specific layout: the tool of your labor received absolute priority over comfort.
As he looked around Dex noticed your affinity for older things immediately, your eyes lingering on aged, well-maintained pieces of history. A part of him wondered if that was why you liked him so much and despite himself, the thought amused him. His gaze drifted to the expansive dining room, noting how every single high-backed chair had been pushed flush against the perimeter of the walls, completely away from the central table to maximize workspace. A deep, quiet part of his psychology deeply admired the dedication. He understood the obsession with craft, the way you spoke about fabrics and patterns with radiant love. He was identical to you in that regard, though he remained hyper-vigilant about never revealing the bloodier details of his own craft to you.
Dex paced silently behind you, his broad shoulders squared as his eyes continuously darted around the rooms, absorbing the atmosphere of your home while you led him toward the kitchen by the hand. His frame was tense, his muscles vibrating with a low-grade current of electricity. He still wasn't accustomed to the physical touching. He liked it, he liked it with a terrifying intensity that scared him, but his brain lacked the programming required to properly receive it.
And bless your heart, you were so unbelievably touchy.
You were a creature of constant physical contact. There was always a soft arm looping around his rigid bicep, a gentle palm resting against his. A constant, natural inclination to latch onto his massive frame and cling to him as if he were the only solid object in a moving world. He reciprocated in the only ways he knew how, squeezing your hand back with a carefully measured amount of pressure, standing perfectly still to accept your weight. But Dex still hadn't learned how to articulate or manifest his own physical desires. He didn't know how to be the one to close the distance. He didn't know how to reach out his large, scarred hands, wrap them around your waist, and pull you against his chest without an explicit invitation. The script hadn't given him those lines yet.
So instead, he simply allowed himself to be a passive monument of muscle and bone, letting you pull him toward the kitchen island for wine and cheese after your date. The night got more enjoyable, but then again, every moment was enjoyable with you. But this is even more so. You trusted him enough to let him into your space, liked him so much that you paid attention whenever his glass was empty.
"I have a secret," you admitted suddenly, your face flushing a deep, radiant pink after you drained the remainder of your second glass.
Dex raised a single, sharp brow, holding his own glass perfectly steady as he waited for the disclosure. He ignored the sudden, rhythmic thumping of his own blood pumping violently in his ears. He couldn't quite determine if the sudden spike in his heart rate was the result of the alcohol or a sudden surge of anxiety. Given his high tolerance, it was likely the latter.
"I hate wine," you hiccuped, a small, breathless sound. You didn't feel that inebriated but Dex had a skill for making you feel drunk.
Dex’s cold eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise. Without a word, his large hand reached out and gently but firmly took the crystal glass directly from your fingers, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest as the absurdity of the situation caused a bright laugh to break from your lips.
"Why didn't you say anything," he asked, his gravelly voice dropping an octave as he placed the glass down on the exact center of a stone coaster.
"Because it was a nice gift and also because I wanted to be with you longer," you reasoned smoothly.
You stepped away from the counter, your short frame moving into his immediate personal space. Slipping effortlessly between his extended legs as he sat perched on the high barstool, your body completely filling the void between his knees. Before he could process the proximity, your arms looped entirely around his broad shoulders, your hands resting against the nape of his neck.
Dex sat up just a fraction straighter, his entire spine locking into a protective line. A hesitant, unpracticed hand rose from his side, his large palm resting against the fabric of your dress to support your lower back, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin.
"I like having you around..." you admitted softly, your voice heavily laced with an intoxicated, sleepy haze as you looked up at him.
"I like being around," Dex nodded, his gaze boring into yours with an unblinking, absolute intensity.
It was the most fundamental truth his mouth had ever uttered. He liked being around you so much that the mere concept of physical separation had become an agonizing friction in his daily life. There were moments during his long, solitary hours on a rooftop or following a lethal assignment where the craving to see you grew so violent, so overwhelming, that he had seriously contemplated abandoning his operation just to stand outside your window. But the rational, highly defensive side of his mind, the piece of him that vividly remembered the trembling panic in Julie's face, always managed to reassert control. He wouldn't risk breaking what you two had.
"Will you be around forever?" you asked, your voice dropping into a soft, vulnerable register that sounded almost like a plea.
Dex felt a sudden, blinding flash behind his eyes, a sensation so sharp and radiant it felt as though stars had detonated within his skull. A terrifying wave of duty and existential purpose crashed through his mind, rewriting his internal directives in an instant. This was his calling. This was his permanent assignment.
"I'll be here forever," he nodded, his voice carrying the heavy, unyielding finality of a death warrant.
He barely had a single microsecond to process the violent rush of devotion flooding his veins before you leaned in, and your soft lips met his.
Dex froze.
He froze in a way he had never experienced in the heat of lethal gunfire. He hesitated with a sudden, paralyzing vulnerability that his mind was completely unequipped to handle. Bullseye did not hesitate; Bullseye was a creature of pure, instantaneous reaction. But Dex, Dex was entirely lost here in the quiet of your kitchen, his lips pressed flat against yours, his breath catching in the back of his throat as the delicate warmth of your mouth completely shattered his being.
His mind scrambled for data, for a past memory or a set of instructions to tell him what to do with his hands, how to move with you, how to breathe. The sheer sensation of your mouth against his was too vast, too unaligned with any grid he had ever mapped. He wanted to deepen the pressure, wanted to sink his fingers into your hips and drag you so close that the space between you ceased to exist, but the terrifying lack of instructions kept his body entirely locked in stone. He was a starving man paralyzed by the sudden appearance of a feast, terrified that a single incorrect movement would cause the illusion to vanish.
It was only a brief, agonizing second of contact. It was over far too quickly for his liking before you were gently pulling back, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks.
"You never got much love huh?" you hummed out, your voice dipping into a sad, incredibly tender melody.
Your small hands didn't retreat; instead, they began to preen over his tense shoulders, your fingers sliding upward until your nails began to slowly, methodically comb through the short hairs at the base of his scalp.
An involuntary, deeply guttural groan tore itself from the very bottom of Dex’s throat, the sound surprising even himself. His eyes rolled back, his lids fluttering shut as a wave of intense pleasure rippled through his nervous system. He liked that. He liked that with a feral, addictive desperation. Whatever you were doing with your hands, it was dismantling the static in his brain.
"No," he admitted, his voice a broken, raspy whisper in the quiet room, his head naturally sinking into the guiding pressure of your palms as you continued to adore him.
Your lips moved forward again, finding the hard, unyielding line of his cheekbone. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly over the jagged scar near his cheek, the exact spot you always claimed when you were saying goodbye, and Dex felt his entire body shudder under the impact. Then, your kisses migrated downward, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw before your mouth found the sensitive, hot skin of his neck.
Dex’s hands lost their hesitation, his fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your dress as he decided, with absolute certainty, that he liked this even more.
"Don't worry. I'll fix it," you murmured against his skin, your breath hot and reassuring even in your heavily tipsy state.
“Pretty girl like you gonna fix a man like me,” Dex mused out, exhaling in amusement as he welcomed your kisses by granting you more of his neck. You hummed in delight and he noted that was the correct response.
“I'd do everything for you, Dex,” you admitted into his neck and that seemed to do it. Every rigid order he told himself to act like a gentleman broke as he pulled you into his chest, turning his face as if begging for you to grant him another kiss.
And you do.
This time he reciprocated the contact eagerly, fuck it, thoughts can be damned, Dex let his body lead now. His kisses were harsh and demanding, desperate in its undercurrent but you enjoyed it. You tasted faintly like wine and something minty and he finds himself deepening the kiss. His large calloused hand found the thin straps of your bias-cut dress, hastily pushing it down the slope of your shoulder before he froze. He was being too forward, too much, too–
Before he could spiral, you whined into his mouth at the lack of movement. A harmonious plea that he's never had the privilege of hearing before. And Dex's eyes fluttered, that sound went straight to his straining cock evoking a groan against your skin. Emboldened hands pushing the dress down only to pull back momentarily, breaking the kiss despite not wanting to. He'd rather shoot himself than stop kissing you, but he needed to know that what he was doing was okay. And by the blissful state of your eyes, you were more than okay with this, with him. And so he allowed his gaze to wander, darting down to the exposed skin of your soft breast.
His gaze locked onto your hardened nipple before his hand slowly moved, not giving himself time to overthink. His thumb grazed the sensitive peak in experimentation, irises watching as your chest stuttered, his gaze darting up to meet yours in calculation on how to proceed. You were waiting for him, letting him take the lead and explore, and God did he want to map out every shape of you. He wanted to know what made you arch and squirm, what made you sing his name in praise. But Dex was a man rendered stupid in the unfamiliar vastness of your body, so hands stayed motionless as they had done nothing but take and punish all his life. He'd do it slow, he decided, after all, his hands were not meant for this. For worship and caress.
But his mouth would be.
Not breaking eye contact with you, his lips found home on your skin, latching onto your nipple. Humming as you arched your back, your pliant body gravitating into him. You liked that, he learned, so he did it harder. Teeth grazing the sensitive peak before sucking it into his mouth hard.
His free hand wanders to your other breast, thumb circling the clothed nipple there while he devotes himself to the first with his tongue. It’s messy, uncoordinated, Dex isn’t a gentle lover, he learned as the need progresses. His brave hand slips under your dress, pushing fabric up further to expose more of your body as his kisses migrated down your sternum.
“D-Dex.”
The breathy sound made him freeze and he recoiled immediately as if burned. He waits for the storm only for you to eagerly pat him on his shoulder, signaling you wanted him up.
“Room, please…. I-i don't want it here…” you say almost shy and he obeys immediately, standing up and holding you dear.
“Yeah? Sweet girl,” the term endearment escaping his lips catches him by surprise just as much as him kissing your forehead does. But he doesn't dwell on it long as he grabs hold of your hand and leads you upstairs where he already knows where your room is.
The silence of the space was only intensified once you both entered your bedroom. Dex pauses, taking a moment to appreciate the image of you standing there, waiting with earnest eyes and swollen lips. You looked so vulnerable, your dress wrinkled and breathing heavy as you let him assess. He welcomes your softness and realizes that he owes it to you to be vulnerable as well.
With a firm, certain, grip, he turns your body around, your stomach flutters in expectation as lust filled eyes land on the made bed. Only the inevitable force never came, you weren't shoved face down into the mattress in pure heat, instead Dex is moving your hair aside to fall on one shoulder. And that impacted your core more than any barge ever could. So you remained standing there, ignoring the heat in your stomach as the brooding man you'd come to know gently unzipped the back of your dress. Pushing the fabric down your hips, a hum escapes the claimant as he turns you back around with even kinder hands and you melted.
Sure in your intentions, you begin to unbutton his shirt and he watches you in the moment. Sometimes you often wonder what goes on in Dex's mind, but here you're certain that whatever thoughts that hammered in his head were anything but pure. When the fabric of his shirt meets your dress on the floor, a barely suppressed smile threatens to take over your face and his features silently requested for context, amused in your glow.
“You're so big,” appreciation dripped from your words, reinforced by your hands steady on his chest. Pride and something smug consumes Dex’s internal framework as he reaches for your bare waist, pulling you into him. Fuck. He liked how that felt, loved the feeling of you two skin to skin.
“That why you're always so touchy,” he huffed. It was a poor attempt to regulate himself from these overwhelming emotions. Still riding the dopamine high from your appraisal.
“Yes,” you nodded shamelessly.
At that a raw exhale breaks free from his mouth, falling in ardor before he's guiding you down to the bed. Dex’s gaze is locked on yours, at your body barely covered in cotton underwear as he prowls towards you on the duvet. Your presence was the single grounding planet in the uncharted stars of his nebula, an innate need to keep his focus on you and solely you to avoid getting lost in the orbit of his thoughts. Waiting patiently as exploratory hands trailed over your body, thumbs brushed over your nipples just once, before migrating down to your torso, eventually finding home on your hips.
Lips parted but nothing fell from them as words failed him. Instead his gaze darted up to meet yours as his fingers deliberately tugged your underwear, not fully, not even an inch down, just enough to get your attention and silently ask for permission.
Your body moved on its own, hastily squirming under his broad stature and pushing the thin fabric down your legs. The man over you had been the only thing plaguing the recesses of your brain for the past few weeks, consuming you with such unbidden thoughts. Anything would be done for him at this point. You barely got to kick the drenched cotton off before Dex's palm landed flat on one thigh, pushing it down hard against the bed and spreading you open for him. With a fluttering stomach so intense, your body fell back as you took in his state. Half dressed and tightly coiled, muscles pulling in restrain as he remained pinning your thigh down. His attention was locked onto you, or more so, your dripping cunt and an involuntary need to shut your legs was met with even more resistance from him.
He didn't appreciate you trying to hide from him, evident in his warning gaze. Without a word, his palm trailed up, the desire and craving to touch you won out in him. And suddenly hands that had only known violence was caressing you so softly and attentively, figuring out the definition of what it meant to be a lover.
God you were so wet and warm and soft and all the good things in the world…
Dex noticed your breathing growing more labored beneath him and instinctively he leaned back to watch you more, away from the disadvantage of being tucked into your neck. Your pupils were blown out, starry eyed as your brows creased and a pout settled on your lips. His fingers moved on their own as he watched, a new desire to pull more of those darling expressions from you forming. And as he sunk two cruel digits into your slopping wet heat, satisfaction invaded his senses as he took in your reaction. Your mouth parts in ecstasy, a sound Dex immediately knew he loved fell from your lips as your body arched up into him. And then that begging pout graced your features again, looking down at where his fingers fucked you.
So perhaps intimacy was everything people made it out to be, and so much more when it's with you. Dex was beginning to understand it now, the insatiable need to constantly be touching your person. Fuck, he doesn’t think he could ever go back to the way he was before. So fucking hesitant, unsure with anxiety that dibilitated him. He refused to be so rigid again, not when the sounds of your desire and need were music to his ears. He loved this, loved it in a way that was beginning to align with his new idea of normal. He could get used to this, to touching you, to fucking you.
Whining in protest as his fingers pulled away, your hands gripped at his chest in agony. Complains at the tip of your tongue before halting completely as you hear him begin to take his jeans off. Humming in delight as he strips. And fucking hell…. You were well aware of Dex’s large frame, it was one of the first things you noticed about him, second to the attractive scar on his cheek. But seeing him like this was something different entirely and you couldn't help yourself as you preened over his naked form again. Palms gliding the expansive plains of his back, brushing down his abs and strong chest as you sucked on his neck. Though judging by the expression on Dex's face, he didn't mind you playing. He let you have your fun until eventually pulling your lips off of him with a gentle hand at the back of your neck. A protest happened beneath him as you tried to chase after his body before stopping, noticing his hand on his member. And that shut you up real good.
Dex gently guides his hardened cock onto your dripping core. Rubbing his swollen head up and down your drenched skin before slowly sinking into you. A gasp falls from your lips followed by a desperate cry of want. His breath comes in rough bursts through his nose, focused entirely on you beneath him. How you take it, how you sound, how tight you feel with every drag out and push back in. The plains of his anatomy strained with tension as he exhaled in contentment. Dex thought he had come to know comfort, in the way you'd lean onto him during walks, how you raked your nails through his hair earlier. But this exceeded that in every capacity, comfort was a juvenile word to express how this felt like home. He's barely halfway through and already has to stop and compose himself. He let out a hiss, halting all movements as you clenched around him.
The sudden, full stretch makes you mewl out a sharp, startled sound And Dex freezes instantly, his entire body locking up. Has he hurt you? Was something wrong? He’s buried to the hilt now. It’s a lot. Too much all at once. A wave of something almost like guilt hits him, he hadn’t meant to scare you, but the sensation is… God.
"Shhh," he soothes automatically, instinctively brushing your cheek with his thumb despite how wrecked he feels right now.
You leaned into his touch, seeking for more and he's relieved. Needy palms finding a place on his biceps as you squirmed, looking down at where you both meet. Dex follows your gaze, watching his hardened cock buried deep in you. Yeah… that’s a lot.
"Tell me what you need," he murmurs, thumb brushing away another stray tear. "We can stop. Or go stupid slow.”
