silly!ddba!dex coming home from a long day, stumbling into your shared apartment.
He has already taken off his mask, his hair poking left and right, slicked with sweat. His boots are caked with dirt while his suit is covered in soot, rainwater, and someoneâs blood.
When his eyes land on you, a wide, unapologetic grin is plastered across his face as he struts into the living room, devoid of the exhaustion hidden beneath his muscles. A successful mission, you assume.
âBaby, youâre not gonna believe what I pulled off tonight,â he chirps, his voice brimming with excitement, hands quickly unfastening the gear straps. âSee, the guy was running, yeah? He looked funny as hell, I almost felt sorry for him. Then I took aââ
âDex,â you say softly, eyeing the trail of muck on the floor.
He freezes mid-sentence, fingers wrapped around the strap across his chest. âYeah?â
âStep off the rug.â Your tone is completely relaxed, though no less stern. âI just cleaned it this morning, and youâre dragging mud everywhere.â
No one out there would believe Bullseye, the terrifying, ruthless reaper, is completely tamed at home. A deadly guard dog is still a needy pup at heart when it comes to you. In short, your wish is his command.
His shoulders slump a little, the grin pulls down to a pout as he pedals back to kick his heavy boots off by the door. He shrugs off the straps, making a whole show of tossing them onto the coffee table.
âYouâre no fun,â he grumbles, sinking onto the couch next to you, soaked suit on and everything. The mess usually drives him up the wall, but the need to be near you overrides everything else.
He nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped around you like an octopus while he breathes you in. The clean scent of your soap is a sharp contrast with the damp scent of smoke and blood that clings to him, something that never fails to calm the buzzing static in his head.
âParty pooper,â he whines playfully, soft lips grazing your collarbone, scooting in so close that he almost climbs into your lap. âI was good. I didnât kill those assholes in front of the cops like I wanted to. Donât I get a kiss for being good?â
You turn your head to look at him, eyes dancing with amusement. âYou want a reward for the bare minimum?â
âAlways,â he says. The sulky puppy act drops in a heartbeat. âCâmon. Kiss. Now.â
likee imagine dex sneaking into your apartment window after all his bullseye business, and you are just in your pjs watching some show with your midnight sweet treat <3 surprisingly your boyfriend wasnât as marked up in blood nd bruises like he usually is, heâs pretty clean actually. and he walks towards you in his heavy boots and blue leather suit, a swing in his step as he falls beside you on the couch. âhey sweetheart-â dex would sigh, but he wasnât even able to get what he wanted to say out before you were on him, jumping in his lap and covering him in kisses. he just looked so handsome in his balaclava, his biceps all large and biteable and how intimidating his face looked covered in his mask so naturally you had to eat him up.
as the kisses and giggles kept coming from you dex chuckled and you could tell he was smiling under his mask, his hands coming up to rest on your ass. âyou missed me that much huh pretty girl?â, your boyfriend cooed. and you nodded from the crook of his shoulder, still planting your lips on the fabric, gradually your kisses became softer, leaving a little smooch noise whenever your mouth disconnected from him. hot kisses that made dexs body twitch as he realized his girl was getting needy.. you were tracing your hands all around his chest and abs as you started to move your kisses from his neck to his cheek, feeling his skin radiate warmness through his suit, it didn't take long for dex to get hard under you from all the loving you were giving him <33
â sit on mommyâs thigh and
make yourself pretty for me. â
summary ::â â high above manhattan, hidden away in one of voughtâs luxury hotel suites, maeve lets you see the side of her no cameras ever get. red silk, bare skin, possessive hands, and the kind of slow-burning tension that snaps the second she realizes just how badly you want her. [ 11k ]
THE HOTEL SUITE'S TOO expensive in that soulless Vought way, all polished marble, low golden lighting, and windows tall enough to make the city look small beneath you. Itâs high above Manhattan, sealed away from flashing cameras and staged smiles, with the whole skyline glittering beyond the glass like itâs trying to impress her.
The curtains are pulled halfway open, letting in strips of neon that slide across the floor and catch on the discarded pieces of Maeveâs armour near the foot of the bed. A half-empty bottle of whiskey waits on the side table beside two untouched glasses, sweating slowly into a ring on the polished wood.
Youâve learned this room because youâve been here with her before, always in between press events, afterparties, and nights where Maeve pretends she isnât lonely until youâre the only person she lets inside.
What started as flirting too sharp to be harmless became something private, messy, and impossible to name, the kind of relationship that lives in locked doors, late calls, and hands lingering too long in public.
Maeveâs claimed the armchair near the window like a throne, one ankle crossed over the other, one hand resting lazily against the armrest, looking like trouble dressed up as luxury.
Sheâs wearing nothing but a red silk robe, deep and glossy like spilled wine, and itâs tied so loosely that it might as well not be tied at all. The robe hangs open down the center of her body, showing the full, heavy curve of her boobs and the relaxed confidence of someone who knows exactly how hard she is to look away from.
Her nipples are visible in the warm light, her skin marked here and there with faint bruises from a fight sheâs already forgotten about, because Maeve collects damage like itâs nothing. Her stomachâs strong and smooth, shadowed where the silk falls aside, every line of her body softened by the gold glow from the lamps.
Lower, the robe parts around her hips, exposing the dark, neatly trimmed bush between her thighs in a way that feels careless and deliberate at the same time. Her bare legs stretch out in front of her, long and powerful, one knee bent just enough to make the robe slip higher.
But itâs her thighs you canât stop staring at, thick and strong and spread with lazy arrogance, like she already knows youâre thinking about climbing onto one.
Youâre standing near the end of the bed in the lingerie she picked out weeks ago, the set she once said made you look too pretty to behave. Itâs black lace with tiny gold details, delicate enough to look expensive and sheer enough to feel like a dare.
The bra barely hides anything, cupping your boobs in a way that makes Maeveâs eyes drag over you slowly, like sheâs taking inventory of what belongs to her tonight. The garter straps sit high on your thighs, clipped to stockings that make your legs feel longer, softer, more exposed under her attention.
The panties are the worst part, or the best part, depending on how honest youâre willing to be. Theyâre crotchless, lace framing you instead of covering you, leaving you open beneath the pretty little illusion of being dressed.
Maeve notices, of course she notices, and the corner of her mouth twitches like sheâs proud of you for wearing them without needing to be told twice.
For a while, neither of you says anything, because the silence between you has always been part of the game. Maeveâs older, more experienced, and far too practiced at acting like nothing touches her, while youâre still soft in places she pretends not to adore.
That difference used to make you nervous, not because she ever made you feel small, but because she carried herself like someone whoâd already survived every mistake you were still learning how to make. She never rushed you, though, not once, even when her eyes went dark or her hand settled too low on your back in crowded elevators.
âYouâre staring again,â she says now, voice low and amused, her thumb brushing along the armrest. You lift your chin, trying to look braver than you feel, and say, âYouâre sitting there like you want me to.â Maeveâs smile is slow, wicked, and unbearably fond as she answers, âMaybe I do.â
You try to keep your eyes on her face after that, but itâs almost impossible when sheâs sitting like that. Her robe slips another inch when she shifts, one thigh flexing beneath the silk, muscle moving under skin in a way that makes your mouth go dry.
She watches your gaze drop, watches it stay there, and doesnât call you out right away. The pause is crueller than teasing, thick with heat and the soft hum of the city beyond the glass. You can feel yourself getting wet, embarrassingly aware of the way the open panties leave nothing to hide behind.
Maeveâs eyes flick down like she knows, like she can see every tiny reaction your body gives her before youâve even admitted it to yourself. âStill shy after all this?â she asks, and your breath catches when she adds, âCute.â
Your face burns, but you donât look away this time. Thereâs no point pretending when your eyes are glued to the inside of her thighs, to the heavy ease of her body, to the dark hair between her legs and the robe slipping open around it.
Maeve laughs under her breath, low and rough, the kind of sound that lands straight between your legs. She lifts one hand and trails her fingers over her own thigh, not touching herself, just drawing your attention exactly where she wants it.
The movementâs slow, almost lazy, but your whole body reacts like sheâs put her hands on you instead. âYou always get quiet when you want something,â she says, eyes narrowed with amusement. You swallow hard, because the answer sits hot on your tongue, and all you manage is, âI want you.â
Something in Maeveâs expression softens before it sharpens again, like your honesty hits her somewhere deeper than she planned. She uncrosses her ankles and lets both feet settle flat against the floor, her robe falling open even more with the shift.
It should feel obscene, the way she lets you see so much of her, but on Maeve it feels like trust dressed up as arrogance.
Her boobs rise and fall with one slow breath, her nipples hardening slightly in the cool air of the suite, and her gaze stays fixed on you the entire time. You know she sees the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twitch at your sides, the way your breathing keeps catching no matter how still you try to be.
âCome here, then,â she says, quieter now, almost gentle under the command. When you hesitate, she tilts her head and adds, âIâm not going to make you ask twice, sweetheart, but I do want to hear you ask once.â
You take one step closer, then another, each movement slow because the want feels bigger when you donât rush it. âMaeve,â you whisper, and she hums like she loves the sound of her name in your mouth more than sheâll ever admit.
Her legs bracket the space in front of the chair, strong and inviting, and your attention keeps dropping back to them no matter how many times you try to be subtle. âUse your words,â she says, her hand lifting to your hip when you finally get close enough to touch.
You breathe in, shaky and hot, the crotchless lace making you feel obscene under her gaze as you say, âI want to ride your thigh.â Maeveâs fingers tighten just enough to pull you forward, guiding you over her bare leg until the heat of you brushes against her skin.
Then she flexes her thigh under you and smiles like a queen, murmuring, âGood girl, since you couldnât stop staring at your throne, you might as well sit on it.â
You move before your bravery can run out, each step toward Maeve feeling slower than it should because sheâs watching you like thereâs nowhere in the world sheâd rather look. The carpetâs soft beneath your bare feet, plush enough to make the suite feel quieter, warmer, sealed away from the city glittering behind her.
Your thighs brush together as you walk, and the smallest bit of friction makes your breath catch before you can hide it. The crotchless panties donât protect you from anything, not from the air, not from Maeveâs stare, not from the way your own arousal has started to gather hot and obvious between your legs.
You know youâre wet, not just a little, not in a way you can pretend away with nervous laughter or a shift of your hips. Maeve knows it too, and from her chair, sheâs thinking you look almost painfully pretty like this, all lace and nerves and open want. She keeps her face calm, but thereâs heat gathering low in her stomach, sharp enough to make her thighs tense beneath the red silk robe.
Maeve doesnât even try to hide the way her eyes drop. They move slowly, deliberately, from your face to your chest, over the black lace cupping your boobs, down the soft line of your stomach, then lower. Her gaze catches exactly where you knew it would, and the heat in your cheeks gets so bad you almost stop walking.
She sees the slick shine between your thighs, the way your pussyâs already wet enough to make the crotchless lace feel obscene, the way your bodyâs betrayed you before sheâs even touched you properly. âLook at you,â she says, voice lower now, rough around the edges in a way that makes your knees feel weak.