You let out a laugh that bled dangerously too close to a moan and Dex makes the decision of the latter for you. The first thrust is deliberate, deep and controlled, testing your reaction. The second follows, then a third, each one creating a filthy rhythm that fills the quiet room. He slowly fucks into you in a sedate, gentle manner. But gentleness is short-lived. His movements quickly grow faster till he was fucking you in a steady eager pace. Skin slaps against skin, joining the song of moans that you sing. The bed creaks under the weight, every movement is amplified in the hushed space. Rapture floods through you as any other thoughts that weren't Dex quickly subsides, giving way for your focal. Everything felt right in the world as he molded your body to his.
It was almost too much, his body caging yours in as his hips moved relentlessly. You knew you wouldn't last much longer if he kept going like this. But Dex was a man of intention, he took you like it was the only thing worth doing in his life.
The press of your hand against his pelvis, pushing, cunt trying to get him closer yet you were pulling away at the same time, sends conflicting signals straight to his dick. Your thighs around him squirmed, a telltale sign you're overwhelmed. Dex groans but doesn’t let up; if anything, he presses down harder on you with his hips, pinning yours in place.
"Take it," he rasps no room for argument. His skilled thumb lands on your clit, relentless despite the overstimulation threatening both of your bodies. The sound that left you was obscene and filthy as your head lulls back and Dex is quick to grab hold of your thigh and pull you closer towards him.
The new angle hits perfectly, your entire body jerks, a broken moan escaping as you tense around Dex’s hips. He learned you almost immediately from the very first second his fingers were inside you, he found where to target instantly. And now he abused that information.
He feels it, the way you clenched around him, and his own control wavers. But he holds on, focused solely on your pleasure, chasing every twitch and whimper with relentless precision. His lips find yours again in a messy, open-mouthed kiss as he pounded into you with controlled hits. A sound so similar to bullets in the air echoed at the impact, the wet sound, obscene, unfiltered, hitting him like a lightning bolt. Every thrust is accompanied by that slick, squelching noise: your arousal mixing with his movements. Dex learns that he loved that sound, it satisfied a part of his brain in a notion he couldn't understand but he knew that it fueled him even more. Dex's hips stutter for half a second at the realization of just how drenched you are for him.
A groan rumbles from his chest as he picks up speed, fucking you till you saw stars. A melody of moans and gasps filled the room with a symphony of skin heard with it. The walls welcome the sound with open arms as the atmosphere feels too hot and too heavy. You try to grab at the bed sheets despite Dex's tight grip on one of your wrists, you need something to ground you as you neared. Too much. It was all too much. Seamlessly, he laced his fingers with yours, still holding you down onto the bed but his grip softened.
You reciprocate the touch, tightly squeezing his hand as you feel the pressure capsize and your thighs shake in hot waves. You cry his name out, your back arching off the bed from the pleasure. His cock still sliding in and out of your dripping cunt, desperate to join you in your release, ignoring the coil of his muscles. He loves the way you say his name, so breathy and blinded by ecstasy. Dex breathes into your neck, the sensations becoming too much before a loud groan breaks his focus and he spills ropes of his cum into you. Immediately you primp under him, satiated and spoiled but your accord for touch remains ever present as you gently brush your nails up and down his back. And that sends him collapsing down onto you. Not that you seemed to mind as he heard a loud gleeful laugh beneath his large frame.
Dex exhales, long and slow, moving to stare at you. He’s not used to aftercare. Not with anyone. But here he is gently moving off you and tucking a throw blanket around your shoulders like you're something fragile. A calloused finger brushes a stray hair from your forehead, an absurdly tender gesture for someone who just fucked you into oblivion but you welcomed it.
He learned an entirely new vocabulary that night, and the education continued to expand exponentially in the weeks that followed.
He discovered, through application and obsessive cataloging, that he liked touch. He liked it an immeasurable, terrifying amount. He grew to absolutely love the specific jolt that occurred when you wake him up in the morning by lazily raking your nails across the broad, scarred expanse of his bare back. He loved the domestic weight of you playing with his hair while he sat on the living room floor, or the frantic, heavy way you would cling onto him when the city noise rattled the brownstone windows.
Methodically, his analytical mind began to solve the puzzle of how to return the same favor. He'd mapped your body with the same precision he applied to his targets, but with an entirely different objective.
He learned how to execute a kiss without needing an explicit verbal invitation, his large hands learning the exact amount of pressure required to tilt your chin upward to meet his mouth. He figured out how to use the immense, terrifying strength in his palms to gently massage the deep knots out of your shoulders after you spent a twelve-hour day hunched over the antique sewing machine. He studied the micro-movements of your muscles, tracking the specific shivers that rippled through your frame when his thumbs traced your collarbones, logging every sigh and hitch in your breath as data.
He figured out, with a profound, quiet sense of internal victory, that you loved every single form of physical touch imaginable, so long as it came entirely from him.
And he decided then, he loved intimacy.
AN: He's so fucking hot like i just can't!!! ! I haven't written smut in like 3 years so I didn't know what I was doing lol. Let me know what you guys think! Also you being a seamstress was entirely self indulgence because I go to fashion school lol.
⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; This whole fic was inspired by this post by @masterfishbaiter71 ! Anyways, this entire fic is just about edging Dex til he has a meltdown and goes fucking crazy on you ;)
⋆ tags/warnings. benjamin poindexter x female reader. SMUT!!!! PURE PORN. Guys please don't edge Dex, for your own safety, warnings for sadism, mentions of dacryphilia for both dex and reader, dex taking his anger out on reader, kind of switchy vibes (starts off with somewhat subby Dex and ends with reader getting destroyed lmao), m!receiving oral smex, BLOWJOB BLOWJOB BLOWJOB, facefucking, sadomasochism, you're his north star, per usual that white boy loses his self control, emotional Dex, swearing. I saw this post and flatlined pretty much. I love my little dexy-poo. Again, tysm to everyones support on my fics! Im so excited for tommorrows episode!
♫ “Baby, I could slow down, if that's what you need me to do. / We can go another round, maybe to a new altitude. / I'll make you need it, and you want it.” Altitude by Montell Fish
"I'm...I'm trying-" He growls out a plea.
The words fall from his lips in short spasms and bursts. He's struggling to get them out, his jaw clenched like it might break. You see him white-knuckling the sheets, twitching like he wants to reach out and grab onto you. Onto any part of you he can get his hands on.
Your tongue flicks over his tip once, twice. Precum pools in a small bead at the top which you kitten lick off intently. You hear Dex moan- and it's a strangled, ragged sound.
"Trying to...what, Dex?" You tease. Laughing against his throbbing cock. He can't respond when you begin to just kiss the length of him, wet and hot. You feel his whole body jerk and a low groan tear out from him.
The only sound in the room is the slow, wet obscene noises coming from how you're working him. And the sound of Dex's heavy choked breathing.
He's close. So close. It's times like these you get to see his brain completely shut off, all the noise that plagues him turn into a pliant, quiet mush at the feeling of your mouth on him.
"I-I'm going to-"
Cum. He's going to cum. You know that, smirking around the head of his flushed red cock. Poor guy can't even finish his sentence. You almost feel sorry for him the moment you pull back.
The loss of your tongue is jarring. It's the third time tonight. You've been teasing him, watching his control falter with every lick and kiss. You've also been careful not to take him fully down your throat, cataloging every reaction he gives you. The sight of his pretty face contorted with a desperate, needy pleasure.
You chuckle when his abdominal muscles flex, his whole body tense. The absence of your mouth feeling like a bucket of ice water has been dumped on him. A sharp gasp is ripped from his throat, hips bucking in shallow thrusts to chase the loss.
His whole body taught with the effort not to snap.
You finally look up from your place between his thighs, if only to catch a glimpse of his face. You note his hollow cheek-bones twisted into a grimace at the loss. The beads of sweat trickling down his forehead and abs. The way his veins prominently stick out and throb from under his skin and forearms. The way his chest heaves at the lack of contact.
And yet, what finally gives you pause is when you meet his eyes.
His eyes. Those gorgeous, dark eyes of his- heavy lidded and red rimmed. Overstimulated and wrecked, like he's been crying, or at least is on the verge. Glossy and wet as he desperately attempts to blink them away.
For a moment, you think he really just is that needy. Crying for his North Star's mouth on him, eyes dimmed with nothing but complete worship. But when his eyes meet your own, biting the inside of his cheeks, it's when you finally notice the truth.
The way his brows are lowered. The way his body trembles. The way his cheeks are flushed. The way his cock pulses impatiently under your hand. His locked jaw.
That look of pathetic desperation in his eyes is nothing short of a hot, wild, frenzied anger.
He's not just needy. He's fucking furious.
Your train of thought is cut off entirely when you feel a hand come up, tangling in your hair, and pushing you down in one hard, smooth motion. You feel the head of his cock immediately hit your esophagus.
As if on instinct, you gag around him, throat tightening as he groans loudly. He pants as he pushes you all the way down, manhandling your mouth onto his cock like a fleshlight. He holds you there for what feels like forever, those glossy eyes of his drinking in the sight of you gagging on him.
"Breathe...Breathe through your fucking nose." Is all he orders, trying to catch his own breath while you sputter around him. The words come out harsh. The change of pace is jolting. His eyes are still wet with need, the hard lines of his body still rigid underneath. You feel his hands tighten in your hair to a pressure than borders on painful.
He's seething. That anger boiling over and melting into a mean look on his face he was trying so, so hard to repress for you. But you just couldn't let him, huh? Had to make him the bad guy.
He observes as your mascara quickly begins to run, your own eyes welling. Something about it makes him shudder. Only when he sees tears of your own does he begin to move. You two can cry together.
"Good. That's...That's good. That's it." He loosens his grip on you ever so slightly to pet your hair, take you in like the goddess you must be, his saving grace. His body begins to relax, coming down from his anger as his breathing calms down...right before he rams his cock sharply down your throat.
You let out a loud gag and whimper around his cock, and he inhales sharply in unison.
"All quiet now, huh." He grits out, shoving you down further as you choke. The force of his words are coupled with the sharp thrusts of his hips fucking up into your throat. When you whine, he decides to push you harder. "Look at me. Look at me."
His words sound like both a livid command and a desperate plea.
You struggle to open your eyes, but when you do, you're still met with bloodshot and glistening gaze that now completely matches your own.
He holds you there, both of you shakily breathing, tears pooling while you cry around his dick.
He briefly wonders if you knew. If you knew you were killing him like this. If you knew how hard he was trying not to grab your head and fuck your throat raw. Be...gentle.
Guess it doesn't matter now.
Dex’s grip tightens in your hair, fingers flexing like he’s still fighting himself even as he starts fucking your throat in short, brutal strokes. His voice is low, rough, and broken.
“Couldn’t…just...wait anymore.” The words come out both furious and strangled. Like he's desperatley trying to apologize, to tell you why, but they lack any and all remorse the more he bullies your throat.
Each thrust is measured but punishing, his cock sliding deep, stretching your throat until fresh tears spill down your cheeks. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time- glossy, furious, and starving.
His thumb gently wipes a tear from your cheek even as he keeps ruthlessly using your mouth, the contrast between the soft touch and the vicious snap of his hips making your head spin.
He's close. Again. For the fourth time tonight. And something tells you this one won't end in broken pleas or shallow thrusts up into nothing.
He’s panting hard, hips snapping up faster, losing the last threads of control.
“Swallow it. All of it. Right now.”
His voice cracks on the last word. And with a final groan, he shoves himself as deep as he can go and holds you there, pulsing hard as he spills straight down your throat in thick, endless spurts. He stays buried, breathing ragged, thumb stroking your tear-streaked cheek almost tenderly while his cock twitches against your tongue.
He leans down to rest his forehead against yours, pulling you back up with a gentleness that contrasts his earlier actions. His touch is hot, the sweat of his body sticking to your own. Your throat will be sore tomorrow.
The two of you stay like that for quite some time, losing count of the hours. You might just end up kissing each others tears away.
Synopsis: Dex cares about you…maybe too much. What’s the harm in looking out for a friend though, right? Right…?
Benjamin Poindexter has got you in a mean chokehold. Thick bicep flexing around the soft expanse of your throat, calloused fingertips pressed into your scalp, your hair curled around his fingers in a way that burns. It hurts, all of it. The way his other hand has your wrists pinned behind your back, grip so tight it feels like the bones are grinding, bruising in real time. Your breathing is laboured, choked sounding, as you struggled to swallow despite the way his muscles are constricting your throat. You can taste iron, though you’re not sure if it’s his blood or your own.
“Don’t move-” It’s a command, his voice low in your ear, breathing laboured as his chest presses against your spine. “Make one more god damned sound and I’ll snap your neck.”
The threat has anger coiling behind your ribs, your lip curling, teeth bared. You’d have snapped back at him if your windpipe wasn’t being crushed. Dex’s lips brush against the soft curve of your ear as he tries to catch his breath, and you try to wrench your head away from him, disgusted with yourself for having let this animal get close enough to you to have you in such a compromising position.
But Dex can feel your muscles tensing, your rigid stance beginning to shift as you struggled to control your breath. His grip was too tight, and he could feel you fighting to take in a deeper gulp of air. But if he let you go, you could scream, reveal his position, maybe even-
You jerked forward in his grip and Dex’s hand tightened in your hair, another warning.
“I’ll let you breathe if you promise not to scream,” His tone is mean, biting, as he forces your head back. Maybe it’s mocking, animalistic even, but he lets his canine graze the soft flesh of your ear, relishing in the way your body tenses. “You make a fuckin’ peep and I’ll snap your pretty little neck. Got it?”
There’s silence for a beat. Two beats, nearly three-
“Nod your god damn head if you understand me,” He snaps, though his voice is still a whisper. You nod, the smallest of movements in his vicelike grip. Dex shifts then, his grip loosening in your hair as his arm releases ever so slightly. Your throat is no longer pinned in the crook of his elbow and you take in a gulp of air, a ragged breath escaping you as your breathing levels out.
“There there,” His tone is condescending as he shifts his stance, turning so that he can grin at the top of your head. “That’s it.”
You’re still shaking in his grip, though the anger is now laced with fear. “What do you want, Dex?” Your tone is biting despite the circumstances that’s got you vibrating in your neighbor’s grip.
Dex is silent for a moment, seemingly mulling over what he’d like to say to you. “You weren’t supposed to find out about this,” He finally laments and you nearly scoff.
“That you were stalking me? No shit.” Dex’s grip around your throat tightens again and you hiss, eyes snapping shut. You should have stayed silent.
“Don’t be so-” He huffs before he’s stretching his neck, shoulders flexing like he’s trying to get comfortable. “Condescending, Y/N.” He sucks on his teeth, feet shifting as he taps a rhythm against your wrists. “This wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”
“You’re an asshole,” You wheeze, back arching as you try to crane your neck, desperate to be free from this lunatic’s grip. He only laughs behind you. It sounds dry, unamused, bored even.
“Maybe,” His lips are against your ear again. You hate the way goose bumps ripple across your skin. A breathy chuckle escapes him and his warm breath ghosts across the skin of your collar bones. It seems as if he’ll say more, but instead Dex stays silent, fingers flexing against your wrists like he’s deciding whether or not he’ll release you.
Ultimately, he decides to, thick bicep slowly straightening as he releases you from his vicelike chokehold. Your head tips forward, and you swallow, a dull ache now present in the muscles of your throat. You suck in a lungful of air, acutely aware of how tense Dex is behind you. He hasn’t released your wrists yet, instead allowing his free hand to drift across your shoulders as he mulls over what he should do next.
“Why me?” The words escape you before you’ve properly thought about how they could impact the obviously unwell man behind you.
Dex is silent. You try to crave your neck to see him, but his hand is suddenly gripping your jaw, forcing your gaze forward. You hiss, his grip bruising as he keeps you in place.
“Keep your gaze forward.”
You breathe hard through your gritted teeth, jaw flexing as you try to control the anger simmering beneath the surface. “You don’t have to manhandle me so much.”
Dex sucks his teeth again, index finger tapping a soft rhythm against the corner of your lip. “You’re feisty. Can’t chance it again.”
You almost smile, the memory of your fist connecting with his lip replaying in your mind. He clearly hadn’t anticipated you attacking first when he’d pushed the doors of your balcony open and walked in like he’d owned the place. How many times had he done that? He’d seemed too comfortable, too smooth. Was it only when you weren’t home? What about when you were sleeping?
Realizing Dex was stalking you had been…jarring, to say the least. You’d known for months that something was off in your every day life, and you’d only recently started to put your finger on it. A stalker. You’d started watching everyone in your life more closely, waiting for a slip up, anything. You hadn’t expected it to be Dex, or maybe you’d hoped it wouldn’t be. The calm, calculated, handsome man who lived in the apartment above you. FBI. It made sense, right? He had the skills, the experience, the motive. But Dex had been nice, you’d even considered him somewhat of a friend.
But rounding the corner and recognizing the way the man’s shoulder’s shifted when you’d caught someone in the reflection of the window of a storefront? It impressed Dex. You were smart, observant, and your intuition was almost alarming it was so accurate.
You’d surprised him. Even more so when you’d stared straight through him, eyes fixed on where his should have been in the reflection and said one simple word; his name.
His full name.
“Poindexter.”
It was firm, resolute, almost…eerie. He’d frozen, heart in his throat, how had you caught him?
But before he could move forward, explain himself, explain that he was just worried about you, just wanted to make sure his neighbor was safe, that she was cared for, you were gone.
You’d taken off in a sprint, purse tucked carefully under your arm, breath laboured.
Fuck.
Where were you supposed to go?
Home, you realized. Because where else? He knew everything about you, because not only was he stalking you, you had let him in. Trusted him. Considered him a friend.
But home? It had everything you needed. You could grab your things and then run. Going to the police would do nothing. He was FBI. You were positive he had tricks up his sleeve, he was Dex-he was smart.
How had you been so dumb? How had you not known it was Dex?
Somewhere deep within you whispered that you were being foolish. You had suspected Dex for weeks, maybe even known it was him, but had foolishly hoped that just this once, maybe you were wrong. Maybe he was just looking out for you. He was charming, friendly, skilled. You enjoyed his company. Why would you assume something so big that it could ruin the very nice thing you had going with your neighbor?
Well, that tended to fall apart when he 1) stalked you, and 2) you tried to knock him over with a chair.
Dex had landed in your apartment like a lynx-smooth, silent, quick.
And you’d slammed your kitchen chair into his chest like you were an MMA fighter.
The fight only escalated from there.
You were proud of the way you’d handled yourself, more rage than fear burning through you as you fought the greying blonde. You’d landed a few hits, teeth bared as you fought to simply knock him down and have him stay down long enough to run again.
But Dex was strong, and skilled. He’d tried at first to simply subdue you-he didn’t want to hurt you, he cared about you. You were smart, kind, you’d let him in and listen when he was struggling. But you were also landing hits and your strength surprised him.
Eventually, he’d had to knock you down, use his full strength to keep you down. He hadn’t meant to be so rough, but you’d nearly knocked his jaw out of place. It was only fair that he knocked you back with just enough effort to get you into a position he could control.
But not before you’d bitten him.
“Fuck!” He’d nearly shouted when your teeth had sank into the muscle of his shoulder. He’d had to wrench you away from him like some wild animal, and he’d nearly snapped your neck with the force it had taken. His hand had been curled in your hair, grip tight enough to hurt as he’d pulled you off of him, his own blood coating your teeth.
He didn’t miss the way his chest had tightened at the sight.
You were tougher than he’d given you credit for.
But the tussle had hurt the both of you, and now here you were; back pressed against his chest, both of you bruised and bloodied, rage and betrayal coiled like snakes in the pits of your stomach. Dex, angry that he’d made such a fuck up with you, lip split and sore from where your fist had connected with it and you; betrayed and bloodthirsty because how dare a man pull such a cruel stunt? Was it what you deserved for having had faith that maybe just this one time, one would prove themselves to be good?
“Why?” Your voice was sharp, words almost slurred from the way he was gripping your jaw. “Why were you stalking me?”
You couldn’t see it, but Dex’s face curled into a grimace. He was embarrassed and angry with himself for having gotten caught. He had just wanted to make sure you were safe, that you were okay. You were too nice, listened too often to assholes who could hurt you, men who may try to take your time, time away from him.
His breathing was laboured, sharp, head buzzing with adrenaline-no, fear-as he tried to collect himself.
“Answer me,” You growled and suddenly Dex was pushing his pointer and middle finger past your swollen lower lip, the rough pads of his fingers heavy against your tongue. You started, nearly recoiling at the way he was silencing you, thicker fingers pressing past your teeth.
“Shh, just let me-let me-” Dex shudders behind you, stance shifting as he tries to collect himself. “Let me think.”
You blink, eyes wide. You could bite him, right now, leave him bloodied and injured with the way he’s got you situated. Two fingers pressed against your tongue, nose buried in your hair as he tries to collect himself.
You don’t, instead you find yourself trying not to flush with embarrassment at the way your spit is beginning to soak the digits. Your teeth press lightly into the skin, breath warm around him.
Dex lifts his head after a few moments, swallowing loudly behind you. The gesture doesn’t seem to be intentional in its sexual nature, and Dex seems to be genuinely lost in himself behind you, his anxiety obvious as it continues to climb.
“I-I didn’t mean to scare you,” Dex finally begins to speak, and his voice sounds different, somewhat smaller. His fingers flex absentmindedly against your tongue as he struggles to find the words, desperate to explain himself.
He couldn’t handle you leaving, hating him.
“It started out simple, I was just looking out for you. I was worried-” Dex lets out a shaky breath and you feel the way it shifts across the back of your neck. He licks his lips before he continues, “You’re too nice to people. Your exes, coworkers, hell even strangers, they try to take advantage of you.”
You frown, tongue shifting against his fingers as if to protest because no, you establish boundaries and are quite good at communicating-
But Dex’s fingers flatten against your tongue, silencing you. You try to swallow the spit that’s accumulating in your mouth but it’s difficult given the way he’s pressing into your mouth. You feel the digits press against the roof of your mouth as your tongue shifts, drool slipping past the edge of your mouth and down the corner of your lip, soaking his fingers.
The filthy nature of the situation is embarrassing.
Still, you squirm, ashamed at the part of you that’s thrilled by the way he’s got your wrists pinned, how he’s silencing you, and how desperate he sounds behind you as he struggles to explain himself.
“I care about you Y/N,” He says earnestly in your ear, sighing behind you. “I’m just trying to keep you safe. Can’t you see that?”
He was delusional, far more damaged than you’d originally thought, and fear prickled along the length of your spine. He genuinely believed he was in the right, that he was doing you a service, that he was a hero of sorts.
“Please,” His voice is desperate, near whiny. “Can’t you see that?”
You try to pull your head away from him, his fingers pressing too deeply into your throat, a breathy sound escaping you. You can’t speak, can’t answer him when he’s got you situated like this. If he pressed any further into your mouth you feared you may gag on him.
“I’m gonna move my hands, okay?” Dex’s voice is a bit more firm now as he speaks, his lips beside your ear. “Don’t scream.”
There’s a beat of silence before Dex begins to slowly slide his fingers across your tongue, pulling them from your mouth before he’s holding your jaw again. His hand is wet against your skin as he cradles your face in hand, his firm grip a reminder of the control he has over the situation.
Your tongue slides across your lip, the salt of his skin mixing with the iron of your blood.
“You didn’t need to stalk me,” Your voice is hoarse. “I was-” You sigh, frustrated as you struggle to find the words. “I thought we were friends.”
A little more, actually. You’d hoped he was interested and had fantasized about him more than you’d ever care to admit out loud.
“We are friends,” Dex insists, shifting closer to you. You startle, eyes widening as your hands brush against the crotch of his jeans. It isn’t intentional, you know that, it’s just the nature of the position he’s still got you forced in. Your wrists are trapped in his much larger hand, pressed against your tailbone as he shifts closer. “I just had to make sure you were safe-”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” You snap back, and it’s far more mean than you’d meant it to be. “That’s not what you were doing Dex, so cut the bullshit.”
You crane your neck to look back at him and for the first time this evening, Dex allows you to. You can only catch the corner of his face but what you can see startles you.
Pupils blown wide, greying hair moussed, drying blood at his temple, nostrils flared as he tries to catch his breath.
He looked…scared.
“Tell me why. Now. And be honest.”
Dex opens his mouth to speak again, stuttering over more bullshit before you’re rocking your head back, skull connecting with his chin. He curses, nearly losing his grip on you.
It aches but you snap at him again anyway. “Stop lying to me!”
“Fine!” He barks, and suddenly his hand is slipping from your jaw, long, slender fingers wrapping around your throat as he leans forward. “I don’t want to share you.”
You pause, eyes fixed on the wall ahead of you.
“Is that what you wanted to hear?” His voice is a snarl, nasty, mean, as he talks down to you. “I don’t want anyone else spending their time with you. Listening to you, learning you, taking you away from me. I can do all of that for you. I can be there for you, help you, keep you safe. Isn’t that enough?”
You should be scared. More than that, you should be scared that you’re not scared. But a part of you, maybe the broken part that you should have addressed years ago, is flattered. Flattered that someone as intelligent, calculated and skilled as Dex has become so possessive over you. Flattered that someone so handsome was angry at the thought of sharing you.
So when you flex your hand and your palm flattens against the zipper of Dex’s jeans, right where his dick should be, and you feel him catch his breath, you don’t say a word. It seems innocent enough, like you’re trying to release some of the tension in your muscles, but Dex’s fingers flex against the smooth skin of your neck and you feel it-
Feel the way his cock flexes against your palm, the way it seems to jump to life at your touch.
Dex seems startled by it, swallowing loudly. “What’re you-”
He’s cut off when you cup him, grip tight as a strangled moan escapes him, face tipping forward against the back of your head as he momentarily loses control. Your pulse flutters under his fingertips, hands pinned between your ass and his front as you gently squeeze his hardening cock.
“Y/N,” Your name is a breathy warning on his tongue, his eyes wide as he stares down at your hand and how you’re palming him. This wasn’t what he’d expected, especially not with how angry you’d been with him only moments before. “If this is some sort of game-” He’s cut off when a strangled grunt escapes him, your thumb rubbing circles over the head of his sensitive dick. He can feel the wet spot forming in his jeans as his hips jerk forward, desperate for more friction, for more of you.
Was this mean? Maybe. Cruel? Probably. Maybe that should have startled you, but it didn’t. Instead, you continued to palm Dex’s growing erection through his jeans, thumb swiping across the growing wet spot where the leaking slit should be. His breathing was laboured, hot against your scalp as his hand flexed around your wrists. His grip on your throat was loosening, thumb coming up to drag across your lower lip.
If you could distract him long enough, then you could break free. That was the plan; use his attraction to you as an advantage, tease him long enough to have him let his guard down so you could escape.
Right.
Yes.
That sounded like a good plan.
Right?
So why could you feel your nipples hardening beneath your bra? And was Dex’s whiny, pathetic moans spurring you on? You could feel your cunt clenching around nothing, a damp heat beginning to flood the space between your thighs, goose bumps rippling across your skin at the way his breathing was shifting as he bucked into your hand.
Normal, you told yourself. My body’s just reacting, perfectly normal.
“Y/N,” He whispered, and it sounded broken. “Please.”
Oh, fuck.
You felt your chest tighten at how desperate he sounded.
Oh…was Dex a sub?
You found yourself screwing your eyes shut, trying desperately to will your body to just shut off and listen, to be scared of the situation, to be logical but Dex’s erection was full now and it was thick in your hand as your fingers traced the shape of it. Long, full, the kind that hurt you as they pushed into you, the kind that had you begging men to slow down as your nails sunk into their hips, the kind that had you squirming because of how good the burn was as they stretched you open.
But of course Dex was big. Of course the complicated, handsome, clearly somewhat insane man who was stalking you also had a huge dick.
And of course he was hard for you.
And of course he was panting and whimpering as he let his forehead fall against your shoulder, tongue lolling out as he lapped at your skin. And of course your name sounded sinful as his teeth grazed the gentle slope of your skin before he was biting into it.
“Ah, Dex!” You hissed, his canines sharp as they pressed into you. His only response was a breathy hum before his fingers were pressing against your lips again, gently tracing the shape of them.
“Open up.”
You didn’t mean to oblige, didn’t mean to moan softly as his fingers slid across your tongue, didn’t mean to have your eyes drift shut when he ground himself further into your hand. You didn’t mean to shiver when his lips pressed against your ear as you drooled on his fingers, didn’t mean to whine when he slid his tongue across your ear, or cry out when he pressed his tongue into your ear and started making out with it.
Oh, fuck-
Squirming didn’t help, didn’t sway him as he continued to lap at your ear, thumb hooked under your chin, two fingers pressing into your tongue as he kept you still for him. He was rutting gently into your hand, tongue wet and hot as it slid over the shell of your ear.
“I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I imagined what you’d sound like once I got my hands on you,” Dex’s voice was deep, breathy, shiver inducing as he spoke gently to you. “How many times I imagined it was me touching you while I listened to all the pretty sounds you make when you make yourself feel good.”
Your eyes snapped open, startled at the realization that Dex has been spying on you while at home. You struggled to speak against his fingers but Dex just tutted in response. “Mm mm,” He hummed, gently pushing your tongue down. “Stay quiet for me.”
The action had heat flooding your core. The lack of control had you sinking into his grip.
“I want to make you feel good,” Dex begged in your ear, nose brushing against your temple. “Please, Y/N, let me make you feel good.” He gently withdrew his fingers from your mouth, spit soaked and shaking slightly as he gently pressed them against your cheek. He was silent as he waited for you to respond.
You paused, heart hammering in your chest as you mulled over your options. Dex was buzzing behind you, acutely aware of the infinitely thin ledge he was currently toeing with you.
He only breathed a sigh of relief when he felt you shift to curl your fingers around his belt buckle and tug, hands still trapped behind you.
“Take these off,” You murmured and Dex swallowed, hand still wrapped tightly around your wrists. He couldn’t let go, fearful you’d run, his need to control control control overruling his desire.
Dex shuffled back half an inch, eyes dark as he began to fumble with his belt buckle. He was watching your hands flex in his grip, finger tips tracing the obvious bulge in his jeans as he struggled to pull the belt free. It took only a few moments despite the slight shake in his hands, before he was watching with bated breath as you pinched his zipper and tugged.
“Dex, help.”
He felt like he couldn’t focus, heart in his throat as he unbuttoned his jeans, watching the way you tugged the zipper down and pushed past the fabric, fingers slipping beneath the waist band of his briefs and then-
Dex should have been embarrassed at the sound that escaped him when your fingers wrapped around the thick shaft of his dick. He should have been embarrassed with how his hips jerked forward when your grip tightened, the weight of him heavy in your palm when you pulled his dick from his pants started jerking him off. He should have been embarrassed at how turned on he was watching your fingers trace the flushed tip of his cock despite the fact that he was still holding your wrists in his other hand, how your hands were still being held behind your back, how big his dick looked in your smaller hands, and how he couldn’t peel his eyes away when he started gently bucking into your grip.
“Dex.”
He realized you’d been gently calling his name and he whimpered, cock flexing.
“Hm?” He hummed, half lidded gaze lifting to the back of your head.
“Spit on it. Spit on my hand.”
His cock jumped in your hand at the lewd command and he damn near busted in that moment.
“Y-yes m’am,” He finally managed, tongue sliding across the back of his teeth before he was gathering his spit. It was filthy, the way it sounded as he tipped his head forward and spat onto the length of his cock and watched as it slid across your fingers. Even filthier still when you began to jerk him off again, using his own spit as lube.
Dex’s eyes snapped shut, head falling forward as he cried out, hips stuttering at the brutal pace you’d set. It was somewhat awkward, your hands still forced behind your back, the tip of his cock pressed against your ass, his free hand moving back up to wrap around your throat as you jerked him off. He was a mess, breathing laboured as he whined in your ear, soft gasps escaping him every time the edge of your tight fist caught the sensitive tip.
He wasn’t going to last long, not like this. Not with his face buried in your hair and the scent of your conditioner flooding his senses. Not with the way you were tightening your grip on him. Not with the way your own breathing had shifted, or how you were encouraging him to let go.