Maeveâs thinking about how easy it would be to pull you down, how good youâd feel against her thigh, how much she wants to make you ruin that pretty little set she likes so much. âAll that staring,â she adds, dragging her thumb over her own thigh, âand youâre already soaked.â
You swallow, but your mouth feels useless, too dry for how wet the rest of you feels. âMaeve,â you whisper, and it comes out softer than you meant it to, more of a plea than a warning. Her eyes lift immediately, dark and amused, and something in her expression sharpens like youâve made a mistake sheâs been waiting to correct.
âNo,â she says, calm enough to make your stomach flip. âTry again.â You blink at her, breath catching, and Maeve tilts her head with that lazy, dangerous patience she only uses when she knows she has you cornered.
Sheâs aroused by the confusion on your face, by how sweetly your lips part, by the way youâre already wet and still somehow shy enough to need reminding. âNot Maeve right now,â she says, thumb still stroking her thigh, âmommy.â
The word hits you so hard your thighs press together without permission. Maeve sees it, of course she does, and the corner of her mouth curves like your body just answered for you. âMommy,â you whisper, quieter this time, and it sounds so much needier than her name did.
Maeveâs breath changes for half a second, barely noticeable, but you catch it because youâre looking at her like sheâs the only thing keeping you upright. From where sheâs sitting, she thinks you might be the prettiest thing sheâs ever ruined, all soft obedience and trembling heat wrapped in black lace.
It makes her wet too, slowly and insistently, her own arousal building beneath the open robe while she forces herself to stay relaxed in the chair. âBetter,â she murmurs, voice rougher now, âcome here.â
By the time youâre close enough for her to touch, you can feel the warmth of her body coming off her in slow waves. She doesnât grab you right away, and somehow thatâs worse, because Maeve could pull you in with one hand if she wanted to.
Instead, she lets you come to her, lets you stand between her open legs while her eyes climb back up to your face. Her thighs are right there, strong and bare beneath the parted robe, one of them angled like an invitation youâve been aching toward since the moment you walked in.
You try not to look again, but you do, of course you do, because her legs are impossible and she knows it. Maeve feels a pulse of satisfaction at that, something possessive and hot, because she likes knowing you want the part of her sheâs been showing off all night. âStill thinking about it, sweetheart?â she asks.
You nod before you can make yourself answer properly. The movement makes your hair shift over your shoulder, and Maeveâs gaze follows that too, slow and possessive, like sheâs memorizing every nervous little detail. âSay it,â she tells you, one hand finally reaching out to settle on your hip.
Her palmâs warm through the lace at your side, firm enough to remind you how easy it would be for her to guide you exactly where she wants you. You breathe in, but it trembles halfway down, because her thumb has started stroking over the strap at your hip in lazy little passes.
The pressure tugs the panties slightly, making the open fabric frame your wet pussy even more, and Maeveâs thoughts snag on the glossy, needy look of you. âI want your thigh, mommy,â you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
Maeveâs eyes darken at that, and for a moment the whole room narrows down to her hand on your hip and the space between your legs.
âYeah?â she asks, soft enough that it almost sounds gentle. Her other hand slides up your thigh, stopping just short of where youâre aching, her fingertips brushing the edge of the lace without giving you what you want.
You jerk a little, not enough to move away, just enough for her to feel it. Maeve feels her own body answer, heat pooling low as she imagines your slick spreading over her skin, imagines you losing that careful little composure one grind at a time.
âYouâre making a mess already,â she says, and the words make your stomach drop in the best, worst way. You know sheâs right, because you can feel yourself slick and exposed, wet enough that sitting on her thigh will leave proof on all that strong bare muscle.
Maeve guides you closer with a slow pull, her fingers pressing into your hip as if sheâs deciding exactly how patient she wants to be. You step between her thighs fully, one knee almost brushing the chair, the heat of her bare leg so close it makes your whole body ache.
She looks up at you from under her lashes, red silk slipping wider around her body, her robe open enough that you can see the dark, trimmed hair between her legs and the shameless spread of her thighs.
Thereâs something devastating about her like this, powerful and half-undone, letting you see the softness beneath all the armor while still making you feel like youâre the one being hunted.
Maeveâs thinking that she wants your mouth, your sounds, the slick little grind of you against her, but most of all she wants to watch you choose it.
Your hands hover for a second before they settle on her shoulders, careful at first, then firmer when she gives you that approving little hum. âThere you go,â she murmurs, flexing her thigh beneath you, âsit on mommyâs thigh and make yourself pretty for me.â
Maeve watches you lower yourself onto her thigh, and for one rare second, the room goes quiet inside her head. Sheâs used to noise, cameras, questions, people wanting pieces of her until thereâs nothing left but the part they paid to see.
But this is different, because youâre not looking at the legend or the brand or the woman in gold. Youâre looking at her like sheâs flesh, heat, want, something real enough to touch. The first slick press of your pussy against her bare thigh makes Maeveâs fingers tighten at your hips before she can stop herself.
Youâre so wet that she feels it immediately, warm and glossy, spreading over her skin with the tiniest shake of your body. Maeveâs breath goes shallow, and she thinks, almost viciously, that she wants to see just how messy you can make yourself on her.
She keeps her face composed because she likes watching you unravel first. Itâs cruel, maybe, but Maeveâs always had a thing for control, especially when control is the only part of her life that still feels like it belongs to her.
Your hands grip her shoulders, delicate at first, then harder when your hips twitch without permission. She notices that too, notices everything, the tremble in your thighs, the little catch in your breath, the way your mouth opens around a sound youâre trying not to make.
âThere,â Maeve murmurs, voice low, her thumb stroking your hip through the lace. âThatâs what you wanted, wasnât it?â She feels your wetness smear against her thigh again, and thereâs a hot pulse between her own legs that makes her jaw tense.
You nod too quickly, too sweetly, and Maeveâs chest tightens with something dangerously close to affection. Sheâs always thought you look prettiest when you forget how to pretend, when all that softness spills out of you and leaves you honest.
Tonight, dressed in her favourite lingerie, open and trembling on her thigh, you look like every bad decision sheâs ever wanted to make twice. Her robe has slipped farther open, red silk pooling around her waist and sliding off one shoulder, but she barely cares about covering herself.
She wants you to see her too, wants your eyes on her boobs, her stomach, her spread thighs, the trimmed dark hair between them. Maeve wants to be wanted without the cameras, without the script, without someone telling her what that want should look like. When you whisper, âMaeve,â she clicks her tongue softly and tilts your chin up.
âCareful,â she says, and her voice is gentle enough to make the correction worse. She sees your eyes go wide, sees the way your hips stutter against her thigh as if the reminder alone touches something needy inside you.
âWhat did I tell you to call me?â Maeve asks, letting one hand slide from your chin to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there like a warning. The word comes out of you shaky and small, âMommy.â Maeve feels it hit her low, filthy and sharp, and she has to fight not to pull you down harder.
âGood girl,â she says, because she knows what that praise does to you, and because sheâs starting to need the sound of you reacting to it. Her own arousal is becoming impossible to ignore, slick heat gathering between her thighs beneath the robe, making her feel almost as exposed as you are.
She guides your hips before you can overthink it, hands firm but slow, teaching your body the rhythm she wants. Forward, back, just enough pressure to make your breath break, just enough friction to make your thighs tense around her leg.
Maeve watches the exact moment it starts feeling too good for you to hide, when your lashes flutter and your fingers dig into her shoulders. Thereâs a shine on her thigh now, proof of you, proof that the lace is useless and your bodyâs been begging long before your mouth caught up.
She loves it more than she should. It makes something possessive in her purr, ugly and satisfied, because the world gets the performance, but she gets this. She gets you wet and needy on her thigh, whispering mommy like itâs the only name sheâs ever had.
Maeve leans back in the chair, not because sheâs unaffected, but because she wants a better view. Your body moves over her in tiny, desperate rolls, the crotchless panties framing your pussy while you grind against her bare skin.
She can see the slick glide of you each time your hips move, can feel the heat of it soaking into her thigh, and it makes her swallow a groan. She thinks about putting her mouth on you, about spreading you open with her fingers and tasting exactly how worked up youâve gotten.
But not yet. Not when youâre making such pretty little noises from something as simple as her thigh. âLook at you,â she says, rougher now, âyouâre making such a mess for mommy.â
Your reaction nearly ruins her. You whimper, small and embarrassed, and Maeve feels your hips press down harder like your bodyâs chasing the praise even while your face burns. She likes that contradiction in you, the shy mouth and the shameless body, the way you try to hide while dripping all over her.
Her hand slips to your lower back and pushes you closer, making the angle meaner, making the friction hit exactly where you need it.
Maeve feels you jolt, and the sound you make drags a low laugh out of her. âThere it is,â she murmurs, eyes fixed on your face. âDonât run from it now, sweetheart.â
Inside, Maeveâs less composed than she looks. Sheâs wet, aching, and painfully aware of how open her own robe is, how close your knee is to where she wants pressure.
Every little grind of your body against her thigh makes her think about dragging you down between her legs after, letting you see what youâve done to her too.
She wants your mouth on her, wants your hands shaking against her hips, wants to stop pretending sheâs above begging when you know better than anyone that she isnât. But for now, she keeps you where you are, because watching you use her feels like worship in reverse.
It makes her feel powerful and wanted and soft in a way sheâll deny later if anyone asks. Maeve tightens her grip on your hips, flexes her thigh beneath your soaked pussy, and says, âThatâs it, baby, ride it like you mean it.â
The next grind steals the breath right out of your mouth. Maeveâs thigh is firm beneath you, warm and slick now, every slow roll of your hips dragging your bare pussy over hard muscle in a way that makes your whole body tremble.
Thereâs no fabric to soften it, no barrier to pretend this is anything less than filthy, just your wet cunt sliding over her skin while the ruined lace frames the mess youâre making. The pressure catches your clit each time you move forward, sharp and sweet, enough to make your knees tighten around her leg.
You can feel how wet youâve made her, how your slick spreads with every desperate little rock, and the knowledge only makes you grind down harder. Maeve watches your face like sheâs waiting for the exact moment you stop being embarrassed and start needing it. âThere you go,â she says, voice thick with amusement, âlook at you using mommyâs thigh like youâve been thinking about it all night.â
You try to answer her, but the only thing that leaves you is a breathy little sound that makes her fingers dig into your hips. Maeve smiles like sheâs won something and pulls you down harder, forcing the pressure right where you need it.
The friction makes your head tip back, your mouth falling open as heat sparks low in your stomach and curls through your thighs. Itâs messy and humiliating, the slick slide of your pussy against her bare skin loud enough in the quiet room that you want to hide your face. Maeve doesnât let you.
She catches your chin with two fingers, dragging your gaze back down to hers while you keep rocking helplessly against her. âDonât look away,â she tells you, low and mean-soft, âI want to see exactly what my thigh does to that pretty pussy.â
Your hands tighten on her shoulders, fingers curling into warm skin and red silk, but Maeveâs attention shifts lower. Her eyes drop to your chest, to the black lace bra still holding your boobs up so prettily for her, and her mouth curves with intent.
âThese have been distracting me,â she murmurs, more to herself than to you, before her hands slide up your sides. She tugs the cups down without any real patience, pulling the lace beneath your boobs until your nipples spill free into the cool air. The sudden exposure makes you gasp, especially when your body jerks and grinds harder against her thigh at the same time.