“That’s it Dex,” Your voice was so god damn soft, so you, so- “That’s it baby, does that feel good?”
He ruts forward at the pet name, fingers flexing around your wrists.
“Uh huh,” It’s breathy, needy. Embarrassing.
“Is this how you wanna cum?” Your voice is like honey, though somewhat condescending and Dex feels like he may keel over. His cock is unbelievably sensitive in your firm grip, the obscene shlick shlick sounds drifting upwards as you continue to tug on him, precum and his own spit mixing across the thick length and flushed tip.
“D-do I have a choice?” He manages, and he tilts his head forward, pupils blown wide as he stares down at your chest. Fuck, you look good.
He can hear the way you grin as you answer; “No.”
Dex can’t help himself, can’t help the way his hand shifts from your throat and slides down your chest, how he palms your tit through the flimsy fabric of your tank top, can’t help the way he tugs the cup of your bra down so he can let his fingers drag across your nipples. He can’t help the way he feels your arch in his grip, chest pressing into his hand when he pinches your sensitive peaks, or the way his grin turns sinister when your body so clearly responds to him.
He knew you liked him, knew you wouldn’t deny him, knew you were his. Filthy, desperate, needy, just like him. All his.
No one else deserved to have this, have you. You belonged with him, to him.
“That’s it,” His voice is soft, though the tone is almost cruel as he tugs your top and bra beneath your breast, pushing it free and leaving you exposed. He lifts his hand to your mouth once more and taps your lips, encourage you to open your mouth. You oblige, a soft sound of surprise escaping you when he forces his fingers into your mouth for the umpteenth time that evening. “Suck.”
You do, eyes drifting shut as your tongue slides across his thick fingers, cheeks hollowing as you suck him further into your mouth. You can hear the way Dex moans behind you, body sagging against you as he ruts more aggressively into your fist. Needy son of a bitch.
He pulls his fingers free from your mouth with a wet pop and you whine softly, though it’s replaced with a loud gasp when he begins to toy with your exposed nipple, coating it in your own spit.
“How’s that, hm?” His voice is barely above a whisper, blonde scruff dragging against the soft shell of your ear as he speaks. “Feel good?”
Your head falls back against his shoulder, grip tightening around his cock as you momentarily surrender to the pleasure. Dex shouldn’t have known these things, known exactly what got you going, but clearly he’d been stalking and watching you for far longer than you’d realized.
A particularly sharp tug has you gasping, eyes snapping open.
“Answer me.”
You nod, thighs clenching at the harsh treatment, before answering: “Y-yes Dex, it feel’sgood.”
“Good girl,” It’s a purr in your ear, his voice smooth as velvet as he continues to palm at your chest. Your eyes drifting shut, mouth falling open as Dex continues to fuck his cock into your slick fist, his grip still bruising as he holds your wrists. It was filthy, abhorrent, the way he seemed to be using you to pleasure yourself, and yet you found yourself growing needier, pussy soaked, as time wore on.
You moaned softly as Dex’s large, warm palm began to smooth down the expanse of your rib cage and over your stomach, fingers dipping into the waist band of your pants.
“This what you want, huh?” He asks, near breathless. You try to turn to him, to catch his gaze, but he’s got his chin on your shoulder, eyes glued to your arching body. “Filthy girl, so needy for me, pretendin’ she’s mad that I know her.” His hand slips below your jeans and you gasp, suddenly nervous. “That I need her.”
“Wait-” You startle, trying to straighten. “Dex-”
His fingers are suddenly sliding between the slick folds of your pussy and you cry out, startled by the sheer amount of slick to be found, and how fuckin’ sensitive you are.
You hadn’t realized how needy he’d made you feel until his middle finger was gently sliding over your swollen clit.
“Fuck!” It was a gasp as you arched, head pressing against his shoulder.
“Don’t try and stop me,” He snarls, and the animalistic gaze that meets yours when your eyes open should have scared you. You know that, that Dex should scare you shitless, but instead you find yourself clenching around his fingers as he pushes two into your aching cunt.
“Gah, Dex!” You nearly sob, fist tight around his dick as he begins pumping his fingers into you, palm pressed flat against your swollen clit, an embarrassing amount of slick now covering his hand and fingers.
Dex curses, hips jumping forward, before he turns to press his lips against your ear, merciless as he begins to work you open.
“I know you more than you know yourself,” It’s a growl, a warning. “Let me in. Let me take care of you.”
The pace is brutal, filthy, the wet sounds of his fingers pushing into you are obscene as they fill the dark expanse of your now messy apartment. You’re on the tips of your toes, back arching, head pressed into Dex’s shoulder as his palm pushes against your clit. Your breathing is laboured, whines and praise freely escaping you as Dex works you up faster than any man ever has.
“D-Dex!” It’s a warning, your thighs shaking, as you struggle to continue to pump his cock, eyes blurring with tears as your orgasm builds at an alarming rate. You want so desperately to continue to pleasure him, his cock unbelievably hard in your fist as he forces you to ride his fingers.
“That’s it pretty girl,” His voice is shaking with the effort he’s putting into making you cum on him. “Gonna watch you cum all over me, all for me, yeah? Isn’t that what you want? Do it, fuckin’ cum for me. All over my fingers-” He tilts his head, grinning as his lips brush against your ear once more. “Before I fill you to the fuckin’ brim with my cock. See how pretty you look when I stretch you open.”
His voice sends you over the edge with a loud cry, eyes squeezed shut as begin to shake in his firm grip, thighs desperately trying to close around his thick fingers. But Dex doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop as he continues his brutal pace, fingers pushing into your fluttering cunt.
“Keep touching me baby,” He pleads, breathless when he finally, finally, releases your wrists and wraps his hand around your throat again, keeping you pinned against him as he forces you to ride out your orgasm.
It’s overwhelming, overstimulating as you clench around his thick fingers, and you feel delirious when Dex is suddenly grunting in your ear, hot ropes of cum spilling across your hand and the back of your ass as he cums into your fist. He’s still pumping his fingers into you as he cums, whining in your ear as he ruts into your hand. You try, desperately to make sense of what’s happening, to gather your thoughts and do something, anything, as you come down from the high but instead you’re sinking against him, watching with bleary eyes as he pulls his hand from your jeans and-
God, you came so hard you fuckin’ creamed on his fingers and you can see it-
Dex’s pupils are blown wide, eyes half open as he pushes his fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean. He moans, eyes fluttering shut, tongue lapping at the digits like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted and it has you licking your lips.
Dex keeps his eyes on you as he hand slips back into your jeans, fingers lazily pumping into you for a few moments, ignoring the way you wince and cry out softly, before he’s bringing his cum soaked fingers to your lips once more. He taps them-
once.
twice.
“Open up.”
You do, moaning softly as he presses his fingers against your tongue once more, the sweet, salty taste of your cum flooding your senses.
“That’s it,” Dex coos, voice unbelievably soft as he urges you on. “Such a good girl for me.”
He gently pulls his fingers free from you then before resting them against your lips. You have only a moment of rest before Dex is suddenly kissing you, breath hot as he laps at his fingers that are still pinned between your mouths.
You groan, mouth opening as you lick at his spit and cum soaked fingers, your tongues dancing and lapping at one another’s and around his thick digits. It’s wet, needy and unbearably hot. Despite the fact that he’s released your wrists, you keep them behind your back, still holding his softening, cum soaked cock in your hands while you kiss around his fingers.
Dex pulls back after a while, breathing heavy, a thick line of saliva attaching his swollen lips to yours, his pupils blown wide as he watches you. There’s a long stretch of silence as you regard one another, your breathing levelling out as you relax in your stalker’s embrace.
“I will not share you.”
Unfortunately, you’re starting to like the sound of that.
he really just can’t get used to all of this; you talking full control meanwhile he’s all laid back, legs spread and core tightened (fingers digging into the mattress on either side of him) as he just lets you do all the work.
your hips are moving relentlessly, palms pushing down on his chest as your nails scratch against his skin. he can barely focus on the way your walls are latching onto his length, your cunt bouncing up and down on him while he watches your boobs flail about.
“yes, yes, hmmph…!”
rambles continue to leave your mouth with brows furrowed and lips in an ‘o’ shape as dex can’t help but mirror you, both your gasps overlapping and leaving your insides fluttering.
you clench lightly around his tip before moving further down and sinking fully on top of dex’s dick. thighs tensing, you’re biting your lips, eyes only continuing to roll further back, hands gripping onto your breasts and squeezing. his jaw has dropped wide open, short breaths leaving his mouth and toes curling while he watches the expressions on your face; a mental image he never wants to erase.
“fuuuuck, you feel so good dex !”
a loud moan exits your lips as you begin to increase your pace — dex being unable to help it and flexing his cock.
“please, don’t stop baby.” the words slip past him quicker and more weaker than he expects but with your lids screwed shut, you barely acknowledge him while your hips rock back and forth faster.
dex realises he doesn’t care if he is being used, his balls twitching at the thought but he wouldn’t have it any other way if it means he gets to have front row view to the breathtaking sight of you riding him.
your hold is now extremely tight from your fingers which have entangled themselves in his hair to your soaking pussy clutching onto his length. dex’s arms wrap around your waist as he feels you suddenly go still, the knot releasing in the pit of your belly, body shuddering a few times.
you both lay there, sweaty and breathless only for his cock to squirm inside of your cunt and grip onto your walls. with all your strength, you pull yourself off his heavy length to flop next to him as your hole throbs.
18+ cw: unprotected [irresponsible] sex. just the tip (until it isn’t). mutual loss of virginity - slight bleeding. thighfucking. pussyjob. slippery slope. creampie. mutual pining. idiots in love. religious references/guilt. banter as foreplay lol
summary: your friend’s reputation of being good in bed is common knowledge to the entire living-and-breathing student population of columbia. confusion arises when he tells you he’s actually a virgin. (wc: 11k - i know 😔)
a/n: hello. :) this is PURELY self-indulgent wish fulfillment, initially written for the touch prompts “foreheads pressed against each other” + “two fingers against a pulse point,” then i swiftly lost control after the first 2k words. I LOVE LOVE LOVE MATT MURDOCK JUST THE TIP FICS, i love their authors, and so here is my contribution!!! addtl warnings: lots of talk about religion, purity culture talk, matt’s guilt (featuring my favorite: intrusive thoughts of bible verses during sex). matt & reader lose their virginity to each other. that’s it… enjoy my filth…
“No fucking way.”
It’s ridiculous: Matt’s desk isn’t made for two. Not even close. It’s for this reason that you’ve ended up almost on top of him, trying to act like your thigh isn’t pressed to his.
And if your excuse for all this was that you were trying to get any real learning in, you’d be a liar, and a bad one at that.
Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Matt’s visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred.
The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, you’ve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. It’s an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossip—and Foggy’s colorful commentary—is concerned. It’s also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.
Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. It’s your conviction he’s on a much different playing field than you—his revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you weren’t even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him.
Besides, it’s not that you like to wallow. You’d like to believe you’re fairly attractive yourself, thank you very much—but there’s much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Matt’s face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and he’s so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious it’s only natural he’d be surrounded by people just like him.
Not like you.
So, rash girl that you are, you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.
“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, “that you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?”
His lips twitch at the corners, amused. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“What the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quote–‘he was really good’? You giving them confession or something?”
Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, “Who knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.”
Your silence must clue him to the fact that you’re gaping.
“What? Girls love him!” he says, grinning wide. You can’t argue with that, at least, that much is true. “Besides, it’s a question of semantics. For one, what the word ‘virgin’ even entails when—”
“Just strangle me if you’re going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. You’re a virgin or you’re not.”
Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully.
“Well, then, enlighten me.”
Enlighten me.
You’re being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding can’t hold its own water—embarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone you’re wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.”
You have to hope you’re doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesn’t send your blood pressure skyrocketing.
Calm as ever, he continues, “One would define a virgin as someone who’s never had sexual intercourse.”
One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like he’s in a debate.
“Yeah,” you manage.
“Sexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?”
“Oh, stop it, Matt,” you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.
“Well—yes?”
“Okay. Yes.”
“Okay.” He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “If penetration has to be the only metric—then yes, I’m a virgin. Again, if it has to be.”
As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. “Yeah, yeah.” Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. “Has to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, he’s enjoying this—“do you think sex is just penetration?”
It takes you a second.
To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lips…
Oh.
“Oh my God,” you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. “Oh my God.”
Jesus. Of course he’d eat pussy like a champ.
“What? What?” His voice has gone high and incredulous.
“Shut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.”
He’s grinning wide. “Because?”
“Because!” Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. “I’m pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. It’s one thing to brag about being good at sex, y’know, the–uh–uh…p..”
Just say the word, goddammit! You’re giving yourself away!
“C’mon,” he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. “You can do it. P-p-p–”
“Penetration,” you spit. “Ugh, Matt!”
You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, you’ll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan.
“You are such an asshole. Anyway—being good at that is one thing, but you’re saying all that praise was for oral? That’s even worse.”
“Worse? How is that worse?”
“You can’t really coast on– on mutual friction with that. You gotta… um… actually be good at it.”
Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently you’re now picturing Matt’s face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that aren’t yours.
A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.
Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. “They said it, not me. I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Sure. Right.” Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself can’t even make form of. Jealous, though you’d sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are. In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Life—and Christ take yours now, you’re praying. Matt’s lucky enough he can’t see the withering look you’re leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, “That’s all fiction anyway.”
His head tilts fractionally.
“Sorry?”
“It’s all fiction.”
“Being good at oral is fiction?”
“Yes.”
“As in, not real?”
“Yes.”
Where you’re going with this, you don’t know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.
There’s a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful.
“So in the entire span of human existence—through all of time—you’re telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?”
“Yes!” You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. “Because I’m horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Or—feel, sorry. So as far as I’m concerned, no, it has not existed.”
A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why can’t you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!
“That’s a terrible worldview,” Matt says at last.
“You’re welcome to leave,” you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.
“Mm. Fiction,” he drawls, mouthing the word again like he’s testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know you’ve made a mistake: he’s got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.
“I don’t know,” he muses, “it seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women you’re currently calling liars.”
You roll your eyes hard enough you’re sure you can see your brain.
“No, I’m serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agency–”
“Oh God.”
“–but you’re also insinuating I was– What? Pity-praised?” Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. “You think it was pity praise for the blind guy?”
“What?! No! I think–” You reel back, flailing, face hotter than it’s ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if that’ll help. “Matt, fuck you for real.”
Matt’s grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you can’t bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.
“Christ. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.”
“Yeah, you did,” Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. “I hope that’s not from experience.” He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. “Is it?”
“I- I– Well.” You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.
So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage:
“Who I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.”
Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, you’d roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream weren’t currently on fire.
“Duly noted,” he says coolly. “And who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.”
You blink. Fuck.
He’s right. You’re unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse that’s technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that you’re the asshole for slut-shaming him when really you’re just…
A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous…?
“I– um– shit…” you answer brilliantly. “Um… Shit… Okay-you’reright-I’msorry.”
But Matt doesn’t have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You can’t see much of his face like this—only his mouth twitching in a tight line.
He’s… crying.
That made him cry?
No way. You’ve never seen him cry before.
No, no. He’s wheezing.
From laughter.
“Ha!” he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. “Got you!”
“Oh fuck OFF, Matt!” you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. “I thought you were crying! That’s not–!”
“You walked into that one again.”
“That’s not funny!”
.
Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though.
Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he weren’t currently fighting for his goddamn life, he’d have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that… what even is it?
That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.
Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if he’s being generous.
An indulgent part of him wants to believe it’s jealousy.
But why would it be? You’ve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that you’d think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest.
The kind of person who’d never waste time on someone who can’t keep his dick in his pants.
Which is clearly how you see him.
So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good… For lack of a better expression, he’s not blind to the fact that you’re disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, he’s certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmation—since anything deeper would be too much.
Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if he’s honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like he’s supposed to.
Still, it’s not so easy, especially not like this. It’s not so easy now when he’s in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he can’t even begin to dissect.
He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help him—just from this stupid conversation, he’s already hard.
Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.
Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.
“Fine,” he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. “I plead guilty. The rumors are true.”
Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what he’s risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. “The nuns at the orphanage, they’d say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.” Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, “I’m not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak.
“It’s just…” voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesn’t even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows that’s too much to hope for. “I haven’t found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with the”—he waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumble—“the words… in my head, and all.”
“What?” Your brow furrows. “What words?”
He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. “Nothing.”
“What?!” Before you can even finish talking you’re laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you don’t have his senses or you’d know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch.
“What words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?”
He huffs. “I think it’s called a conscience, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
For a second—just a second—your heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, it’d be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, it’s a useful gift, one that’s gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girls’ jeans that he’d expect. Only it’s not like that with you. He’s long learned that you’re anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
Just as he’d expected, it’s annoyance. Not interest.
Matt glances away, smile wavering. “Ah. Sorry.”
But like it’s nothing you’re already chuckling and saying, more quietly, “All that repression, Matt. M’starting to believe your rumors now.”
Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. There’s not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. But for him, it’s less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in… Anticipation?
Erratic, like a caught moth, like you’ve found something to say that’s titillating, or inappropriate.
He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.
No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Don’t.
Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.
“Okay,” you finally eke out, mouselike. “My turn.”
Matt tilts his head.
“I’m a virgin too.”
Oh?
That’s not what he expected, and he’s not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when he’s attempting to buy himself time.
Of course, there’s nothing wrong with your admission. It’s not a big deal; it shouldn’t even be one at all. Only, it’s sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet it’s for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else he’s spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it.
He can’t afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.
“Okay,” Matt says gently. “That makes two of us then.”
You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you.
“Ugh. Actually, I’m like half a virgin too or something. Aren’t you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.”
“No, not at all. I’m deeply moved by your honesty, actually.”
“Dick.”
He smiles.
You sigh, scratching at your temple. “I know there’s more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that that’s a thing. Like, I don’t give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?”
Matt nods solemnly, though the smile’s still tugging at his mouth. “No flaws in logic there.”
You swat at him again, but it’s lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.
“It’s not even about the sex,” you continue. “A lot of stuff makes me feel like it’s a lot more important than it actually is—”
“Hey.” He cuts you off, soft and steady, “You don’t have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.”
You nod, shoulders relaxing. You’d gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.
“Thanks. Sorry.” You pause for a bit, thinking. “I’d just… I’d like it to be with someone I like. Doesn’t even have to be someone I love– I think I’d actually prefer that, just so it isn’t that big a deal. Just… not some random asshole.”
Right.
Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.
He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.
“Mm,” he says, noncommittal. “Yeah, I know.”
“Just do it once—then it’s over.”
“Then it’s over,” he agrees helpfully.
“Stop repeating my sentences!” You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch he’s a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.
“Right,” Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back in—a futile effort, he’s unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears—and swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.
The issue, of course, is that he’s hard.
Hard and sweating and stuck.
If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. He’d take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he won’t. He knows it’s just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now.
Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.
You’re murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he can’t hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you’re leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your top’s brushing his arm. You don’t realize how much he’s shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breath’s fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact.
“You okay?” you murmur.
He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. “Just trying to focus.”
“Oh, sorry.” You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, “I can move–”
“No, no.” Matt’s hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. “Stay. I like it when you’re close.”
Something in your chest flutters, and Matt’s more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.
Christ, Matt. This how you do it?
He’s so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and he’s listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove it’s more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking.
But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t care anymore.
His thumb strokes your side.
“Alright,” Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”
You nod before your brain can even catch up.
“…Okay.”
For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowly—almost painfully so, like he’s giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heart’s ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.
And then his mouth is on yours.
The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a sound—a little hum, surprised at yourself—and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it. He’s clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.
There’s the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwi—no matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he can’t help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back it’s only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of it—before you can even think about what you’ve ruined, what you’ve just begun—you’re already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful.
Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as you’re shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and then—
It jerks, slipping sideways.
You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Matt’s faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.
“I got you,” he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that you’re straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure.
It’s then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing it’s impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.
“Should we…” you start, unsure what it is you’re even asking.
“Yeah,” Matt says shakily, “Bed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.”
You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you again—arms looping around you without effort—and then he’s standing, lifting you against him like it’s nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. There’s a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certainty—exactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not to—don’t ruin this, don’t rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment.
Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time it’s worlds away from the one before—it’s deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.
“Can I—?” he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below.
Jesus.
But you don’t get to ogle him as long as you’d like—it’s your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Matt’s an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.
“Goodbye, Nick Cave,” you murmur solemnly.
Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roam—sliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. You’re tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Matt’s hand covering yours to help.
Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Matt’s still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your mouth.
“For what?” you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.
He hesitates. “I just… didn’t know if you wanted to keep going.”
“Are you kidding?” you whisper. “I was about to ask you that.”
A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. “This feels good,” he mumbles against your lips.
“Yeah?” you breathe.
“Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. “Fuck—sorry—can’t—”
“Let me,” you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.
Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like he’s starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you can’t steal enough of his warmth to be sated.
His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then he’s at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think you’re already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.
“Wait. Wait—”
He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like he’d been caught mid-word. “…What?”
“I don’t—” The words knot in your mortified throat, and you can’t find the nerve to look at him directly. “Um—I just—”
It’s a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if you’re disappointing, what if you’re not worth it, if every rumor you’ve pretended not to care about has been true after all and you’re nothing compared to them—
“What’s this, then?” His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, “Gonna keep pretending it’s fiction?”
You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. “Shut up. Next time, okay?”
His brow quirks. “‘Next time,’” he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like it’s proof you’ll never get away from him now.
“Ugh, Matt—just come here—” Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the necklace, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like this—lying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgotten—and you’re melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.
Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. What’s left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precome’s already leaked through.
You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. “This okay?”
His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. “Yeah. Please.”
Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because he’s beautiful, Christ, he’s so hard, and he’s already twitching.
You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.
It’s everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Matt’s hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.
“These…” he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, “describe them to me.”
For a beat you’re not even sure you heard him right. “What?” you manage, though it’s hardly more than a whisper.
That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. “Tell me what they look like.”
At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. You’re not sure whether it’s that or simply the love-addled lens you’re viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because he’s waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely.
“They’re… white,” you begin, voice faltering as though you’re confessing something forbidden, “cotton. Lace at the sides.”
And because this is Matt, you can’t seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.
Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. “Mm. Fancy?”
“Not really.”
“They expensive?”
“What? Jesus. No, you perv.”
“Good.” His tone’s dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdict— his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply.
RRRIP—!
Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though they’re paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until you’re bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum.
“Couldn’t wait,” Matt pants, “Sorry.”
“You’re not sorry.”
“No, I’m not.” His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. “Not even a little.”
“You’re gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.”
His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once more— “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?”
“Yeah. God, yes. Oh—” Yet despite thinking you’ve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. “Wait, Matt. Are we gonna— I mean, is this—?”
Christ, you don’t even need to finish. He knows what you’re asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Matt’s will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that it’s you. You’re the one offering, wanting, needing. He’s the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop.
But how the fuck can he stop, when you’re whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?
The thought of whether this is the line he’ll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt can’t bring himself to say it out loud, can’t let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.
He should stop.
“C’mon,” you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. “As long as it doesn’t go in, it’s okay. Right? For you?”
Matt’s breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding, rendered helpless by the way you’ve said it.
“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”
Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like he’s about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts.
You’re wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.
And Matt’s losing it.
He’s not even inside you and already he feels like he’s going to break.
His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you he’s holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft it’s cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until you’re breathless, gasping, toes curling.
You don’t realize you’re whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, “Mine.”
His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.
And it’s true. You’re his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him.
You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.
It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking good—all of it, all of it—all building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: it’s not nearly enough.
“I want more,” you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, “Want you.”
“I know,” Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. “Me too. But we can’t.”
As if a spoiled child, you whine, “Why not?” high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.
Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because I’m an asshole.
“Please,” you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. “Please, it won’t change anything. We’re still friends, right? Right?”
And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.
The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.
The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds you—just that sliver of him breaching you, and you’re undone.
Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor.
Matt doesn’t move, shouldn’t, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what you’re pleading for.
“Fuck—m’sorry,” he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. He’s shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—You’re just so wet, fuck, I’m sorry—”
And if your hand causes you to sin…
“It’s o-okay—” You’re trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you.
Singular and decisive: you can’t stop now.
“Matt,” you whisper, sordid with want, “what if—what if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. It’s not enough. It won’t even count.”
You sound like you’re begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.
Matt’s hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, “Don’t tease.”
“I’m not,” you plead, “S’long as… s’long as it’s not fully in, it doesn’t count, right?”
“Fuck—” Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience.
He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.
Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.
But how can he refuse you?
“Fuck. Okay. Are you sure?”
You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. “I need you to tell me you’re sure.” His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.
You do no such thing.
“Fuck, I’m sure,” your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you alive. “I need you, Matt.”
Need you, Matt.
He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?”
You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief.
God can forgive him if it’s just the tip. It doesn’t even count. He’ll be forgiven.
No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability…
Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what he’s about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.
Then he’s pushing forward.
Just the tip—barely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.
“Mmff—” the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. “Fuck—that’s tight. You okay?”
You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.
“Y-yeah,” you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, “it just… hurts. A little.”
Hurts.
Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.
If he’s looking for a sign, this is it. He’s hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this never—
But your body won’t allow him to believe it. Not with the way you’re squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his word—just the tip. So he doesn’t move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat that’s clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.
The moment he’s lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadn’t begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that you’ve had it, there’s no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.
As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.
Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal you’re drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All he’d need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle you’re writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.
“Unfair,” you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.
“What’s unfair?”
Jesus. He’s so hoarse he can’t even recognize his own voice.
“You get to—” your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, “—get to jerk yourself off while I—while I can’t even—” Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks you’re going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. “I can’t even take it all.”
Christ.
Matt swallows.
This girl is gonna be the death of me.
“S’not—” he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess you’re making all over him. You’re so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles.
“No, no– see–” As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.
“See?” he rasps, eyes wild. “See? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.”
Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.
“Fuck—” his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, “fuck, sweetheart, I can’t—”
The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.
“I’m not gonna move,” he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, “I’m not gonna—fuck—”
But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.
The truth is, Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. A live wire embodied, he’s guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.
“Shit—sorry—sorry—” he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like he’s being wound too tight, like he’d snap if he stopped.
“Matt—” you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. “More. Please. More.”
“I can’t,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. “I shouldn’t.”
But your body’s melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.
He shouldn’t, but Christ, it’s you.
You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.
“Fuck—” the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, “You’re—Christ, you’re so good to me, my girl—”
Sweat’s beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeper—just a fraction, just a millimeter more. It’s not conscious, not yet, but his cock’s greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.
His mouth is everywhere—kissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until he’s slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.
You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.
“It’s alright,” Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. “It’s just a bit, just a little, it’s okay, right? S’okay? Sorry, sorry, shit—”
Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.
And then suddenly, inevitably, he’s in all the way.
Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.
Knowledge with self-control… self-control with steadfastness… steadfastness with godliness…
Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. He’s not praying anymore—he’s fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good.
“Matt,” you whimper, soft and urgent. “Move. Please.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and then—hesitantly, testing—he slides his cock out.
It’s too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.
“Fuck, so tight,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.
He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.
And then he does it again.
And again.
And again.
Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch him—watch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly he’s splitting you open.
“Oh my God,” you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. “Matt.”
As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouth—and almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around him—nearly unspools him.
“Fucking hell,” he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. “You’re so—so fucking tight, sweetheart.”
Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you can’t stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.
One moment he’s easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next he’s simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, he’s resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feral’s taken hold of him. He’s sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesn’t need finesse, and when someone’s fucking you like this—driving into you hard, desperate, needy—the result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like you’ll die if he stops.
“Fuck—fuck—” Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. He’s greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skin—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—pressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.
The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. There’s no space left between you at all; he’s smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and you’re drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though he’s swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.
“Matt,” you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, “Matt, Matt, Matt…” with the same fervent rhythm he’d once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.
He can’t get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he can’t stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, “So fucking tight—Christ, you’re so tight—” before his hand’s sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.
Knowing you so well, that’s all it takes—your whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.
By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussy’s gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way you’re still trembling and panting his name like it’s salvation—
He can’t.
He’s not thinking anymore. Just fucking.
And the bed’s tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and there’s nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and he’s laughing now—breathless, manic—between thrusts.
…That each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honor…
It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenly—but instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that you’ve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesn’t stop to think, finding himself unable to.
…not in the passion of lust.
Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?
He’ll be forgiven. He’ll be forgiven.
As long as he doesn’t come inside you.
That’s the line. That’s the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good he’s dazed with it.
But he wasn’t supposed to go this far, so what’s a little farther?
He doesn’t believe in halfway sins. If he’s going to hell, then he’ll make it worth everything.
“I’ll pull out,” Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. “I’ll pull out, I swear—just a little longer, just—fuck—”
But “a little longer” turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like he’s being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, “Mine.”
And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, “Yours,” clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he can’t take it, can’t fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.
“Oh fuck—fuck—” he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.
It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.
And all you can do is take it—take every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until there’s nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.
Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.
Afterwards, there’s nothing but silence.
Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. You’re trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what you’ve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.
Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. It’s not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely.
His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, don’t drift away from me.
The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Matt’s hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where it’s fallen between you.
“…Jesus Christ,” you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.
“Yeah.”
Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. “That was intense.”
The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and you’re aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: “You okay?”
“Yeah.” You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, he’s going to tell you he wishes it hadn’t happened. “...I was about to ask you.”
Oblivious as you usually might be, you know you’re feeling each other out, testing the waters.
“Yeah. I’m okay,” he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, “but you’re not… freaking out?”
“No,” you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, “I liked it.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughter—half relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment you’re content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling.
Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. “Don’t.”
“I should—I should get you cleaned up.”
“Later,” you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. “Let me have this, Matt.”
There’s no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be what’s ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck.
A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. “What?”
“I think my brain’s finally coming back online,” you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.
“Aw, tragic,” Matt drones, “You were so agreeable when it was melted.”
You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.
“We should probably get back to studying.”
“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who said you were behind.”
“You’re the one who made me more behind!”
His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. “Five more minutes, then.”
You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.
For once, you don’t care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.
The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet she’s been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But he’d been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what he’d had planned all along.
“They better not hook up,” she mutters idly.
“You might as well just pay up now,” Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesn’t even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. “I told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.”
Marci glares at him. “How the hell do you even know?”
“I’ve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,” Foggy says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. He’s toast.”
There’s a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.
“You guys are so weird. And disgusting.”
“Yes we are,” Foggy agrees cheerfully, plucking the bill from her hand. He tucks it neatly into his wallet and tips his dice bag toward her in mock toast. “To young love, and finally getting its head out of its ass.”
summary: Your approval means more to Benjamin Poindexter than anything Fisk could ever offer him. He’ll get on his knees and crawl back to you without hesitation if that’s what it takes to make you look at him the same way again, even if it means throwing away every ounce of pride.
note: he’s pretty pathetic here, i think we all want to see that… reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!
You have spent years working right beside Wilson Fisk. He trusts you without hesitation because you earned that position through loyalty. Managing the organization for him requires being the bridge between Fisk and the people working beneath him. People who need access to him have to go through you first. You hear the desperation in their voices whenever they beg for an audience. Sometimes being that bridge gives you satisfaction since everyone knows he is the man in charge. Being someone he completely trusts gives you access to handle sensitive information and coordinate operations before those requests ever reach his ears. You make sure the plans reach the right people without mistakes, because if something falls apart, you are the first person expected to fix it. You earned your job through results rather than ruling by fear. Fear breeds cowards, but competence keeps the empire standing while Fisk values competence above other traits.
You have proven time after time that you can solve problems before they get messy. You rarely wait to be told about what needs doing because you already know his expectations. You understand his demands just by watching the way his jaw tightens. Anticipating his needs requires you to notice details other people overlook, and noticing those details means you catch subordinates when they stumble over basic instructions. Watching them fail means you routinely tie up loose ends before they become liabilities for the business. Leaving a messy trail guarantees an early grave, but you will never ever let that happen. You will burn the evidence away until there is no proof to trace back to him, yet some evidence can’t be burned or buried, so you make sure it never speaks again. Handling that dirty work yourself feels like something you must do because others inside the syndicate only rely on clumsy brute force or intimidation.