Maeve notices that too, because of course she does, and her laugh is low enough to make your clit throb. âSensitive little thing,â she says, brushing her thumbs over both nipples, âyouâre leaking all over me and still getting worked up over this?â
Her thumbs circle your nipples slowly at first, almost tender, and somehow that makes it worse. Each pass sends a tight little pulse through you, dragging pleasure from your chest straight down to where youâre grinding, until your body canât decide which feeling to chase.
You whimper her name, then catch yourself too late, because Maeveâs eyes snap up with that dangerous look. She pinches one nipple just enough to make you jolt. âWhat was that?â she asks, voice calm, but her hands donât stop.
Your hips stutter against her thigh, slick and needy, the pressure catching your clit so perfectly that your answer comes out broken. âMommy,â you breathe, and Maeveâs smile turns satisfied as she says, âBetter, baby.â
Then she leans forward and spits directly onto one of your nipples. The sight of it, the feel of it, warm and sudden and obscene, makes your whole body clench so hard you nearly slip against her thigh. Maeve rubs it in with her thumb, spreading it over the tight bud before lowering her mouth to you.
The first pull of her lips around your nipple makes you cry out, your hips bucking down against her leg without permission. She sucks slowly, wet and deliberate, tongue flicking over you while her other hand keeps you steady at the waist.
The sensation is too much layered together, her mouth on your chest, her thigh between your legs, her hands holding you exactly where she wants you. âThatâs it,â she murmurs against your skin, âgrind on me while I suck on these pretty tits.â
You do exactly what she says because you donât know how not to. Your hips roll faster, messier, dragging your swollen clit over her slick thigh while her mouth moves from one nipple to the other.
She spits again before sucking the other one into her mouth, and the dirty sound you make feels like itâs dragged out of somewhere deep and helpless.
Maeve groans around you, and the vibration makes your spine arch, pushing your chest closer to her mouth. Your pussy slides against her with a wet, needy rhythm, and you can feel the orgasm starting to build, hotter now, less gentle, tightening every muscle low in your belly.
âMommy,â you gasp, fingers slipping into her hair before you can stop yourself. Maeve bites lightly at your nipple, just enough to make you shudder, then says, âYouâre close, arenât you?â
You nod too quickly, too desperate to lie, your thighs trembling around hers while your hips keep moving. âPlease,â you breathe, and then louder when she doesnât answer fast enough, âplease, mommy, Iâm so close.â
Maeve pulls back from your chest, lips wet, eyes dark, your nipples shiny from her mouth and spit. She looks down between your bodies, watching your pussy grind over her thigh, watching the slick smear youâve left all over her skin.
âFuck, youâre pretty like this,â she says, voice rough enough to sound almost ruined. Her hands move back to your hips and guide you harder, making each stroke longer, meaner, perfect. âAsk properly,â she says, âtell mommy what you need.â
Youâre beyond pride by then, shaking so badly you can barely keep yourself upright. âPlease let me cum,â you beg, grinding down hard enough that your clit catches and makes your voice crack. âPlease, mommy, please, Iâll be good, I just need to cum on your thigh.â
Maeveâs expression flickers, hunger and affection tangled together, and then she pulls you close enough that her mouth brushes your throat. âYes,â she says, low against your skin, âcum for me.â
The permission snaps something loose in you instantly, your body locking up as pleasure hits hard and bright, spilling through you in hot waves. Maeve holds you through it, thigh flexed beneath your soaked pussy, whispering, âThatâs it, baby, make a mess on mommy, give it all to me.â
Your orgasm leaves you trembling against her, thighs shaking around Maeveâs leg while your pussy keeps pulsing helplessly on her skin. For a few seconds, you canât do anything except breathe through it, forehead falling against her shoulder as the aftershocks roll through you.
Maeveâs hands stay on your hips, not letting you collapse, not letting you pull away from the wet mess youâve made on her thigh. You can feel it beneath you, slick and warm, your cunt still pressed against the muscle she kept flexing until you broke for her.
She kisses the side of your neck, slow and almost sweet, except her voice is still rough when she says, âThatâs it, baby, breathe for me.â You try, but every little inhale comes out shaky because your clit is still too sensitive,
still rubbing faintly against her every time your body twitches. Maeve laughs softly into your skin and murmurs, âLook at you, came so hard you forgot how to sit up.â
You whine at that, embarrassed, but she only holds you tighter. Her thumb strokes through the slick on your hip where the lace has shifted, and the casual filth of it makes your stomach flutter all over again.
Your bra is still tugged down under your boobs, nipples wet and swollen from her mouth, cool air making them ache after the heat of her tongue.
Maeve pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dragging over your ruined chest, your parted lips, the messy way youâre still perched on her thigh. âPretty fucking thing,â she says, almost under her breath, like sheâs talking to herself and not you.
Then her gaze drops between your bodies, and you follow it before you can stop yourself. Her thigh is shiny with you, a visible smear of arousal spread across her skin, and the sight makes you hide your face against her shoulder with a broken little sound.
âNo,â Maeve says, catching your chin before you can disappear fully. Her fingers are firm, not painful, just enough to make you look back down at what you did. âDonât get shy after soaking my thigh like that.â
Your face burns so badly it feels unfair, but your eyes stay where she wants them, fixed on the glossy mess between your legs. She slides two fingers through it slowly, gathering your slick off her own skin, and your breath catches when she lifts them between you.
âSee that?â she asks, voice low and filthy, turning her fingers so the light catches the wet shine. You nod, throat tight, too ruined to pretend you donât love the way sheâs making you look. Maeveâs mouth curves, and she presses those fingers to your lips with a soft, cruel, âOpen.â
You do, because thereâs no part of you left that wants to disobey her. Her fingers slide onto your tongue, tasting like you and the faint salt of her skin, and the sound she makes when your lips close around them goes straight between your thighs.
You suck them clean slowly, eyes watering from how intensely sheâs watching you, how open her robe still is, how her own thighs have shifted wider beneath you. Thatâs when you notice it properly, the way Maeveâs breathing has changed, the way her stomach tightens, the way sheâs wet too.
The red silk has fallen open enough that you can see the dark hair between her legs, and beneath it, the shine of her own arousal glistening where sheâs been pretending to be patient. Your mouth goes slack around her fingers. Maeve sees you notice and smiles like sheâs been waiting for it.
âYeah,â she says, withdrawing her fingers from your mouth with a slow drag over your lower lip. âYou did that.â The words make your body throb, even through the oversensitivity, even with your orgasm still melting your bones.
She leans back in the chair again, letting the robe fall open wider, giving you a better look because Maeve is never shy when she wants to be wanted. Her cunt is wet, framed by the trimmed dark hair youâd been staring at earlier, and the sight of her aroused because of you makes your head feel light.
You shift on her thigh without meaning to, and the sudden rub against your overstimulated clit makes you gasp. Maeve catches the sound instantly, eyes narrowing with satisfaction. âStill sensitive?â she asks, and when you nod, she hums, âGood.â
Her hands move from your hips to your waist, lifting you just enough to slide you off her thigh and down between her legs. Your knees hit the plush carpet, and the position makes your whole body go hot with want all over again.
Maeve looks unreal above you, robe open, boobs bare, one hand resting on the arm of the chair while the other strokes your cheek. Thereâs something softer in her face now, but it doesnât make her any less devastating.
âYou wanted to stare so badly,â she says, voice thick, ânow do something useful with that pretty mouth.â You lean in before she has to tell you twice, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh first, right where your slick is still drying on her skin. Maeveâs breath catches, and the tiny break in her control makes you feel brave enough to kiss higher.
The closer you get, the more you can smell her arousal, warm and intimate and enough to make your mouth water. You drag your lips along her inner thigh, slow because you want to feel the way her muscles tense under you.
Maeveâs fingers slide into your hair, not forcing you, just holding on like she needs something to ground herself. âDonât tease too much,â she warns, but thereâs a rasp in her voice that tells you she likes it.
You glance up at her from between her legs, and the sight makes her jaw tighten. âCareful,â she says, though her hips shift toward your mouth like sheâs betraying herself. You smile against her skin and whisper, âYes, mommy.â
Maeve groans at that, low and wrecked, and her grip in your hair tightens. The sound gives you permission, or maybe it just ruins your last bit of restraint, because you finally put your mouth on her. The first taste of her makes your eyes flutter, and Maeveâs head tips back against the chair with a sharp exhale.
Sheâs wet against your tongue, warm and slick, and the moment you lick through her properly, her thighs tense on either side of your head. âFuck,â she mutters, no polish left in it, no queenly distance, just need. You do it again, slower, greedy now that you know what she sounds like when you get it right.
Maeve feels the orgasm take shape before it fully hits, low and heavy, pulling tight through her stomach while your fingers keep curling inside her. She tries to hold onto the last thread of control, but youâve got your mouth sealed around her clit and your fingers buried deep enough to make that impossible.
âFuck, baby,â she breathes, voice cracking in a way that makes your whole body shiver against the carpet. Your eyes flick up to her, wet and eager, and the sight of you looking so ruined while youâre still eating her out sends another brutal wave of heat through her.
You donât stop, not even when her thighs clamp tighter around your head, not even when her grip in your hair turns rougher. You just moan against her pussy like you want her to use you through it. âThatâs it,â she pants, hips lifting into your mouth, âkeep going, donât stop, donât you fucking stop.â
You whimper your answer into her cunt, the sound muffled and desperate, your fingers moving faster when you feel her start to shake. Maeveâs back arches off the chair, red silk slipping lower around her waist, her boobs rising with each broken breath as the first hard pulse of pleasure tears through her.
Her orgasm hits deep, sudden and messy, forcing a low, wrecked groan out of her chest. She comes against your tongue, soaking your mouth while your fingers keep stroking her through every sharp, trembling wave.
You drink her down eagerly, lips and chin slick, swallowing everything she gives you like youâve been waiting for it all night. Maeve looks down just in time to see the way your eyes flutter closed when you taste her, and something in her goes almost feral at the devotion of it. âGreedy little thing,â she gasps, voice ruined, âyou like mommyâs cum that much?â
You nod without lifting your mouth away from her. Itâs clumsy and needy, your lips still pressed to her pussy, tongue dragging through her wet folds to catch every bit of her. âMhm,â you hum, and the vibration makes Maeve jolt so hard her fingers twist in your hair.
Youâre aching again, your own pussy throbbing with every sound she makes, every twitch of her thighs around your head. Without thinking, you start rocking your hips against the carpet, small at first, then more desperate when the pressure sparks through you.
The lingerie digs into your hips, your ruined cunt still oversensitive from riding her thigh earlier, but you canât stop yourself. Maeve notices almost immediately, because of course she does, and her blown-out eyes sharpen through the haze of her orgasm.
âOh,â she says, breathless and darkly amused, âlook at you.â You freeze for half a second, embarrassed, but your mouth stays on her and your hips betray you by grinding down again.
Maeveâs laugh breaks into a groan when your tongue licks over her clit, too sensitive now, but she doesnât push you away. Her hand slides from your hair to your cheek, smearing your face with the wetness coating your lips.
âYouâre humping the floor while you swallow mommy down?â she asks, voice thick with disbelief and hunger. Your cheeks burn, but the humiliation only makes your pussy clench harder, your hips pressing into the carpet again in a helpless little roll. You pull back just enough to whisper, âCanât help it, you taste so good.â
Maeveâs eyes shut for a second, like the words hit her harder than your mouth did. âJesus,â she mutters, dragging in a shaky breath as your fingers slip out of her slowly, coated and glistening.