You view their loud displays of anger as a weakness rather than a threat. True power means knowing when a conversation has reached its end without needing to raise your voice. You handle the jobs yourself without hesitation, as having blood on your hands is something you refuse to deny. You refuse to lie about the monster you became to survive, since guilt stopped bothering you a long time ago. It no longer drives your decisions, so you never feel the need to remind people who you are. You see their shoulders stiffen the second you enter a room, and the sudden drop in their voices tells you what you need to know about their fear because power doesn’t need to be flashy. You prefer to keep your influence out of sight until the moment it matters, as bragging about authority only makes you a bigger target. You don’t have to shove it in their faces to get respect when the way they scramble to follow your instructions serves as proof enough.
Any hesitation disappears the second you look their way. People understand that ignoring your orders is the same as ignoring Fisk himself. They know the punishment for crossing you will be the same as crossing him. That fear makes them shut their mouths when they leave, and their silence ensures very few people outside know your real name. Keeping your identity a secret prevents people from understanding your influence over the city. They spend years trying to figure out the criminal empire. Reading their flawed reports proves they rarely realize how many pieces happened through your hand as they chase the wrong suspects while you orchestrate the operations from the dark. You prefer keeping out of the spotlight while other men take the attention. Letting them take the credit saves you from being targeted. You have no interest in fame or building a new empire of your own. Your work is for the stability of the organization.
The desire for power did not appeal to you as much as the desire for control alongside this life because it gives you a purpose. You firmly believe loyalty is proven through actions rather than empty promises. You have spent years proving where your loyalty belongs. That proven loyalty is exactly why overseeing the personnel takes up a large part of your time, and Fisk trusts your judgment enough to leave the daily management in your hands. He focuses on expanding his empire while you ensure every worker serves their purpose. Everyone beneath him has a specific job to do, and you make sure they never step out of line. You watch over the employees to ensure the operation runs smoothly, and you always review their backgrounds to understand their capabilities. You understand that loyalty can’t be demanded of everyone in exactly the same way, since some are motivated by fear, while others care about money or ambition.
One of your skills is remembering details about the people working for the business, and you treat them all as replaceable tools to maintain order. The syndicate survives because you figure out what drives someone before managing them, and that responsibility extends to Benjamin Poindexter. You know who he is from his history long before ever meeting him, and you memorize his reputation without forgetting the role he fills within the business. His records mention his accuracy just as often as they mention his psychiatric history, but neither detail changes your opinion of him. Knowing those details is part of your job because you refuse to oversee someone without knowing how they think. The reports reveal a pattern you use to keep the organization running efficiently since Benjamin performs best when someone gives him structure alongside direction. He seeks approval from authority figures and becomes unstable whenever that approval disappears.
You ignore his personal issues as long as he does exactly what he’s told. You adjust your approach by giving clear instructions and maintaining consistent expectations to ensure he becomes a reliable asset. Praise is never excessive while criticism is never emotional because you know inconsistency creates unnecessary problems. You never view your approach as manipulation since it’s simply effective management. He begins responding to your routine faster than you expect as he handles the messy jobs other people fail to finish without causing problems for the business. He starts completing assignments exactly as instructed while paying attention to the details you point out. He always waits for your opinion before considering a job finished, and you see it as proof your methods are working perfectly. You have never concerned yourself with building personal relationships inside the business, so you don’t see him as a friend.
You see no reason to treat him any differently than anyone else since you care only about his usefulness and view him as just a weapon for Fisk to use. Keeping a professional distance has always made your job easier, even when small acknowledgments gradually become enough to shape his behavior. A simple nod after a successful assignment keeps him in line, and you allow him to stand at your side during meetings. None of those gestures mean anything unusual to you because you offer them for a purpose. Benjamin begins attaching far more meaning to them than you ever intended. The people around you notice the difference before you do because Benjamin rarely questions your decisions. He follows your instructions without hesitation, and some coworkers assume Fisk placed him under the only person capable of controlling him. Others joke about Benjamin being your favorite operative, but you pay little attention to the comments.
You believe you found the most effective way to manage him without realizing you’re becoming the center of his need for approval. The desperate need for validation makes his failure today unacceptable because the plan was supposed to end with Karen Page dead. You had already removed every possible complication you could predict before handing the final part to the one person you believed could not fail. Karen had survived far too many situations she shouldn’t have survived, and you were tired of adjusting your plans because of her luck. This assignment wasn’t just another routine job for him to complete. This was Benjamin’s chance to fix his mistake with Foggy Nelson, where he almost got caught and exposed the entire operation. Completing this task was his way to prove you were right to keep defending him to Fisk. Karen Page being alive and breathing completely ruins that effort.
You hear the news of his failure before he can make an effort to tell you, so you make sure you are already waiting inside the safe house when he finally arrives. You hear the lock click before the door swings open to reveal him standing in the hallway. You don’t bother greeting him or asking if he took any damage during the fight. He steps inside the room, knowing immediately from your expression that you aren’t interested in hearing his excuses. Coming close doesn’t matter when the target walks away, and it will take a long time to get that chance to put them on the ground again. The job wasn’t finished, so whatever he has to say means absolutely nothing to you. You stare straight at him while he closes the door behind him and looks uncomfortable under your glare. You let him take a few short steps inside the room before you confront him about the outcome. You don’t raise your voice at him because you have never needed to yell to get your point across.
The anger is already obvious in the way you look at him. You cross your arms over your chest while waiting for him to speak first. He refuses to meet your eyes, so you decide to break the silence yourself. “Tell me exactly how Karen Page managed to walk away from you,” you demand in a calm tone while watching his reaction. Benjamin stops walking right in the middle of the room as he finally looks up at you. He opens his mouth to speak but quickly closes it again when he sees the disappointment on your face. You know he hates failing you more than he hates failing the actual mission itself. “She had help,” Benjamin replies while staring at a spot on the wall right next to your head. That excuse does nothing to improve your mood since you explicitly told him to anticipate interference. “I don’t care who helped her because you were supposed to eliminate anyone who got in your way,” you state plainly while watching his jaw clench.
You take a step closer to him so he is forced to actually look at you. “He was waiting for me,” Benjamin says while shifting his weight nervously under your gaze. He knows he messed up, and your lack of sympathy makes his failure even worse. “Daredevil showed up before I could take the shot,” he adds to explain the fight on the rooftop. You observe his expression as he talks about the interference. The more he talks, the less interested you become in the details because every sentence sounds like another excuse instead of accountability. You remember giving him the specific instruction to expect interference before the operation even began. You chose him over everyone else for this job because he was supposed to adapt to any obstacle. He was supposed to overcome the problem and finish the job anyway. All you hear is him trying to convince you that the outcome was unavoidable.
“She escaped while he kept me pinned down,” Benjamin continues to defend his failure. He speaks fast, as if an explanation will make you forgive him. A short laugh escapes you before you shake your head in disbelief. You throw his own words back in his face to make him hear how pathetic it sounds coming from someone with his reputation. “A blind man,” you say while looking into his eyes. “You lost your target because of a blind man,” you repeat to mock his excuse. His jaw clenches tight before he looks away from you. The thought that Benjamin Poindexter came back defeated because of a blind vigilante makes you feel insulted. “He isn’t just some regular guy,” Benjamin argues to defend his loss. You refuse to accept that excuse when you put your own standing on the line for him. You close the distance between you two until you are standing right in front of him so he has no room to step back.
Benjamin is the person you defended when no one else in the organization wanted to take the risk. You stood up for him after the Foggy Nelson disaster. You cleaned up the consequences to protect his place within the syndicate. You made yourself responsible for him to convince everyone his mistake wasn’t who he was. You gave him this chance to fix things, but he repays that effort by coming back empty-handed. “I defended you,” you remind him while holding his gaze. Benjamin’s throat bobs as he stares at you. “I know you did,” he mutters while keeping his hands tight at his sides. “I stood in that room to tell them they were wrong about you,” you say as you watch his expression fall. You risked your own position for him, and he makes your judgment look foolish in front of Fisk. You refuse to let him look away from you. “Do you have any idea what you just made me look like?” you ask while letting the anger show in your voice.
He opens his mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. He clenches his teeth together as he tries to figure out a better response. He realizes this is much worse than just missing a target. You stare at him while he struggles to find an excuse that matters, but he finds nothing because you both know he ruined the one chance you gave him. “I know I messed up, but I can still fix this,” he says to salvage whatever trust you still have in him. He keeps his hands at his sides as he tries to find a way to fix the situation. He takes a breath before speaking again, “Just give me another chance to go back there-” You uncross your arms to lift a hand, then you slap him across the face with all your strength before he can finish another excuse. You don’t strike him out of pure anger. You only do it to make him stop talking. The room becomes dead silent, and you watch his face turn to the side from the impact.
He stands there looking surprised because slapping him in the face was the last thing he expected you to do. You don’t give him a single second to recover when you grab his jaw with your hand. Your nails dig into his cheeks hard enough that he has no choice but to face you. You want him to see how angry you are right now since he has never seen this side of you before. You never raise your voice at him, which makes the situation feel much worse for him. “Look right at me when I’m talking to you,” you demand while pressing your thumb against his cheekbone. He doesn’t look away from you, and his pulse races under your palm. “You don’t get another chance until I decide you deserve one,” you state while your fingers dig deeper into his jaw. He needs to understand his place before he tries asking that you let his mistake slip. “That bitch should’ve been dead,” you tell him as you force his head up a little higher. You are tired of changing every plan just because Karen Page survives every attack.
She is a problem that should’ve been eliminated months ago, and this assignment was supposed to put a stop to her interference, yet Benjamin let her walk out of his sight. Your nails bite harder into his cheek to make him listen to every word. “I am so fucking tired of cleaning up after Karen Page,” you say without yelling. You wonder how a reporter manages to survive a highly trained killer. “Every time I think she’s finally gone, someone gives me another reason to deal with her,” you add as you glare at him. You observe his chest rise and fall rapidly as if he’s trying to calm himself. “Do you have any idea how much time I’ve wasted because of that bitch?” you ask while pulling his face a little closer. He just had to put a bullet in her to end the problem, but he failed you. You have to fix his mistake yourself today. You keep your hand tight around his jaw to bring up why you trusted him in the first place.
“Bullseye,” you say to him so he remembers his own title. Everyone knows him as the man who never misses. You expected him to live up to that reputation tonight instead of returning empty-handed. “Maybe I gave you too much credit,” you state as you watch his posture stiffen. Benjamin doesn’t pull away from your hand even though your nails hurt him. He says nothing to defend himself and just waits for you to finish talking. He knows interrupting you again will only make things worse, so he accepts the pain. “I know I failed,” Benjamin says while his breathing picks up. It sickens you to see a trained professional acting like a desperate child. You want him to realize apologies mean nothing when a job is left unfinished. “Send me back right now,” he begs for a chance to fix the mess he created. He looks at you like a stray dog begging for a scrap of approval. You refuse to reward his incompetence with an immediate yes.
“I won’t come back until she’s dead,” he insists in a rushed voice to prove he can still be useful. He assumes finishing the assignment late will erase the disrespect he brought to your name tonight. “I won’t make the same mistake twice,” he promises as he leans into your touch. You wonder if he hears how pathetic he sounds. Empty words do nothing to rebuild the reputation you risked for his sake. “Just give me the order and I-” he starts to say before you cut him off. You squeeze his jaw much harder until his words stop right in the middle of the sentence. He winces from the pain, but he refuses to step back. You have zero interest in hearing another useless guarantee. “You still don’t get it,” you say while shaking your head at him. The problem goes far beyond a single surviving reporter. “This stopped being about Karen the second you walked back in here,” you tell him as you force his face closer.
He needs to understand failing a mission is bad, but making you look stupid is unforgivable. “You need to realize the true price of your mistake,” you state while watching him struggle to figure out the real issue. “Your incompetence makes me look like a fucking idiot for trusting you,” you tell him so he understands exactly what he ruined. You refuse to let anyone else think you made a mistake by keeping him around. “I put my own reputation on the line when I swore you were worth the risk,” you state while keeping your hand firm on his face. You convinced everyone he deserved another chance after his last disaster. You put your own judgment behind him so he could keep his place in the organization. “You knew I stood up for you, yet you still repay me with this pathetic failure,” you say as you observe his expression change. The harsh insults never seemed to bother him, but hearing how deeply he humiliated you finally gets a reaction.
He always focused on proving himself to Fisk without realizing you were the only shield keeping him alive inside the syndicate. “God, I was fucking stupid to believe you were better,” you spit out while glaring at him. Benjamin finally understands what you are really saying. “Please don’t regret choosing me,” he begs as his chest rises faster. The panic in his voice shows exactly how terrified he is of losing your protection. “I never meant to make you look like a fool in front of them,” he says to salvage your trust in him. His eyes search your face for any sign of forgiveness to keep you from turning your back on him. He stares at you like a dog waiting for its owner to fix the mess. “I’ll make it right. You’ll never have to defend me again,” he promises to convince you he can fix this. His hand lifts for a second, as if he wants to reach for your wrist. He stops himself before his fingers can even brush against you.
He knows better than to make another move without your permission. All he can do is stand there and let you hold his head in place. You refuse to let go of his jaw even when he looks at you with that desperate expression. “I have no reason to keep protecting you after tonight,” you state while pushing your thumb harder into his cheekbone. You have already spent way too much time cleaning up his mistakes. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t replace you right now,” you demand in a cold tone. You want him to realize how close he is to losing the only person who covers for him. “Tell me why I shouldn’t walk out that door and let you face the consequences alone,” you add to make the threat perfectly clear. He knows he will fall apart the second you stop telling him what to do. “Because right now I am struggling to remember why I ever gave a shit about you,” you tell him while watching him panic.
The thought of you walking away terrifies him more than the anger in your voice. He needs your orders to keep himself grounded, so losing you means losing his purpose. “You’re the only one who understands how to use me,” Benjamin answers while maintaining eye contact. You can hear the pure desperation behind his words. He sounds completely willing to do whatever it takes to stay under your control. “I’ll do exactly what you want without asking questions,” he swears to secure his spot at your side. He wants to prove his obedience right here so you don’t replace him with someone else. He doesn’t care about Fisk or the organization anymore because his only concern is your approval. “Tell me how to fix this, and I’ll do it,” he pleads while standing under your hand. He waits for your command because he refuses to let you abandon him over one failed assignment. “You think you’re the only guy we have?” you ask in a cold tone while digging your fingers into his face.
You wonder if he actually believes his title makes him immune to consequences. “I can find a replacement to clean up your mess by tomorrow,” you tell him so he understands how fast you can throw him away. Your hand drops from his jaw the second he lunges forward to grab both of your hips. He catches you before you can step backward because he hates hearing how disposable he is to you. His hands hurt your waist, but you don’t break eye contact as he refuses to let you walk away from him tonight. He acts desperate to keep you close by dropping his head forward to hide his face right against your neck. “N-no. You can’t replace me,” Benjamin argues as his fingers dig deeper into the fabric of your shirt. You feel his breath against your neck when he speaks into your shoulder. “Nobody else can do what I do,” he insists in a panicked voice while shaking his head against you.
His desperation makes you want to laugh right in his face. You expect a trained killer to have at least a shred of dignity. “There is only one Bullseye,” he adds as he tries to convince you he is the only weapon Fisk will ever need. Hearing him use his own nickname sounds more like a plea than a threat. “I won’t fuck it up next time,” he promises while holding you tighter against him. He needs you to believe he can fix this failure. “I’ll do whatever you want,” he begs in a rushed breath. You wonder how much pride he is willing to lose to earn your forgiveness. Listening to him beg proves exactly who holds the power between you two. “You need me,” he says to convince you not to abandon him. You realize how much you owe him when he acts this pathetic for your approval. You shove his chest backward with enough force to make him stumble away from you. He loses his balance for a second before you grab a handful of his hair.