You immediately bring them to your mouth, cleaning her off your own fingers without being told, and Maeve watches like sheâs considering ruining you all over again.
âYouâre filthy,â she says, but it sounds like praise. âYouâre so fucking filthy for me.â You nod, lips shiny, voice soft and wrecked as you say, âOnly for you, mommy.â
Maeveâs stomach tightens again despite how sensitive she is, because you sound too sweet to be saying something that obscene. It makes her want to keep you there until youâre shaking apart beneath her gaze.
You lean back in, unable to resist, and lick her pussy again, slower this time, cleaning the slick from her folds with soft, worshipful strokes. Maeve hisses through her teeth, thighs twitching around you, one hand gripping the armrest hard enough to make it creak.
âSensitive,â she warns, but her hips still tilt toward your mouth. You glance up at her with your lips pressed to her, and the look in your eyes makes the warning useless. Sheâs still flushed from coming, still wet and open, trimmed dark hair damp from your mouth, her cunt glistening under the low hotel light.
You lick her again, gentle but greedy, and grind down against the carpet with a broken little moan. âMommy,â you breathe against her, âyouâre making me wet again.â
Maeveâs expression turns sharp, satisfied, almost cruel in its affection. âAgain?â she echoes, pushing damp hair back from your forehead so she can see your face properly. âBaby, you never stopped.â
Your breath catches, because sheâs right, and because the way she says it makes your hips rut harder against the floor. Maeve watches the movement, watches your body chase friction while your mouth stays devoted between her legs, and her voice drops lower.
âDoes licking my pussy turn you on that much?â she asks. You nod quickly, too needy to pretend, and press a kiss to her inner thigh before whispering, âYes, mommy.â Her thumb strokes your cheek, tender and filthy all at once, as she murmurs, âThen keep going.â
So you do. You lick her clean like youâre starving, swallowing every trace of her while your hips move against the carpet in helpless, needy little rolls. The friction isnât enough, not really, but itâs something, and something is all your body needs when Maeveâs watching you with that ruined, possessive look.
Every time your clit catches against the pressure, your mouth falters for half a second, and Maeve notices every single time. âDonât get distracted,â she says, still breathless, still recovering, but somehow fully in control again.
âYou wanted to taste me, so taste me.â You whine, nodding, licking back into her with renewed hunger while your thighs tremble behind you. Maeveâs fingers tighten in your hair again, and she smiles down at you like a queen on her throne, whispering, âThatâs my good girl.â
âYour good girl,â you agree, voice muffled against Maeveâs pussy, the words soft and ruined as you lick the last of her juices from her folds. Your mouth moves slowly now, tender where youâd been greedy before, dragging your tongue through every slick little place sheâs still wet for you.
Maeveâs thighs twitch around your head, her body still too sensitive, but she doesnât push you away. She watches you from above with flushed cheeks and parted lips, red silk tangled around her hips, sweat shining faintly along her collarbones from how hard she came.
Thereâs a damp warmth between both of your bodies now, the hotel air thick with sex, perfume, and the heat of skin pressed too close for too long. Youâre sweating too, your chest rising hard in the pulled-down bra, nipples still wet from her mouth earlier, thighs sticky from your own arousal and the carpet beneath you.
Maeve thinks you look obscene and angelic at once, mouth shiny with her, eyes hazy, still trying to be good even while youâre humping the floor for friction.
When you finally lift your head, Maeve doesnât give you time to feel shy about it. She hooks her fingers under your chin and pulls you up toward her, strong enough that your knees leave the carpet before you fully realize youâre moving.
You stumble into her lap, breathless and messy, and then her mouth is on yours. The kiss is filthy from the start, all tongue and heat, Maeve tasting herself on your lips with a rough sound that vibrates straight through you.
She kisses you like she wants proof, like she wants to know exactly how eager you were to swallow her down. From Maeveâs side, the taste of herself in your mouth nearly wrecks her all over again,
because itâs intimate in a way nothing staged or polished could ever be. She thinks, mine, with a sharpness that surprises even her, and her hands drag you closer until your sweaty bodies press together.
You melt into her immediately, because thereâs nowhere else you want to be. Your bare pussy brushes against her stomach as you settle over her, the crotchless panties useless and twisted at your hips, leaving slick smears on her skin every time you move.
Maeve groans into your mouth when she feels it, one hand sliding down your back to pull your hips in tighter. Youâre still wet, embarrassingly so, and the pressure of her body against yours makes your clit throb with that raw, post-orgasm sensitivity.
She can feel you trembling, feel the way your thighs tense around her lap, feel the needy little rock you try to hide while kissing her. âStill aching?â she murmurs against your mouth, lips brushing yours with every word. You nod, breath catching, and whisper, âI need you, mommy.â
Thatâs what snaps the last of Maeveâs patience. Her mouth leaves yours only to drag down your jaw, then your neck, kissing hot and open-mouthed over sweat-damp skin. You tip your head back for her before she asks, giving her access like your body already knows what she wants.
Maeveâs lips move over your throat slowly at first, almost sweet, then her teeth catch just beneath your pulse and make you gasp. She feels the sound against her mouth and smiles into your skin, biting a little harder, not enough to hurt badly, just enough to leave a mark youâll feel later.
Your hands clutch at her shoulders, nails pressing into muscle, and Maeveâs thoughts go hazy with the satisfaction of having you shaking in her lap. âPretty baby,â she mutters into your neck, âall wet again just from tasting me.â
You try to answer, but Maeveâs hand slides up and wraps around your throat before the words come together. Her grip isnât there to steal your air, not fully, just firm enough to hold your attention and make your whole body go still.
Your eyes flutter, and Maeve feels the way you react instantly, pussy clenching against nothing, breath catching beneath her palm. She watches your face carefully because she always does, reading the heat in your eyes, the way your lips part, the way you lean into it instead of away.
âLook at me,â she says, voice low and steady, and you do, dazed and desperate. The moment your gaze locks with hers, her other hand slips between your thighs. Before you can brace for it, she shoves two fingers inside you.
The sound you make is broken, sharp, and helpless. Your whole body jerks in her lap, cunt stretching around her fingers while her hand stays wrapped around your throat, keeping you close enough that you canât hide from her face.
Maeve feels how wet you are immediately, hot and slick, swallowing her fingers like youâve been waiting for it since the second she pulled you up. It makes her own stomach tighten, makes heat flare between her thighs again even though sheâs still sensitive from your mouth.
âFuck,â she breathes, almost to herself, because youâre so soft and soaked around her that it ruins the little control sheâd gathered back. You clutch at her wrist, not to pull her away, just because you need something to hold while she fills you without warning. âMommy,â you gasp, throat moving under her palm, âoh my god.â
Maeve smiles like thatâs exactly what she wanted to hear. She keeps her fingers buried inside you for a second, letting your body flutter around them, letting you feel the sudden fullness while her thumb strokes once along the side of your throat.
âThere she is,â she murmurs, eyes dark as she watches you try to breathe through the shock of it. Then she starts moving, slow at first, dragging her fingers out just enough to push them back in deep. Your hips chase her hand immediately, needy and shameless, slick spreading over her knuckles with every thrust.
From your side, it feels like too much after everything, like your bodyâs already been wrung out and sheâs still finding places to make you ache. From Maeveâs, it feels like owning every sound you make, every clench, every soft little collapse of your face when she curls her fingers just right.
âIs this what you needed?â she asks, mouth back at your neck, kissing over the mark she left before biting another one lower. You nod frantically, sweat cooling across your chest while her robe rubs against your skin,
the silk damp where your bodies press together. Her fingers fuck into you harder, not rushed, just confident, every stroke slick and deep enough to make your thighs shake around her.
âUse your words,â Maeve says, tightening her hand at your throat just enough to make your focus snap back to her. âYes, mommy,â you choke out, voice thin and wrecked, âneeded your fingers, needed you so bad.â
Maeve groans against your neck like the confession gets under her skin. âI know, baby,â she says, curling her fingers until your whole body arches, âI can feel how badly you need me.â
Maeve doesnât let you drift away from it, not even for a second. Her hand stays at your throat, firm enough to hold you still but careful enough that you can breathe around the pressure. The other keeps two fingers deep inside you, slick to the knuckle, moving with a slow confidence that makes your thighs tremble around her lap.
âThere you go,â she murmurs, eyes locked on yours as she curls them just right. Your breath breaks into a whine, and she feels your pussy clench hard around her fingers.
Maeveâs stomach tightens at the feeling, arousal sparking low again even though sheâs still sensitive from your mouth. âThatâs the spot, isnât it?â she says, voice rough and pleased. You nod quickly, too ruined for pride, and she smiles like sheâs proud of how easily your body tells on you.
You can barely hold yourself up, one hand clinging to her shoulder while the other wraps around her wrist. It isnât to stop her, and Maeve knows that because your hips keep rolling down onto her fingers every time she pulls back.
The wet sound of her fucking you fills the quiet suite, obscene and soft under the hum of the city beyond the glass. Your chest is still bare from where she pulled your bra down, nipples swollen and damp from her mouth, rising and falling with every shaky breath.
Sweat beads along your collarbones and between your boobs, making your skin glow under the hotel lights. Maeve watches it all with a greedy kind of focus, memorizing the way pleasure makes you sloppy. âYou look so fucking pretty like this,â she tells you. âAll messy and desperate on mommyâs fingers.â
The praise hits so hard your eyes flutter. Maeve feels the reaction instantly, feels your cunt grip tighter around her fingers like your bodyâs trying to pull her deeper. âOh, you liked that,â she says, and thereâs a smile in her voice even before you open your eyes again. You try to answer, but her fingers curl and your words dissolve into a gasp.
She leans in, mouth brushing the corner of yours without giving you a proper kiss. âDonât worry, baby,â she whispers. âYou donât have to think.â Her thumb strokes the side of your throat once, gentle beneath the command. âJust take it and let mommy make you cum.â
Your body obeys before your mind catches up. Your hips rock harder, grinding down with every thrust of her fingers, chasing the pressure until your thighs start shaking for real.
Maeveâs robe is damp where your body presses against hers, red silk sticking to both of you in the heat of the room. She can feel your slick running over her hand, coating her palm, making every stroke smoother and deeper.
The feel of it turns her on more than she expects, because thereâs nothing polished about you now. Youâre all heat, wetness, need, and broken little sounds against her mouth. âListen to yourself,â she murmurs, kissing your cheek. âThatâs what needing me sounds like.â
You whimper at that, embarrassed and turned on so sharply that it almost hurts. Maeve tightens her grip on your throat by a fraction, just enough to bring your attention back to her face. âEyes on me,â she says.
You force your eyes open, and she looks devastating beneath you, flushed from her own orgasm, lips swollen, hair mussed, robe open around her body. Sheâs sweating too, a fine shine on her chest and stomach, proof that sheâs not as untouchable as she pretends.
That thought makes your pussy clench again, and Maeveâs eyes darken because she feels it. âThereâs my girl,â she says, dragging her fingers out slow before pushing them back in deep. âYouâre so close, arenât you?â
âYes,â you gasp, the word cracking on the way out. Your forehead drops toward hers, but she keeps you upright with the hand at your throat, making sure she can see every second of you falling apart.