You yank his head backward so he is forced to stare straight into your face. “Ah- fuck,” he grunts, but he lets you drag him without fighting back. You want him to realize he has no room to negotiate with you right now. “Whatever I want?” you ask as your fingers tighten in his hair to keep his head pulled back. He gulps nervously before nodding as much as your hand allows. You take his desperate promise to heart to see how far he is willing to go. “Then get on your fucking knees,” you command without hesitation. He drops to the floor without waiting because he fears making you angry. You let go of his hair so you can grab his jaw again once he is down there. You angle his face upward so he has to look up at you from his knees. “Look at me,” you order while digging your thumb into his cheek. He keeps his eyes glued to yours as his life depends on it. “Prove you can be useful,” you demand while looking down at him.
Benjamin leans forward to rub his cheek harder into your hand. He turns his face to kiss your palm before he opens his mouth to take your thumb inside. He sucks on your finger to show you exactly how desperate he is for your attention. He keeps both of his hands at his sides while using only his mouth to please you. You watch him act like a pathetic animal begging for scraps. “Tell me how,” he mumbles against your fingers. You pull your hand away from his mouth so you can take a slow step backward across the floor. “Show me you know how to follow,” you order while looking down at him. He refuses to let any empty space exist between you, so he follows you by crawling forward on his knees. You observe him drag his knees across the floor without ever trying to stand up. His eyes never leave your face as he follows you across the room and keeps his hands to himself. You don’t stop taking those steps until the back of your legs brushes against the edge of the living room sofa.
You sit down on the cushions, and you spread your knees apart to give him access. He keeps crawling until he places himself right between your legs. He wraps both of his arms around your thighs so you can’t shove him away from you again. You look down at him while he kneels on the floor directly beneath you as he holds your legs tight enough to make sure you can’t push him back. He buries his face directly into your stomach to hide his expression from you. He holds your thighs tight while his hands slide upward to grab the fabric of your waistband. He takes a deep breath against you before he finally lifts his head back up. He looks up at you with his chin resting against your belly as he waits for your permission. He stares at you with pure desperation in his eyes. “Let me make it up to you,” he whispers against your shirt. He refuses to let go of your clothes until you tell him what to do next.
You run your fingers through his hair very slowly to keep your voice gentle because hearing you speak to him that way destroys his pride. He pulls his face away from your stomach just enough to put a little distance between you two. His hands move down to the buckle of your belt before he undoes it. “I gave you this job because I wanted you to be the one to do it for me,” you tell him as you watch his shoulders drop under your touch. “It makes me so sad that I trusted you with this,” you add while running your thumb across his cheek. He flinches at the disappointment in your tone, but he leaves his hands on your waist. You offer him a sympathetic smile as you look down at his face. He doesn’t like feeling inadequate, and he has a desperate need to prove he is good for something. He tilts his head back to look up at you right as his fingers shake against the fabric of your pants. He pops the button open before pulling the zipper all the way down.
“You tried so hard, but you just couldn’t manage it, could you?” you ask while letting him undress you. “I really wanted to be proud of you tonight, Dex,” you murmur as you stroke his hair again. He looks completely devastated by your words, but he refuses to get up off the floor. You sigh quietly like you are exhausted from defending him. He grabs the waistband of your pants right as you let out that breath. He leans back to give himself room to work the clothing down your legs. He pushes the fabric down your hips and thighs while you monitor him from above. “I tell everyone that you are my best guy,” you state as you run your nails over his scalp. He pauses to take a shaky breath. “Now they are going to think I was stupid for believing in you,” you say while watching his hands shake. He clutches your pants tighter as he stares up at your face. He reaches down to pull the pants over your ankles before he throws them onto the floor.
He leans forward again to hide his face right against your thigh. He presses a desperate kiss just above your knee to find some comfort. “I’m sorry... please don’t sound so disappointed,” he begs into your leg. “Please don’t replace me,” he pleads while shaking his head against you. He kisses your leg again to show his devotion. “I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be good,” he tells you as he holds your thighs. “I’ll do anything you want,” he promises in a rushed breath. He lifts his head from your leg to look right up at your face. His hands drag up your legs until his fingers hook underneath the elastic band of your underwear. He stares up at you while waiting for an answer. “Let me take care of you... please,” he whispers as he keeps eye contact. He sounds so desperate to prove his worth right here on the floor. “I can still be useful. Tell me I can take these off,” he insists while tugging on the waistband. You don’t say a word back to him, so he realizes he has to ask better.
He clenches the elastic band of your underwear as he stares up at your face. He refuses to pull the fabric down until you give him explicit permission to uncover you completely. “I just want to make you feel better,” he says from between your legs. He waits for your order since he refuses to make another mistake today. “Can I? Please?” he asks while looking up at you like a dog. You swat his hands away from your waistband before his fingers can slide your panties down. You grab his wrists, and you shove his arms straight down to his sides. “Did I ever give you permission to do that?” you ask while he stares up at you. He realizes he crossed a line, so he forces both hands behind his back to prove he knows how to follow orders. You check his posture to make sure he does what he is told. “You haven’t earned the right to have me tonight,” you state as you look down at his pathetic expression. A heavy swallow escapes him, and he refuses to move his arms from behind his back.
You grab a handful of his hair to yank his head forward until his face presses against your crotch. His breath hitches from the closeness, and he leaves his hands right where you told him to put them. He takes a deep breath against the fabric of your panties while he waits for your next command. “You have to work a lot harder if you want these off,” you tell him while tightening your hand in his hair. He shakes against your thighs because having you this close drives him crazy. “Don’t move your fucking hands from behind your back,” you warn him to ensure he doesn’t try to touch you again. He rubs his nose right against your covered cunt to show you he understands. You look down at him while he waits against you for some kind of release. “You failed your assignment today, so you have to taste me through the fabric,” you declare to remind him about his mistake. “Lick right through the material,” you order while forcing his head down onto your crotch.
He lets out a needy whine, and he parts his lips to obey your command right away. “You only get to taste whatever soaks through because you were useless today,” you say as you watch his mouth open wider. “Make it wet enough, and I might forgive you,” you add to give him a reason to try harder. He presses his tongue against the fabric to follow your order without a second of hesitation. He licks right over the seam of your panties while he tries to balance himself without using his hands. You watch the material turn dark with his saliva as he tries to please you. He wants the real thing so much, and he accepts being denied since he knows he deserves the punishment. You feel the wet heat of his mouth seeping through the panties to soak your cunt. He drags his tongue up and down the seam time after time to drench the entire area for you. He refuses to bring his arms forward even when he wobbles on his knees.
He pauses to breathe before looking up at you from between your legs. “Mnn... is this good?” he asks while looking at your face. He dives right back down to lick the soaked material before you can even answer him. You feel his tongue working the wet fabric into your slit so he can taste you. “I’ll make it so wet for you,” he mumbles against your crotch before letting out a grunt. He stops licking to look up at you with desperate eyes. “Please let me taste the rest,” he begs while staring up at you. You hold your hand tight in his hair to remind him who is in charge right now. He leans back so he can look into your face while leaving his mouth very close to you. “Tell me I’m doing a good job,” he pleads to get some validation for his efforts. You refuse to give him any praise until the fabric is ruined with his spit. He takes your silence as a cue to work harder, so he pushes his face right back into your cunt. You let out a sigh as his tongue laps at the soaked material.
“Mmf- please tell me I’m good,” he whines into your crotch while rubbing his nose against you. The urge to use his fingers makes his arms twitch, but he forces his hands behind his back anyway. The punishment drives him crazy because he wants to touch your cunt. His mouth has to do all the work while he kneels on the floor between your legs. You see him shove his face into your center to get a better angle. His hot breath fans the damp fabric of your panties before he opens his mouth. “Fuck- just like that,” you groan while staring down at his head. “Ahhn- keep going,” you command as you tighten your hand in his hair. A wet sound fills the room when his tongue drags hard against the center seam to find the exact spot you need. The soaked fabric turns see-through under his mouth as he laps right over your clit. “Shit- right there,” you curse while your hips jerk upward. You feel the rough texture of the panties rub against your folds.
He parts his lips to close his mouth right over your clit through the material and sucks it. “Mnn- suck it harder,” you demand while tilting your hips forward. “God... fuck yes,” you sigh as his tongue flicks against you. The annoyance of not having the whole thing makes him too impatient to wait any longer after being denied for so long. Tasting you through a layer of fabric frustrates him because he craves the real thing. You feel him turn his head just enough to bite down on your panties. He hooks his teeth into the fabric and tries to yank your panties to the side so he can taste you without it. He drags the material far enough out of the way before releasing it from his teeth. His mouth dives forward the second his lips are free. A hot breath escapes him when he swipes his tongue against your slick folds. He laps you up with a sloppy sound while his nose nudges into your thigh. Tasting your cunt makes him groan right against your slit, and he devours you without using his hands because you told him to leave them behind his back.
Your juices coat his chin while he eats you out, and you feel his tongue working deep into your hole as he tries to make up for lost time. He wants to prove how useful he can be right here on the floor. “Did I say you could move those?” you ask while looking down at his head. You yank his hair backward to stop him from licking your cunt any further. A whine escapes him, but he lets you drag his head away from your center. Your juices shine right on his chin when he looks up at you with needy eyes. He pants through an open mouth as he waits for your next instruction. You hold his head tilted back to make him look at your face. “You’re so fucking impatient,” you taunt while watching his chest heave. He tries to lean forward again, but you pin him in place. “Fucking desperate,” you state as you observe him beg for another taste. The punishment of being so close yet so far from his reach drives him crazy.
A heavy breath escapes him while he stares up at your face, and his hands twitch behind his back as he fights the urge to grab your thighs. You let him suffer on his knees for a few more seconds before deciding what to do next. The desperation in his eyes proves how much he hates disappointing you today. He rubs his cheek against your thigh to ask for forgiveness without using his words. Refusing to give him an immediate answer makes him squirm under your gaze. You run your thumb across his cheekbone as he leans into the touch. You let go of his hair and point straight at the floor. He frowns at you because he hates being pushed away right when he got a taste. He wants to dive back into your cunt, but he waits for your next instruction. “Move backward on your knees,” you order as you glare down at him. You can see the annoyance in his expression over the distance.
“Why do I have to move?” he whines while staring at your wet slit. Looking so desperate makes him pathetic. He actually thinks he gets a say in this. “I was doing what you wanted,” he argues as he refuses to budge. You wonder if he really believes arguing will change your mind. “Did I ask for your opinion?” you ask while keeping your finger pointed down. His eyes widen when he realizes you might make him stop for good. “Four steps back right now,” you demand so he knows you mean it. Frustration makes him groan before he shuffles backward on his knees to put some distance between you two. You watch him move away before you lift your hips off the couch cushion. You slide your wet panties down your legs so you can step out of them. You grab the soaked material before tossing it onto the floor right in front of his knees. Pure instinct makes his hand shoot out from behind his back to snatch it up.
“I’m keeping these,” he grunts as he shoves the wet fabric into his pocket. He acts like a feral dog hoarding food because he refuses to let you take it away. “Don’t try to take them back,” he begs while guarding his pants. You roll your eyes at his behavior before deciding to give him a break instead of punishing the slip. “You can bring your other hand out from behind your back,” you state to give him full permission. He brings his arms forward to reach for you because he thinks he gets to feel your body after being denied for so long. He wants to grab your thighs, but you point straight at his pants before he can touch your legs. He drops his hands while he looks up at you in confusion. “You won’t let me touch you?” he whines as he stares up at your face. He stares at his empty hands like he expects you to change your mind. You can see how much he hates being denied after following your orders. “I just want to hold your legs,” he pleads while looking between your face and your thighs.
Begging only proves how desperate he is for physical contact. “Take it out and touch yourself,” you command as you point down at his pants. He swallows hard because he realizes you intend to keep denying him. You lean back against the couch cushions while you look down at his pathetic expression. “You haven’t earned the right to touch me,” you state to remind him of his place. He looks down at his jeans before looking right back at your wet cunt. “Just tell me I can taste you again,” he begs while his hands shake in front of his chest. You refuse to answer him until he does what you told him to do. He undoes his belt and unbuttons his pants to free his hard cock from his jeans. He pulls his dick straight out from his underwear without taking his clothes off. He wraps his fingers around himself to stroke his cock while he watches your face. “F-fuck- mmh,” he stutters as he pumps his fist up and down his shaft.
You nod in approval so he knows he can come back to his spot between your legs. “Come here,” you offer as you monitor him jerking off. He works his hand faster as he scrambles forward on his knees to reach you. He hurries back to his spot between your legs without stopping his hand. He buries his face back into your wet cunt so he can lick you out while stroking his own dick. He pumps his fist along his shaft as his tongue swipes right against your slick folds. He lets out a muffled groan against your slit when he tastes you again. He laps at your clit as he jerks himself off right in front of you. You watch him devour you while his hand moves fast over his cock. He uses his mouth on you without hesitation since his hands are too busy to touch your thighs. He dips his chin down a bit to align his mouth with your opening before he curls his tongue to push it just past your folds.
He slides it into your slick entrance before dragging it back out to thrust in again while a sloppy noise comes from his lips. He strokes his own cock with his fist while he breathes loud enough to hear over the sounds of his mouth. “Fuck- Dex-” you groan while tilting your hips closer to his face. He looks good on his knees. “Ahhn- right there,” you curse as his tongue works inside you. You watch him swallow saliva leaking past his mouth. He takes orders better than you expected. “Keep doing that,” you command while looking down at him. He needs leverage to hold his mouth in place, and his empty hand reaches out to grab your thigh for support. You smack the back of his hand the second your fingers brush your leg, but he brings his arm right back up. His fingers twitch toward your knee a few moments later because he wants to grab you. “Mnn- keep your hands down,” you warn while glaring at his messy face.
You slap his knuckles hard enough to leave a mark the moment he tries to sneak his palm toward your waist. A pathetic whine vibrates against your cunt every time you reject his touch, but he refuses to pull his mouth away even after you slap him. “F-fuck... yeah,” you sigh while he swallows down another whine. He pumps his fist up and down his shaft while his tongue laps at your opening. He attempts to slide his fingers over your calf one last time before you lift your foot and dig your heel right into his shoulder to push him back. “You don’t get to touch me,” you taunt as he whines against your slit. He takes the rough treatment without a fight because he refuses to stop tasting you. He presses his empty hand against the base of the couch to hold himself back. He pants through his nose to catch his breath between each push of his tongue. “Feels good,” you praise while watching him take the punishment.
You see his eyes dart up to follow your hip movements. You want him to beg for a touch later. “Shit- fuck yes,” you curse as his mouth laps at you. He looks up at you through his eyelashes to gauge your reaction, and the sight of his messy face makes you arch your back off the cushion. Arching your hips forces your clit to bump right against his nose while his tongue pushes at your entrance. “Nngh- take it,” you demand while your hips press forward. He exhales against your folds while his hand moves fast over his cock. You stop telling him what to do once the pleasure gets too much and your breath breaks into ragged sighs. You drop your head back against the couch cushions before lifting one hand to cover your eyes and hide your face while Benjamin watches you fall apart. “Nnngh... fuck,” you whine as you struggle to catch your breath. He lets go of his own shaft because he needs to use both hands.
He ignores your previous warnings to reach up from between his legs and wrap his fingers right around your bare thigh. He pushes your knee outward to open you up for his mouth while your free hand tries to swat his knuckles. You move too slow to stop him, and his other hand comes up fast to catch your wrist before you can slap him. He forces your arm straight down into the upholstery to hold you in place. He presses your arm against the cushion while his other hand holds your thigh tightly. He observes your face while you gasp for air. “Shh- let me just hold your leg,” he murmurs while staring right at you. You yank your arm against his grip, but he refuses to let go. “Y-you don’t get to do that-” you stutter as your hips twitch. “You don’t have to fight me,” he interrupts without raising his voice as he waits for you to stop struggling. “Mmn- let me take care of you,” he tells you before leaning forward.