âPlease, mommy,â you beg, breathless and shaking. âPlease, Iâm close.â Maeveâs own breath catches at how sweet you sound begging for it, so needy and ruined and still trying to be good for her.
She curls her fingers harder, pressing into that spot inside you until your whole body jolts. âI know, baby,â she says, voice low and filthy. âI can feel you squeezing me.â Her mouth brushes yours as she adds, âGo on, make a mess on my fingers.â
The permission snaps through you like a lit fuse. Your orgasm rises so fast you barely have time to breathe before it takes over, hot and violent and blinding. Your thighs lock around her lap, hips jerking against her hand as your pussy pulses around her fingers.
Maeve holds you through it, hand steady at your throat, the other buried inside you while you cum hard enough to shake. âThatâs it,â she talks you through it, voice softer now but still commanding. âGood girl, just like that.â
You cry out against her mouth, body trembling as pleasure rolls through you in wave after wave. Maeve watches your face the entire time, awed despite herself, thinking thereâs no camera in the world that could make her feel as powerful as this.
She keeps her fingers inside you until the worst of the shaking passes. Not moving now, just holding you full while your body flutters helplessly around her.
You make a tiny, broken sound when she finally eases them out, and Maeve kisses it off your lips before it can turn embarrassed. âIâve got you,â she says immediately, the shift in her voice subtle but unmistakable. Her hand leaves your throat and moves to the back of your neck, warm and grounding.
She cups you there while her other hand rests on your hip, keeping you close against her. Youâre boneless in her lap, sweaty and sticky and still pulsing with aftershocks. Maeveâs expression softens as she looks at you, all the sharp edges folding inward for once.
âYou with me?â she asks, brushing damp hair back from your face. You nod, but itâs weak, so she waits until you manage words. âYeah,â you whisper. âIâm here.â Maeve hums, satisfied, then presses a slow kiss to your forehead.
Her lips linger there longer than they need to, and it makes your chest feel tender in a way the orgasm didnât. âGood,â she says quietly. âStay with me, sweetheart.â She shifts carefully, strong arms gathering you closer so your trembling body isnât doing any work.
For a while, she just holds you. The suite feels different now, less like a stage and more like a room two people have ruined together. The sheets are still too white, the skyline still glittering, the whiskey still untouched, but none of it matters with Maeveâs arms around you.
Your sweat cools slowly against her skin, and she rubs your back in steady circles until your breathing evens out. You tuck your face into her neck, catching the scent of her perfume,
her skin, and the faint trace of sex still clinging to both of you. Maeveâs fingers are gentle now, combing through your hair instead of gripping it. âYou did so well,â she murmurs. âSo good for me.â
You make a soft, embarrassed sound, and Maeve smiles against your temple. âDonât hide,â she says, but thereâs no bite to it this time. âNot from me.â She reaches for the robe with one hand and pulls it around both of you as best she can, covering your bare chest and cooling skin.
The silk is warm from her body, and you sink into it without thinking. Maeve notices the tiny shiver that runs through you and immediately tightens her arms. âCold?â she asks. You nod against her shoulder, and she kisses your hair. âIâll get you cleaned up first, then weâre getting under the covers.â
She lifts you like you weigh nothing, but she does it carefully, one arm under your thighs and the other around your back. The movement makes you whine from sensitivity, and Maeve pauses right away.
âToo much?â she asks, searching your face. âJust sensitive,â you whisper. Her mouth softens, and she kisses your cheek before carrying you to the bed. âI know, baby,â she says. âNo more teasing.â
She lays you down on the sheets with ridiculous gentleness for someone whoâd had her fingers inside you minutes ago. Then she disappears only long enough to wet a warm cloth in the bathroom.
When she comes back, her armour is still on the floor and the red robe is loose around her body, but her whole focus is on you. She cleans between your thighs slowly, avoiding anything too sensitive unless you guide her closer. Every time you twitch, she pauses and checks your face before continuing. âYouâre okay,â she murmurs, more promise than question.
âIâve got you.â You watch her through heavy eyes, still dazed from pleasure and affection, and whisper, âYouâre being soft.â Maeve glances up, a small, tired smile tugging at her mouth. âDonât tell anyone,â she says, and you laugh quietly enough that it turns into a sigh.
After sheâs done, she tosses the cloth aside and climbs into bed beside you. She pulls the ruined lingerie straps back into place just enough that nothing digs into your skin, then tugs the sheets over both of you. You curl into her immediately, cheek pressed to her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart beneath all that strength.
Maeve wraps one arm around your waist and keeps the other hand at the back of your head, holding you like something precious. âWater in a minute,â she says when she feels you getting sleepy. âThen sleep.â
You hum in protest, and she kisses your forehead again. âDonât argue with mommy after she just made you cum that hard,â she murmurs. You smile against her skin, soft and spent, and let her keep you there.
Bridgerton/Regency AU | Dex x fem!Reader where Lord Benjamin Poindexter duels every man who flirts with you and leaves a trail of dead suitors in your wake.
TW: implied stalking, suggestive sexual themes, parental verbal abuse, duels/murder, obsessive jealousy, dark romance, but daddy, I love him! vibes
Lord Benjamin Poindexter, Duke of Arrowhead, is a violent man.Â
And somehow, somehow, you are the problem because you like it.
You are the daughter of a viscount. Unfortunately, you are also a romantic to the point of self-destruction. You want a love match, the kind poets lose sleep over. Your father, unfortunately, wants you married to Lord Daniels, a man thirty years your senior with fine manners, excellent prospects, and the emotional texture of damp bread.
Worse, Lord Daniels looks at you as though you are already his property. Not a woman with thoughts, wants, or a heart of your own, but rather just a pretty vessel meant to warm his bed, bear his heir, and behave while doing it.
And god forbid you have hobbies! He treats your love of plants like a defect, like a girlish little habit he intends to prune out of you after the wedding.
So when you try to make your father understand that you cannot marry Lord Daniels, he does not listen. He calls you a selfish bitch.
You get into a screaming match with him after that. You tell him he is selling you off. He tells you that you are ruining your own future.
By the time you start crying, youâre running out of the house.Â
You are not running forever, of course. You are not foolish enough to think you could survive alone outside your fatherâs house, let alone in the wild.
You just need space from your family.
So you run into the woods behind the estate, skirts damp, gloves dirtied, face hot with rage, needing only to be alone for a little while.
And that is where you meet Lord Poindexter.
Every woman in Mayfair knows of him but none of them truly knows him. Your mother once said he was âa fine match, of course,â then immediately followed it with, âThough there is something rather severe about him.â
Severe is one word. Dangerous is better.
He is hunting alone when he finds you, rifle in hand, coat across his shoulders. He frightens you, a little.
But then he lowers the rifle the moment he sees your tears. âMy lady.â
âYour Grace.â
His eyes move over you, like he is cataloguing every sign of distress and deciding who must be punished for it.
You should curtsy and leave. Instead, you talk.
You tell him about Lord Daniels. About your father. About marriage without love. You tell him you would rather disappear into the woods than be handed over to a man who thinks your hobby is an inconvenience.
âI think I would like to marry a man who knows the difference between a daisy and a dahlia,â you say, bitterly.
That earns you another almost-smile. âDaisies,â he says.
âWhat?â
âYou like daisies?â
You blink, thrown by the gentle edge of the question.
âYes,â you say. âMy favourite, in fact. They are not grand, but they survive almost anywhere. People overlook them because they are common, but I think that is rather unfair.â
Dex looks at you. He looks and looks and looks.
âMy lady,â he says finally, âI do not think Lord Daniels deserves you.â
Your breath catches in the cold air. âYou hardly know me, Your Grace.â
His eyes do not move away from yours. âNot yet.â
Hello?
What the hell do you mean, Lord Poindexter?Â
Because what is that? Who says that in the woods to a crying viscountâs daughter he has known for less than an hour? A madman, maybe. A loaded pistol in human form.
He escorts you to the threshold of your home, kisses your gloved fingers before he leaves, and you spend the whole night staring at your ceiling and thinking about him like an idiot.
The next morning, Lord Daniels is dead because he had been challenged to a duel.Â
Apparently, he has been shot through the heart at dawn by Lord Poindexter.
Oh, Lady Whistledown is frothing at the mouth.
The entire ton becomes rabid, because even the scribe doesnât know why the Duke of Arrowhead challenged him to a duel. Some say Daniels owed him money. Some say Daniels insulted him at cards. Some say there was an argument over hunting rights. The men insist it must have been something respectable and masculine, because God forbid a duke shoot another lord over a girl he met weeping in the woods the day before.
But you know Dex loaded that pistol for you.
By afternoon tea, Lord Poindexter comes calling, telling your father that he would like to court his daughter.
He brought the biggest bouquet of daisies you had ever seen.
Your father grinds his teeth and hesitates, because Lord Poindexter has just killed your intended.
But alsoâŠ
He is a duke.
A rich duke.
A handsome duke.
A rich, handsome duke who has come calling with flowers for your motherâs daughter, who, as your mother very gently reminds your father, has not exactly been cooperative with any of the men your father has presented to her.
So eventually, he is allowed into the drawing room.
Your father looks like he is swallowing a knife. Your mother looks like she is watching a scandal unfold in real time.Â
And Dex looks only at you. He gives you the daisies like the dead man between you is merely an unfortunate scheduling matter.
From there, it snowballs.
Lord Benjamin Poindexter becomes devoted to you in a way that makes every ballroom feel like a crime scene waiting to happen.
He appears at social events he would once have avoided. He stands at the edge of every room in black gloves, watching you like the rest of the ton is background noise. He asks you to dance, and people are speechless, because the Duke of Arrowhead famously does not dance at balls.
Except now he does.
With you, and only you.
He is not charming with anyone else, though. Other ladies still try to speak to him (again, handsome, rich, duke). They flutter their lashes and smile and ask about his estate, his hunting, his views on town.
He gives them nothing.
Then you walk up and mention that your new fern cutting is struggling, and suddenly this man is leaning in like you have declared war on France.
âWhat kind of fern?â
âMaidenhair.â
âHow much light does it need?â
And you talk and talk and talk, and the other ladies stare because this is not the Duke of Arrowhead they know. This man remembers the layout of your greenhouse, even when he claims he has never been there. He remembers the variety of your roses. He knows the shade your orchids prefer.Â
He remembers everything.
And God help every Lord who even attempts to talk to you.
A lord compliments your figure too boldly?
Duel, shot through the head.
A viscount laughs about Lord Daniels and your âunfortunate effect on menâ?
Duel, shot in the bowels and bled to death.
A gentleman grips your waist too hard at a ball, and you come crying to Dex because you feel ruined?
Duel. Shot through the liver at dawn so he feels the pain as the light drains from his eyes.Â
There are dead lords behind you now. Injured lords. Ruined lords. Men leaving London for their âhealth.â Men avoiding your side of the ballroom as though you are cursed.
And maybe you should be horrified.
But there is a terrible and satisfying feeling curling inside you every time Dexâs eyes tunnel across a room because another man has made a pathetic attempt to court you.
You feel⊠flattered.Â
Your mother is like, âHe cannot continue challenging every gentleman who causes you discomfort.â
Your father is like, âHe is making you impossible to marry.â
And you are likeâŠ
Is he?
Or is he making me impossible to marry to anyone but him?
Because Dex is not stupid.