He holds your arm down and brings his mouth back to your folds while his tongue moves slowly over your clit. A frustrated noise escapes you when he refuses to go faster, and your hips jerk forward to chase his mouth. He pulls his head back an inch to let his tongue graze your clit because he refuses to give you the pleasure you want. “Hah- nngh... faster,” you beg while twisting the wrist he presses against the couch. He ignores your begging and instead uses the distance to speak. “Don’t cover your eyes,” he instructs while squeezing your thigh harder. You press your hand against your face to hide your expression until he nudges his nose against your clit to force a reaction out of you. “Fuck you- ahhhnn,” you curse while moving your hand away from your eyes to glare down at him. “Look right at me,” he demands before diving his tongue back inside your hole. You stare down at his messy face while he drags his tongue over your clit over and over without speeding up.
He knows you need him to go faster, but he refuses to change his pace while your toes curl and you squirm against the cushion. “Hngh... Dex, please,” you beg while arching your back. He pushes his tongue inside you the second you ask for it. “I got you,” he promises while he laps at your entrance to make you beg for everything. You drop your free hand from your face down to his head to tangle your fingers in his hair. You shove his face hard against your folds to force his nose right into your slit. You thrust your hips up to grind your cunt against his mouth. “I never told you to touch me,” you spit out while glaring down at his messy face. You tighten your fingers in the strands at the base of his neck. “Y-you didn’t get my permission to put your hands on me- nghh,” you scold while you grind your hips against his nose. He ignores your complaints to let go of your thigh and move his hand higher up your leg. He finds your clit and rubs his thumb over it to shut you up.
You thrash against him, but he shoves your pinned arm harder into the couch to stop you from fighting back. He thrusts his tongue inside your hole while his thumb rubs over your clit. Your words cut off into a loud groan because his tongue and thumb move at the same time. You yank his hair to hold his face against your slit because you want him closer. “Hngh... f-fuck,” you stutter as your hips grind up to chase his mouth. He strokes your clit with his thumb right in time with the thrust of his tongue. He rubs you over and over to make your hips shake against the couch. Your breathing turns into short gasps while you ride his mouth. “Hah- ahhhnn... right there,” you beg while your back arches up. He pushes his tongue further inside your cunt to answer your demands. You lose the ability to scold him because you need his mouth too much. Your toes curl against the floor while you grind against his face.
“Don’t you fucking stop- nnngh,” you command while your nails dig into his scalp. He rubs his thumb over your clit to make you beg. You gasp for air because you need what he does to you. “I swear to God, Dex- mmph,” you curse while your hips jerk against his nose. Benjamin feels your hips jerk against his face before he leans back to take his mouth away from your slit. He moves his tongue just out of reach while you thrash against the sofa because you want the release bad enough to fight for it. “Wh-what the fuck are you doing? Nnh- don’t stop,” you complain while you tug his hair to force his head back down. He refuses to budge, but he presses his thumb over your clit. He looks up at your face while you stare back at him. “Tell me how much you like my mouth on you,” he demands while he watches your expression. He presses his thumb against you to make you speak.
“Tell me to make you cum,” he taunts while he drags his finger over your clit to pull another moan from your throat. You spit out a curse, but your chest heaves for air. “Fuck you... You don’t get to order me around- ahhn,” you stutter as your hips jerk up to chase him. Your cunt clenches with a need you can’t control while your legs shake on either side of his head. Your fingers twist into his hair before you stop fighting him because you crave his mouth way too much. “Fine... God, I like it,” you admit while you let out a ragged breath. Your fingers untangle from his hair when you give up. “Please Dex... mnnnh- make me cum,” you beg as you give him all your attention. He pushes his face right back into you the second you confess to sliding his tongue over your slit. You let out a loud gasp when he releases your pinned arm and his fingers dig into your thighs while he speeds up his pace. He moves his thumb faster until your breath hitches, and you lift your shoulders off the backrest to get closer to him.
Your hands leave his hair to grab his shoulders to drag his mouth straight against your folds. “Dex- Fuck- yes...” you gasp while you dig your nails into his skin. He grunts against your slit before dragging his tongue over your clit to make you cum. His mouth makes your head fall back before a loud moan escapes your throat. Your toes curl while your back arches off the sofa. You squeeze your thighs around his ears while you thrust your hips up into his face. Your hips jerk while you cum all over his tongue. He leaves his mouth against your slit to swallow every drop. He laps his tongue across your folds to clean you up, and he refuses to move away until your legs stop shaking. You drop your back onto the couch to catch your breath. “God... hahh... you’re a bastard,” you mumble while you let your eyes fall shut. Benjamin chuckles against you before he speaks up. “I always get what I want,” he states while he places a kiss right over your clit.
Benjamin pulls away from your thighs before he gets up from the floor. He places his feet on either side of your legs to tower over you. Both of you look down at his cock because he stopped jerking off to make you cum. His dick twitches in the open air while he catches his breath. You tilt your head back to look up at his face. A smirk forms on your lips when you look at his undone pants. “Looks like someone got left out,” you point out as you gesture toward his crotch. You lean forward to reach your hand out toward his waist. You wrap your fingers around his cock to take him into your palm. “Sh-shit- fuck,” Benjamin groans when your hand grabs him. He tilts his head back while a rough breath escapes his lips. You drag your hand up and down his dick without speeding up the pace. He thrusts his hips forward into your palm because he needs more. You squeeze his cock to stop him from moving.
You rub your thumb over the tip of his dick. “Let me finish what you started,” you offer while you look up at him. He lets out a rough grunt before he glares down at you. “D-don’t play with it- ngh,” he grunts as he pushes his waist against your palm. You ignore his words to drag your hand up his length again. You wrap your fingers tighter around him to make him gasp. “Mmn- I guess you want this,” you murmur while you stroke him at a slow pace. Benjamin mutters a curse under his breath before his fingers clamp around the wrist of the hand wrapped around his cock. He pulls at your arm to move your fingers away from him, but you refuse to let go. “You’re going to make me- ngh,” he groans while his knees buckle. You use your free hand to grab his hip to pull him closer to the couch. You pump your hand over his cock again to pull another moan out of his throat. He watches your face while you move your fist up and down.
“Fuck... do it,” he commands as he lets go of your wrist. You grab his hip to drag him down onto the other side of the couch before he drops onto the seat to face you with his legs spread wide apart. You scoot forward to close the distance between your bodies, and he watches your face when you tighten your fingers around his cock. You lean in to put your lips against his neck as you pump your hand up and down his shaft until a loud breath escapes his throat the second your mouth touches him. “Are you going to beg for my mouth?” you ask him before you press kisses up to his jaw and you rub your thumb over the tip of his cock. He thrusts his hips into your palm to get closer to your hand as you move your face next to his ear to keep teasing him. You drag your fist down to the base of his shaft to force a loud gasp from his throat. “Or should I just keep using my hand?” you mock him while you stroke him again.
He tilts his head to the side to give you more room before you speak up. “Are you going to cum like this?” you whisper right next to his ear. Benjamin lets out a loud groan to stop your questions. He grabs your thigh to dig his fingers into your leg while he shoves his hips forward into your hand to force a faster pace. “F-fuck you... just use your mouth,” he demands while he glares at you. You smile at him because you got the answer you wanted. You slide your hand up his length one more time to torture him. “Stop talking and do it- ngh,” he curses when you squeeze his cock. You lean back from his face to look at his cock before you let go of his shaft to lower your head between his legs. Benjamin tilts his head back when you open your mouth over him to take the tip of his cock past your lips. He lets out a loud curse when your tongue slides against him. His fingers dig into your thigh while you take more of his length into your mouth.
“God... f-fuck,” he groans as he thrusts forward into your face. You move your lips further along his shaft to take more of his length into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the head before you suck him deep. Benjamin thrusts his hips forward to chase your mouth while he moves his free hand to grab the strands of your hair. He throws his head back to take a loud breath before he curses out loud. “F-fuck yes... don’t stop,” he groans while his hips thrust toward your face. You keep your head lowered to give him what he wants. He guides your head with his fingers to control the pace. You reach your hand out to wrap your fingers around the base of his cock to stroke him while your mouth takes the rest of his length. Benjamin digs his other hand deeper into your thigh when you use your mouth and hand at the same time. You trace your tongue along the underside before you drag your mouth toward the tip.
He pushes forward from the couch to get deeper past your lips. “God... you feel so fucking good- hah,” he pants as he watches you take him. You stroke the bottom of his cock while your mouth slides over the tip. His breathing speeds up every time your lips move against him. You slide your mouth up his shaft to tease the tip with your tongue. Benjamin lets out a loud grunt before he tugs on your hair to guide your head back down to his cock. “Put it back in your mouth... f-fuck,” he demands while he glares at you. You sink your mouth all the way down to his base to give him what he asked for. He shoves his hips forward to bury himself deep in your throat. You gag around his cock, and you let out a muffled sound against his base while you take his full length. He holds your hair so you can’t move away from him. You suck his cock while you stroke his base with your hand.
Benjamin thrusts his hips forward every time you lower your head. He squeezes your leg because the feeling gets too intense. “Shit... mmf- yes... keep going- nghh,” he curses as he watches your mouth move over him. You circle your tongue around the head one more time before you move your lips back to the tip. He tilts his head back against the couch to catch his breath. You move your hand faster while you watch his face. Benjamin lifts his fingers from your thigh before he grabs your wrist. He pulls your arm away from him to remove your hand from his cock. He drops your arm to your side because he prefers your mouth on him right now. He stares down at your face while you kneel on the couch. “Keep your hands off... take it the right way- ahn,” he commands while he waits for you to obey. He thrusts his hips forward to get closer to your mouth. You open your lips to do exactly what he says. You suck the tip of his cock, but you refuse to take his full length.
You swirl your tongue around the head to tease him instead of going deep. Benjamin mutters a curse before his fingers twist into the strands of your hair. He thrusts his hips forward into your face without giving you time to adjust. He forces his cock down your throat to make you gag around his shaft. A muffled noise escapes you when he bottoms out past your lips. “F-fuck... I told you to take all of it,” he groans while he pushes your head down. He refuses to let you pull back from him. You pull your head back a few inches to glare up at his face. You reach out to plant both of your hands onto his covered thighs. You dig your nails into the fabric of his pants to push back against him. Benjamin keeps his hand tangled in your hair to guide your head up and down his cock. He forces a slower pace to keep himself from thrusting deep into your mouth again. “Yeah... look right at me while you do it- hngh,” he pants as he watches your eyes.
He bobs your head over his shaft while you swallow around his length every time he pushes you down. Your hands tighten on his thighs whenever his cock hits the back of your throat. He lets out a loud grunt when your lips wrap around his base. He uses his hand in your hair to make sure you take every single inch of him. “Keep your mouth wide for me... fuck,” he demands while he speeds up his movements. You let out another gagging sound when he forces his entire length past your lips again. He watches your mouth take his cock without looking away. His hips thrust forward into your face despite his efforts to hold himself back. “God... this feels so fucking amazing- mmf,” he groans as he keeps pumping your head. Benjamin keeps his hand tangled in your hair so you can’t pull away from him. He holds your head in place to stop bobbing you up and down because he wants to thrust his hips forward from the sofa instead.
He shoves his waist forward to do the work himself. He forces his length past your lips without waiting for you to adjust. “Take it all the way down- fuck,” he pants while he pushes right into your face. He thrusts his waist forward to bury his cock deep past your lips. He forces his full length down your throat every single time he shoves it in. You gag around his shaft when he reaches the very back of your throat. He pumps forward to force you to swallow every inch of him. “Ghk- Mmph-” you choke out while you take his length. You try to latch onto his covered thighs to dig your nails into his pants while he thrusts forward. He pulls his cock out to the tip before he shoves it straight down your throat again. He lets out a low groan while he fucks your mouth at a faster pace. He watches your face to see you take his entire length. “Swallow it all for me,” he tells you while looking down at you. His hips slap against your face while he speeds up his thrusts.
He trembles under your hands because he gets closer to cumming. He shoves his cock deeper down your throat to make your eyes water. You choke around his shaft while you struggle to swallow his full length. He tightens his fingers in your hair to make sure you take all of it. “Shit... I’m so fucking close-” he curses while his knees start to shake. Benjamin thrusts his hips forward to shove his cock as deep as it can go. He forces his full length down your throat to make you choke. His fingers twist tighter into your hair when his shaft buries inside your mouth. “Fuck... don’t move,” he groans while his hips push forward. You gag when he reaches the back of your throat. He shoves forward to make sure you take every inch of him. He lets out a loud grunt when he shoots his cum down your throat. His load fills your mouth until it starts to spill down your chin. “Mmmph- hkkh!” you choke around his cock while he pumps into you.
He twitches inside your mouth while he empties his shaft completely. You swallow as much as you can to handle the amount he forces out. He keeps his hand tangled in your hair, so you have to take every drop. He takes a fast breath before he pushes your head away from his crotch. He lets go of your hair to slump back against the couch so you can breathe. His cock twitches with a few drops of cum right at the tip. “Haaah... shit- you took all of it,” he pants while he looks down at your face. You move away from his thighs to lean back against the sofa. He spreads his legs a bit wider on the furniture while he catches his breath. He rests his head against the backrest to watch you recover. You let out a cough to clear your throat. You wipe the spit and cum from your chin before you glare at his face. You shoot him an angry look because he made you choke on it. “A-asshole- you didn’t even warn me,” you spit out while you catch your breath.
He chuckles a little bit while he watches you wipe your mouth. He reaches out to rub a drop of spit from the corner of your lips. “You handled it perfectly,” he says while he traces your jawline. You reach out to grab the front of his shirt to drag his face closer to yours without giving him a chance to back away. He doesn’t fight you because he wants to hear what you have to say. You lean in to brush your lips right next to his ear. “I know exactly how good I took it,” you whisper while you breathe against his neck. He tilts his head to give you more room to speak. You change your tone to bring up the job he messed up today. You remind him that he disappointed you when he failed to kill Karen. His jaw clenches the second you mention Karen and ruins his good mood. “It’s a damn shame you let that bitch live,” you mock him right next to his ear. He turns his face to look at you with an annoyed expression while you smirk back at him to show you aren’t intimidated at all. You tap your fingers against his chest to make your point clear. You glare up at him to show you’re serious about the job.
He watches your eyes while you tell him what to do next. “You need to fix your mistake before I lose my patience,” you demand as you dig your nails into his shirt. He lets out a hard breath through his nose while he listens to every single word you tell him. You drag your eyes down to his twitching cock before you look back up at his face. You promise him a much better reward if he actually finishes the job this time. “Bring me her head, and I’ll let you fuck my cunt,” you whisper while you trace his jawline. He chuckles because he likes the way you threaten him. “You drive a really hard bargain,” he pants as he imagines it. “I’ll get it done if you promise me that,” he tells you while he leans his forehead against yours. “Do we have a deal?” you ask him after you move your head back a little bit to look right into his eyes. You watch his face because you know he will never turn down an offer like that. He nods to agree while he rests his hands on your waist. “Consider her dead,” he promises before he leans forward to kiss you.
due to dex’s ocd, he insists on showering together. more specifically, he insists on washing you.
It doesn’t matter if it’s getting into a bath together to leather your hair, scrub your back and make sure the water hits every spot on your body or just sitting on the edge of the bath, having just came back from work because he told you to hold off until he’s there.
also, it’s another delicious opportunity to have you completely bare under his touch.
his chest pressing against your back as one hand parts your thighs and the other snakes around your waist and in between them. his rough fingers moving over your clit and sinking themselves into you. Your head lolls against his neck as he begins to message your g-spot. “making ‘er feel good, huh?” his chuckles in response to your cunt squeezing around his thick, rough fingers.
your nails bite down into his forearm - the one holding back your thigh from closing onto his other hand as you inch closer to coming on it. it leaves a few bloody crescent by the time you come down of the high, but dex doesn’t mind. to him, it’s another way of carrying you with him.
after giving you time to collect your senses, he picks you up from the bath to stand under the shower-head. “need to clean my girl properly,” he whispers into your flushed ear. so, he makes sure to clean under your bloodied nails and the sticky fluid running down your thighs with the focus of a man on a mission.
when he was finally done, he pushes up your chin to meet his face. he asks, “what do we say?” with the serious look that you have grew to understand is just how he looks, but a voice that tells you there’s only one right answer. you lean your face into his warm palm, “thank you, dex.”