He knows what this does. Every duel ties your name tighter to his. Society begins to understand your honour as his territory, your reputation as his concern.Â
He wants the whole ton to know that touching you, wanting you, and embarrassing you comes with consequences.
Yes, he wants you ruined if ruined means no one else can have you. And the night Dex actually ruins you, it happens at Lord Ashcombeâs ball.
Ashcombe has been secretly admiring you all season like a man too stupid to notice the bodies piling up behind him. He asks for a dance with you and says it would be rude to refuse the host.
And you know Dex is watching.
Usually, you would say no. But today, you were feeling particularly brave and you wanted to test the limits of Dexâs affections. So you say yes.
Dex becomes murderously jealous almost immediately.Â
Dex watches Ashcombeâs hand settle at your waist and crushes the wine glass in his hands. You smile and pretend not to hear the shatter.Â
The moment the dance ends, Dex pulls you out to the garden and corners you there.Â
The wisteria hangs heavy overhead, purple and soft and romantic in the most damning way. The music from the ballroom is muffled behind glass. Your heart is still racing from the dance, from the thrill of knowing you provoked him and he came exactly as you knew he would.
âWhat was that?â He demanded.Â
And you pout, because apparently you have lost all sense of self-preservation. âPerhaps I am tired of waiting for a proposal.â
His jaw tightens. âYou think I will not ask?â
âYou have not even asked my father for my hand.â
And oh.
Oh, that wounded him. âI will.â
See, you donât understand that yet. Dex is not delaying because he doubts his love for you. He is delaying because he is who he is. Because in his head, before he asks your father and puts the ring on your finger, he must clear the field.
He must eliminate every man who wants you and every lord who thinks he still has a chance.
And yes, that is deranged, but he enjoys hunting his romantic rivals for sport. He loves the fact that he gets to prove, again and again, that wanting you is dangerous unless you are him.
But then you ask with sad lashes, âHow do I know youâre not lying, Your Grace?â
And Dex goes very still.
Then he kisses you.
His hands are on you at once, crushing your silk dress, dragging you closer. He kisses you like he is furious you ever doubted him. Like your mouth is the only argument he needs.Â
You should stop him.
You could.
You do not.
Instead, you kiss him back and sigh a triumphant yes, knowing no other man will have you now.Â
Eventually his hands bunches up your skirts and rips your undergarments. You gave a breathless little panic gasp, knowing no lady should let a man touch her like this before marriage.
Dex turns you carefully, presses you forward until he bends you over the garden wall, one gloved hand braced beside yours, the other holding you at the waist like he is both keeping you steady and making a claim.
âYou want to know,â he murmurs, voice rough against your ear, âwhat husbands and wives do?â
Your breath catches.
âI need to hear you say it, Your Grace,â he says. Dexâs mouth brushes the shell of your ear, and you know that is not your title yet. You do not have a duchy. But it is the title you will take if he marries you.
When, you remind yourself, not if.
âY-yes, Your Grace,â you managed.
âThatâs my good girl,â he breathes, gloved hand tightening at your waist.
So Dex fucks you there beneath the wisteria, with the ballroom glowing behind the windows and your fingers trembling against old stone. He takes you, letting you adjust to his size as he ruins you completely and makes you understand exactly what he means to give to you once you are his wife.
He talks to you through it in that low voice, telling you this is what he will give you on your wedding night, and every night after, telling you he would not ruin you if he did not intend to keep you, telling you no other man will ever know you like this because no other man will live long enough to try.
You hate that it works.
You hate that every possessive word goes through you like fire. You hate that you believe him most when he is like this.
And when you fall apart for him, he holds you and kisses your temple through it, ever so gentle.Â
He destroys your reputation with the tenderness of a man arranging flowers.
By the time it is over, your legs are unsteady, your mouth is swollen, your skirts are a scandal, and Dex is still pressed close behind you.
Then, you turn your head and see Lord Ashcombe at the edge of the path.
He looks pale and absolutely destroyed by what he has walked in on.
You glanced at Dex in a panic, but he is just casually buckling up his trousers and smiling.Â
That's when you realised that Dex wanted you two to get caught.
He knew Ashcombe slipped into this part of the garden to smoke, thatâs why he dragged you here, of all places! This was a trap. This was the hunting for sport he loved so much.
This was Dex proving his love in the most deranged way possible: by ruining you just enough to make Ashcombe understand he had already lost.
Dex adjusts your skirts while challenging him to a duel for your honour.Â
By dawn, Ashcombe is dead.Â
By noon, Dex comes calling again with more daisies.
Your mother sits down very slowly. Your father says no when Dex asks for your hand.
Dex only raised an eyebrow like it was a minor obstacle.
So he leaves and comes back with a deed. He has bought you the largest greenhouse in the country.Â
A scandalous duke with dead men in his wake gives you a kingdom of flowers and expects your father to keep saying no?
Please.
Your fatherâs protests are running thin. Your reputation is half-shredded. Your mother is exhausted. The ton already speaks of you as though you are his. Men no longer ask for your hand because they enjoy having all their organs where they are.
So finally, your father agrees.
Dex proposes in the garden with daisies everywhere, because of course he does. Because the man is unwell and romantic and terrifying and yours.
He kneels in the dirt like a duke who has never cared less about being a duke.
And you say yes with your whole stupid romantic heart.
Lady Whistledown writes of speculation like the ink has been laced with laudanum. Your mother cries. Your father looks like heâs biting through bullets. The remaining eligible men of London quietly celebrate surviving the season.
And Dex looks at you at the altar like every dead lord was simply the road he took to reach you.
You wanted a love match?Â
Congratulations.
You got a love match with a body count.
â
note: reminder! This is a hear me out, so no taglist. Also, eventual full fic of this, yay or nay? (Might take me a year at this point lol)
Just friends...right? ~ Benjamin 'Dex' Poindexter x Fem!Reader
âă Word Count: 11.2k
âă Content: After Born Again s2, Dex is with the CIA. Reader is his handler. He's basically trying to make more friends. Fluff. Dex is clearly a cat guy. Friends to lovers. Smut. Dry humping. Vaginal Fingering. Minors DNI!
âă A/N: Been going through imposter syndrome every time I write Dex's dialogue. Please enjoy!
3. 2. 1...and the mission is done.
The knife sticks into the targetâs skull real good, giving Dex a second to pull it out and wipe the blood on his black pants. Red pools around the head, drawn to make a larger pool in the center of the warehouse.
âDexy, my boy! Is it done?â
âYeahâŠit's done.â He says to Mr. Charles, sliding each knife back in their harnesses.
One, two, three, four, five waitâŠwhere's six? The missing knife sticks out from a tire of a military truck, right where a dead rogue officer's body lay.
Dex effortlessly slides the weapon back where it belongs. âI lost a knife. Need to get a new one.â
âWell, you know where to go. Your girl should be up by now.â
âSheâsâŠnot my girl.â
âAh, you know what I mean Bullsey. We got you one of the best handlers in the team, you can call her whatever you want.â
He grimaces, torn between the nickname and the idea that youâre his. Itâs only been a month since starting this job. Working with the CIA and under the one and only Valentina De Fontaine has its perks. Heâs able to get a stable income for killing âbadâ guys. A place he can call home again without eliminating someone to get it.
As long as he took his meds.
Valentina insisted after making sure he could still do his job medicated. Dex didnât complain. He finally has what he wanted back so desperately. Itâs just now itâs under his own conditions. For the most part.
Now all Dex needs is camaraderie.
Something similar to what he had with Ray back in his FBI days. Hopefully, without the killing him part.
âYouâll know when your next assignment is.â Is the last thing Dex hears before communication goes silent. He gets ready to text you about the knife when a message beats him to it.
âI heard you need a new knife.â
âYeah. Lost one during the mission.â
âI got you.â
Thatâs it. No other follow-up message, asking him about his mission. You are all business with hardly any talk.
Itâs not like youâre difficult to deal with. When Dex joined the team, everyone joked about how easy it was to talk to you behind the professional barrier you put up. Like you want to leave work and everyone else in it when you go home each day.
Dex didnât see a problem with that. Heâs the same way. Well, was. Heâs trying not to make the same mistakes as he did back in the FBI. He had people to talk to, but hardly anyone was in his corner. He didnât want it to happen again. Youâre one of the closest people he can make that effort with.
After a sixteen-hour flight and a forty-minute drive because he wanted to stop and get breakfast, he made his way to your office. Waving to the other team members, his âsquadâ. Just to provide support if he needs it. Dex hands them a bag filled with breakfast sandwiches and a tray of coffee.
âHey, wait a minute.â Dexâs coworker, Alana, notices the separate bag and iced coffee with whipped cream and caramel drizzle, âWhoâs that for?â
âSomeone more important than you guys.â He snorts at the collective groans.
âYeah sure, butter up the handler.â Jason says, taking a bite out of his sandwich.
Dex rolls his eyes, âSo, what Iâm hearing is to not bring donuts next time.â
Everyone immediately shuts up, thanking him for the food before gorging on it.
Youâre stationed far in the back, in a large, box-like area. Surrounded by glass. No one would be able to miss a single thing youâre doing. Maybe you like it that way.
Dex catches your eyes through your glasses, a small wave in his direction. Then you dart to the food in his arms and quickly stand up.
âOh my god is that food?â
âYeah. Iced coffee and a breakfast burrito, right? With extra salsa?â
You blink, thoroughly surprised. âWhoa, yeah. ThatâsâŠon point.â
You typically come in ten minutes early to set up. Eating your burrito while typing on your computer with one hand. So effortless. Seamless. Like youâve done it a million times before, but with no one to pay attention to you.
He went on a whim that youâd missed breakfast, and heâd swoop in to save the day.
âI figured since itâs early and you probably havenât eaten yetâŠâ
âDidnât you have a long flight? I know youâre tired.â
He shrugs. He is, but he wanted to score some brownie points first. Raise the imaginary scale in his head that shows your relationship with him is getting better. He likes to think he earns ten points because of it.
âThank you.â You smile, âI didnât eat yet. Was running late. Slept in.â Dex nods, watching you take a sip, gloss staining the straw when you give a thumbs-up, of approval. âI have your knife. I just need to report the missing one and youâre good to go.â
The new weapon is right next to your computer mouse. All in its sheath. Dex could come clean about not actually losing the knife, but heâs managed to make you happy today, so he doesnât.
âI didnât mean to lose it.â
âIt happens.â You wave him away. âI had a feeling you might lose them due to your abilities. You canât miss, but that doesnât mean you canât lose weapons. ItâsâŠactually pretty funny when you think about it.â
He releases a short laugh to match your amusement. Ah, so him losing his knives is funny. Good to know. âIâll try not to next time.â
Dex shifts once the new knife is in his possession. What else can he bring up to express he wants to expand on his relationship with you? The momentum from bringing breakfast lowers with each millisecond that passes. And this is the most heâs gotten with you besides going over mission reports and providing him gear.
Was it really this hard back in the FBI?
âNo troubles during the mission, right?â You ask, looking up from the screen.
âNo.â He immediately clears his throat, âNo problems. Target went down easy, everythingâŠworked. Didnât have to use my gun. Yet.â
âNice.â
The corner of Dexâs lips twitches upwards, âI appreciate the high-quality gear. I donât have to make do with kitchen knives anymore. Theyâre for cooking not for combat.â
âWhile I agree with you there, when you first came in, you were not using kitchen knives for weapons, Dex.â
âThey felt like it.â You snicker and he knows five more points are added to the score. This is good. He should leave before he overstays his welcome. âIâll see you around.â
Now to go home, shower, and rest.
It takes approximately fifteen minutes from headquarters to his apartment. The clean, sterilized scent relaxes his shoulders as he drops his duffel bag. Before he can get ready for a shower, his phone vibrates. A message from an unnamed user.
â$10,000 is wired into your account.â
Life is great.
Dex needs to be careful. He knows everything can turn around in an instant if he didnât dot his iâs and cross his tâs. Make sure the safety isnât on before he lands the kill on his target.
Making friends is his own mission in a way. He watches them; their routine, what they like, donât like, what they would die for, what they canât live without. Anything to break down the walls and be receptive to change. Before he swoops in and makes the change for them.
With you, youâre very simple.
Thereâs not much on in any of your social media pages. Besides the occasional selfie, where you show where you went long after youâre gone. Youâre a homebody, as people like to call it. You hardly go anywhere if itâs not work or home, as heâs seen for the past couple of days following you.
No, this wasnât stalking.
During a meeting the day after, you commented that you didnât like how dark it gets early. You make a weird face to lighten up the mood, but Dex knew from your bunched shoulders that youâre uncomfortable. He didnât want his future friend to be uncomfortable.
Itâs why he was watching you from afar, making sure you got home safely. There are no missions and heâs done all the bird watching and cat feeding in the world.
Itâs what a good person would do.
He likes that youâre so simple. Itâs what he has in common with you. You donât need to go to ten different locations in two hours. Itâs just you and your dog, Lady.
Dex gets the reference when the dog greets you at the door every day, tail breaking the speed of light. Heâs never taken too kindly to dogs, but itâs something else to talk about - something to get you to open up.
He rehearses what to say to you on his way to work. Mr. Charles organizes routine marksmen tests, just to make sure the medication isnât losing Dexâs sense of skill. He never likes the tests. It shows thereâs still a hint of doubt from him. Whether itâs the CIA or Valentina herself. But itâs an excuse to see you again and start conversation.
In the weapons room, targets spawn across the makeshift scene. A park, similar to Central Park, where the bad guys are amongst the civilians. All decorated with a giant, red target. He needed to hit one with at least 95 to 100% accuracy.
Easy peasy.
âI was thinking about getting a pet.â Dex says after his knife hits the target dead on. A screen in front of him beeps 100%.
âOh? You think having a pet is okay? Sometimes youâre gone for daysâŠalmost a week.â
âYeah. I think itâs a good step to quality companionship. I even have a lonely neighbor so it would be good for her if she wanted to stop by and watch it if Iâm gone.â Two knives hit the targets by the picture of a mother carrying her child. Two more beeps with 100%. âBesides, I didnât have a pet back during my FBI days. Think itâs because I was tooâŠI donât knowâŠâ
âWired?â
Dex blinks when he bounces the knife off the floor to another target by a tree. âHuh, yeah.â
You hum, watching him hit another target. âIf you think thatâs the right step, go for it. Pets are great company, especially the ones with personality.â
âSpeaking from experience?â
Another target, another beep. âYeah. I have a dog named Lady. Sheâs cute, busy as hell, but she helps keep me sane.â
âSo I shouldnât get a dog.â
You laugh and Dex likes how it goes up in pitch. âA chill dog, maybe. But you scream cat person to me anyway. Maybe a hamster.â
âA hamster is a smaller targetâŠâ He flings three knives at three targets spread throughout the crowd. Each blade hits that tiny red dot dead center. âBut a cat might be good. Theyâre more independent.â
âExactly. Perfect fit for you.â
One last target and the 100% pops up as if he hasnât been getting them this entire session. You whistle at the perfect accuracy, noting them down on your tablet. Dex should go, but then the statuses of acquaintances would remain. When he should take the next step.
âI was thinking about going to this shelter on 38th and 10th. Heard they have a lot of animals there.â
You perk up, lips curling upwards in thought. âOh hey, thatâs like ten minutes from me.â
âOh?â Dex matches your surprise, âWow, thatâsâŠwow. I was planning to go on Saturday if youâd like to go with me. Give me tips?â
You pause, shifting where you stand. The lack of eye contact is apparent that you didnât want to go with him to the shelter. As a bonding moment. He probably came on a bit too strong. He shouldâve just left it at he was planning to go on Saturday, leave the opportunity to invite yourself be up in the air.
âThat sounds fun.â You say, âI donât have any plans.â
âGreat.â He flexes his fingers, not wanting to smile so wide that his face hurts.
Ten more points to the friendship scale.
The shelter opens at 9 am, but he wanted to get there at 10 just so it didnât look odd. Plus, it gives you time to eat some breakfast. Not rush as much to meet up with him. He didnât want you to hurry because of an outing he suggested.
He stands right by the shelter at 9:55 am. Early enough to scope the scene out and to bail if you donât decide to show. The crowd wasnât too bad. A handful of people coming and going, only a third leaving with a new companion.
Dex is serious about having a pet. Another friend in his life to prove how well it's going. He just didnât expect it to happen so soon.
You arrive at 10:01. Youâre panting, clutching two smoothies. âIâm sorry! The line at the cafe right beside my building was a little backed up.â
âYouâre okay.â He takes a banana-orange smoothie. He wasnât expecting you to notice him. Since when did he bring up the fact that he likes bananas?
âHeard you boasting one time about the banana milkshake back at a diner you went to. So I had a feeling youâd like bananas.â You say, like youâve read his mind, sipping your smoothie.
âAh. Thanks.â
So, youâre paying attention to him, too? Interesting.
Inside the shelter, clipboards are lined up across the desk, slightly crooked. Some employees, dressed in scrubs, lead other people to the back while some man the desk. In line, Dex nudges his finger against the clipboards he can reach, lining them up straight. Perfect.
âYou think youâre gonna find your forever friend here?â
Dex nods, âThis shelter has excellent reviews. The animals are well cared for here.â
âStill, you can always go to another one if you canât find a pet.â
âWill you come with me if I canât find one?â
âSure. We can turn it into an adventure.â
He smiles a bit. Now he hopes he canât find a cat here. If it meant more bonding time with you. And enjoying how great you smell today. Like a clean spring? It matches the cool weather.
âHi!â The receptionist greets, âAre you two lovebirds looking into adopting today?â
Lovebirds? WaitâŠ
âOh!â You laugh, immediately getting rid of any awkward air. âWeâre not together. Weâre just friends.â
Friends? Already? Whoa, that was fast.
âYeah. Just friends.â Dex doubles down, laughing with you. He likes how yours fits his own. âSheâs helping me find a pet.â
âIâm so sorry.â The receptionist fans her face, embarrassed. âYou two just looked so cute together. Sorry, about that.â
Youâre tugging on your blue scarf, your laugh taking a nervous flit. Dex takes the clipboard and fills out his information, ignoring the faint blush on his cheeks.
It was bound to happen. Men and women becoming friends can be easily mistaken for romantic interest. He didnât want you to think any more than that. Itâs already great enough that you think youâre friends.
And all it took was shopping for a pet.
âDid you mean it?â Dex asks after getting a ticket number. He had to wait to be called and go into the back. âAre we really friends now?â
âAh.â You fix your glasses, taking an unusually long sip from your straw. âI guess we are. I donât know, I just didnât want that lady to assume.â
Yeah, that makes more sense.
âRight. I get it.â
Two points go down in the friendship scale, but it didnât mean defeat. It wasnât a great space to announce your friendship to him anyway. Dex wants it to be more memorable than that.
When heâs called, he follows the employee to the back. A sterile mixed with animal smell hits his noseâthe dogs are off to a huge area to the left, with a play area outside. Cats were to the right. All in cages with another smaller area that leads outside and inside.
The employee remains on standby as he browses through the selection of cats.
Each one, big and small, fat and tiny, all in cages. Itâs a lot, almost too many to deal with. Maybe this wasnât a good idea.
âThis isâŠa lot of cats.â
âI know.â You cosign, âLetâs start by reading the descriptions first and go from there.â You carry his smoothie. Just so he can focus on the task at hand.
Dex goes through the cats available. Hardly any kittens or younger cats. A lot of are older from teens to adult life. Some were given away from an abusive household or because an owner died and no one wanted to care for the cat. Each one locked away in hopes of finding their forever person.
Can he be that type of guy?
His track record with animals hasnât been the greatest. Killing birds for fun in his youth isnât worth telling anyone unless he wants to be looked at differently. He doesnât want to. A cat he can handle. He likes them. Theyâre hardly bothersome.
Maybe thatâs why he likes the one who hardly pays him any attention.
Clover. An all-black Maine coon. Sheâs licking her fur, not giving him the time of day. The description says sheâs not very sociable, but can get comfortable in any home. Great. Just what he wants.
âReally?â The employee says, opening up the cage to let Clover out. âShe really is what the description says. Itâll be amazing if she notices youâre there.â
âIâm sure.â
The employee carries Clover to the play area just so he can get acclimated with her. Maybe change his mind once he sees how she acts.
It never came.
Clover does a gentle brush to Dexâs leg before sitting beside him, grooming herself. All mundane, like she doesnât care much about whatâs going on in her world. He gets it. Kind of. She does let you pet her head, leaning into the touch before going back to do what sheâs doing.
âWell, you like her?â
âYeah.â He says, giving a little scratch on her head. âTold you cats are independent.â
âYeahâŠI see.â
After signing some paperwork, getting a complementary basket filled with cat treats, food, litter, and toys, Clover is put in her cage and to her new home.
Dex doesnât point out how you actually follow him back to his apartment. Heâs expecting you to go your separate ways back home. But no, you walk with him. Take the train, sit next to him while he carries his new cat.
âDo you need to get any more cat stuff?â
âNah. I bought plenty.â
A cat tower, a litter box, and an automatic feeder. Just in case heâs gone longer than usual.
Dex lets Clover out of her cage and she steps out slowly. Looking around at the new scenery, her new home. She makes a point to rub against his leg again, then yours, before exploring the house. The cat tower isnât out the box yet. He wanted to put it up after the shelter.
âCongrats on your new baby.â You say, watching Clover jump on the couch and lie in it. âMay she keep you company.â
âShe will.â
You motioned to the boxed up cat things in the corner, âWant help with that?â
âOh, uhâŠsure. If you want.â
âOf course. I asked.â
Dex lets out a laugh before motioning you to the pile. Your head glances over at the simplicity of his apartment. The single, clean couch. The TV is centered directly in the living room, aligned with the coffee table. His bedroom is off to the left, a decent size. Not too big or small.
Just enough for him. And Clover.
You help set up the cat tower. Itâs placed right beside the entrance to his bedroom. A cat bed goes on the foot of his bed, but he has a feeling Clover might not use it. The automatic feeder is also set up, but took a while as the instructions arenât clear. You come to save the day though, setting it up so sheâs fed every eight hours.
The light hits his eyes through his curtains. Itâs a little past one and neither of you has eaten yet. A lot of the groceries in his fridge are only good for one. He can try to add another portion though.
âWanna get food? Iâm kinda craving a sub.â
Dex perks up, âYeah. Thereâs a bodega a block away from here. Although, Iâve never tried.â
âWell, we can try today.â You grab your coat and bag, blowing a kiss to Clover whoâs currently asleep on his rug.
Dex chuckles, âShe likes you.â
âAnd I like her. Sheâs actually perfect for you. Mysterious, calmâŠâ
âYou think Iâm mysterious?â
You hum, hands in your pockets as you two stroll down the sidewalk. âWhen I first met you, yes. But it was just because of your persona. You have to know what you look like when you put the suit on.â
He does, but he never thought mysterious. He preferred menacing.
âI guess I should think about that for the future.â
You shake your head, âNo, itâs okay. Iâve gotten to know you now and I donât see you as mysterious. Well, not as much.â When you two go in the store and place your orders, you continue the conversation. âIâm surprised you didnât see me that way. SinceâŠIâmâŠyou knowâŠâ
âYouâre all business. I get it. You deal with dangerous people and you donât want to take work with you.â
âYouâreâŠnot work, Dex.â You state, getting closer to him. He doesnât mind the closeness. It gives him a chance to smell your honey scent again. âNot anymore. I should try to know the people I handle. Make sure Iâm taking care of them.â
âYou are.â He says, full body towards you so you know heâs serious. âI wouldnât know where Iâd be without you.â
âStill alive but using kitchen knives.â
Dex chuckles at your joke. You really mean it. You are putting in effort just like he is. So you do want this to turn into friendship.
He takes in that high when you two go back to his apartment. Eating your sandwiches, letting you get a sneak peek of how particular he is in his home. Making sure the dishes were aligned perfectly after doing the dishes. How he organizes his books on his bookcase by size. Big, medium, and then small. The pillows on his couch perfectly fit against the cushions.
Well, until Clover pushed them off.
Overall, he can call this outing a success. He got a cat and he has a better understanding of you. Good enough that he can use when he sees you at work.
Whenever Dex comes in thereâs always something in his hand.
It varies depending on the time of day. If itâs early in the morning, itâs your usual breakfast order. In the afternoon, he gets you a lemon scone and warm green tea. Late at night, pizza or maybe Chinese if you have to work late.
Every time heâs met with a smile from end to end, saying thank you for whatever gift he gives you that day. Genuine appreciation. It leads to you talking to him for a while. First about Clover, but then it shifts into hobbies. Like his books, what bird he saw today, if heâs going to watch the upcoming baseball game.
He always answers with care, never lying to you. He returns the attention. He asks about Lady, whatâs happening in the TV show youâre watching, or if thereâs anywhere you wanted to go, so he can go with you. Natural conversation.
The days when he comes in feel better. He gets to see you, talk to you, and pretend to understand who you are as a person. How you talk about the close relationship you have with your mother, how you like being alone a lot, and it takes time for you to hang around other people. Dex gets it.
Itâs why he ignores the teasing comments from the team, pointing out how close you two have gotten. He doesnât mind, even when youâre clearly embarrassed at the obvious attention. But donât discredit it. Which wasâŠinteresting.
Dex doesnât bring it up, not when heâs alone with you during the trek to your apartment. The city still gets dark sooner, and your discomfort never changes right when itâs time to go. So he makes sure heâs there when you get off, taking you home every time. Your shoulders lower whenever heâs beside you, proof that youâre relaxing in his presence. As a true friend.
He meets Lady, who is true to what youâve said about her.
She greets him like a new friend, jumping at his waist, letting out little yips of excitement. You laugh, mentioning sheâs finally meeting the new person sheâs been smelling lately. And she likes what she sees.
Dex takes the dogâs excitement as a good sign. He was hoping she did like him, knowing dogs had a sense of someoneâs character.
âOh, youâll be hearing from me soon about a mission.â You say, watching him play with Lady. âCharles said itâs important so we gotta take this seriously.â
âOkay.â He says, throwing the ball so Lady can chase after it. You shift in your boots and he pauses throwing the ball again to look at you. âEverything okay?â
âYeah.â You immediately say, âI just uhâŠwant you to be careful. Iâve never said it before so I want you to know. Stay safe.â
Your eyes glimmer against the kitchen light, filled with concern. Dex tilts his head before fixing himself. âI will.â
HeâsâŠhardly seen that before. Worrying isnât lost on him; heâs witnessed it countless times throughout his life. But towards him, it was rare. And it feltâŠgood. Like he needed to care, so you didnât worry any more than you had to.
You shouldnât need to worry about anything. Ever. As long as he can help it.
The mission is overseas. The target, Adrian Murini, is holed up in a grand hotel in Brazil. A broker and a witness for an upcoming trial connected to a governor who can overthrow it with his testimony. Security is locked tight, and Dex has to be close to make the kill.
You supply him with his gear and make a joke not to lose another knife while heâs out there. To ease the stress at the thought of him going to some dangerous place. You know he can handle it, but it makes sense to be worried about your friends.
The flight is long, the hotel is less desirable, despite being ten minutes away from the targetâs. Adrian is stationed in the middle of the hotel, on the 16th floor. It was off. Dex wouldâve liked a prime number instead.
You send him plans of the hotel layout, and heâs able to get access to the security cameras. Five guards in the room, two stationed outside. Thereâs a switch every six hours, and theyâre in the adjoining hotel next door.
The new knife you gave him is in his right holster. The easiest to reach, the one that can quickly get him out of trouble if he needs it. Dex smiles when your face pops into your head. His friend. Youâre probably still worried and will be that way until heâs back at headquarters.
He sends you a text, hoping to distract your racing mind.
âSend me a picture within eight hours. Smiling.â
He chuckles at the eyeroll emoji before a message says, âEight hours is too long.â
âSix then.â
âFour.â
âFive.â
You stop texting for a minute. He figures you got pulled away. One of the team members is asking you something stupid, like how to work the coffee machine again.
Itâs his cue to leave anyway. The window to get Adrian is closing and Dex plans to kill him right after dinner. Where his body wonât be discovered for a while and Dex can get out more easily.
Another message and he opens it before walking out.
He freezes. His eyes go as wide as they can past the irises of his mask. Your face is bright, clear, and radiant. A smile that takes one of his knives and aims right at his chest. YouâveâŠnever looked that way before.
âYouâre pretty.â
Dex immediately sends without a second thought. Itâs possible to say that about women friends without it having an underlying reason. Right?
He doesnât look at your message, not when the notification pops up. He has a job to do. And youâre waiting for him to come back. He didnât want to keep you waiting.
Dex finds a way in the hotel through the workersâ entrance, right when most of the staff are busy serving dinner. He slips through pristine white shirts and smooth black skirts, avoiding cameras until he has a way up the stairs. Hardly anyone uses them, so he counts the floors until sixteen arrives.
Hereâs the fun part.
The guards by the door didnât stand a chance. Two knives sink into their neck without a delay and he catches their bodies so they wonât make noise. Dex slips in with the room key. The guard's position never changed, so he hurls a knife at the guard at the door before he can notice him. The second one faces the window so an easy kill.
Slinking past the mini kitchen, Dex grabs the guard thatâs by the targetâs bedroom and slits his throat. As he bleeds out, staining his suit while his body jerks, the last guard comes out of the bathroom. Where a knife is between his eyes.
He opens the main bedroom and the target quickly stands up, hands raised.
âP-Please. Donât kill me. What I can do will change the fate of this country for decades. Maybe centuries.â
Dex doesnât speak, eyes tracing the room. A half-eaten dinner of lamb and rice, TV low and playing whatever action movie is on. He takes a closer look and sees itâs a racing one. Heâll have to ask you if youâve seen that one.
âWhatever theyâre paying you, I can double it. Triple it even.â Adrian sputters, his slender form quaking in his pjs. âYou look like a man who has sense.â
âNot anymore.â
Two knives hit Adrian square in his chest and head. Dex catches the body and places it neatly on the bed. Then snaps a few pictures.
See? It all worked out in the end.
Dex walks out, a bullet hits his shoulder. One of the guards. He mustâve gotten out for another rotation. But itâs too early.
âI have the suspect, repeat I have the sus-â
A knife knocks the gun out of the guardâs hand. Another hits his neck. Dex quickly runs out of the room right when the rest of the guards see the mess heâs made. Shots are fired and heâs bolting down the stairs. His shoulder stings, blood leaks from his wound and leads a trail. Heâs been shot before, but it still fucking hurts.
He makes a call to you, sharply inhaling to hide the pain. âI need the closest safe room.â
âWhat happened?â
âGot shot in the shoulder. Iâm fine.â He doesnât want you to worry. Even when he had a close call.
Thereâs no panic in your voice, just urgency. âThereâs one two miles away. It should be enough to get you away from the heat. Thereâs also supplies there to patch you up.â
A guard goes up in his direction and a knife stops him.
âThanks, sunshine.â
âDex-â
He cuts the call. Heâll bring up how rude it was of him later. He just needs to get out alive first.
Police arrive on the scene, and guests are clamoring due to the sudden noise from above. Dex cuts down any other guard in his path, bursting through the back doors. Sirens ring in his ears when he breaks into a nearby car, driving it off and away from the scene of the crime.
Blood trails down into his suit, getting all over his chest and arm. He shakes his head during the drive to stay awake. He canât pass out. Not like this.
The safe room is at an abandoned house.
Dex opens the bulky, metal cellar doors, quickly going inside and lock it tight. There, he gives you another call, panting.
âI made it.â
âThank goodness.â
The safe point had a cot, some supplies in a drawer, and a mini fridge. He pulls off his shirt, mask coming off with it, before digging through the list of supplies. The bullet went through so no need to worry about finding it.
âTell Charles that the mission went well.â He hisses when alcohol spills into his wound, âHeâll like that.â
âIâll tell him later. Where did you get shot at? Do we need to send a medic over there?â
âNo, itâs fine. Itâs just my shoulder. Bullet went through clean.â
âYouâre not doing this by yourself.â
âIâm not.â Dex grabs some bandages, âYouâre here with me.â
âIâm not physically there.â
âBut I can hear your voice so itâs good enough.â
He grins at your sigh, holding back any other noises to prove how much pain heâs in. He means every word. A friend like you at his time of need? He couldnât ask for anyone else to be here. To keep him company.
âIâm telling Charles you need a raise.â
âLike Valentina will say yes to that.â
âShe will after a strong recommendation from me.â
Dex chuckles, finishing bandaging himself up. He washes his hands by the makeshift sink and digs into the fridge for something to eat. There wasnât much besides a fruit cup and water. Itâll have to do.
He takes two painkillers and lies on the cot. Distant sirens are heard nearby, but they shouldnât find him. He got rid of the car a few blocks back and made sure to go through the grass to lose the blood trail. He wasnât going to stay here long anyway. He needed to go back home.
âStay with me.â He says, not giving you room to say no. âI need to hear you.â
âWhat do you want me to say?â
âAnything. JustâŠdonât hang up yet.â
Silence lingers on your end. For a moment, Dex thinks you mightâve hung up on him. âI checked on Clover earlier.â
âOh? Howâs she doing?â
âOkay. She was on your bed before I left. I think she misses you.â
âI miss her too. Iâll be home soon.â
âYou will. Iâll make sure of it.â
He smiles, knowing you canât see his face on the other side. âYouâre the best.â
âKeep flattering me. I also like matcha from that cafe up the street.â
âNoted.â
More silence, but itâs comfortable. Your breathing on the line lulls him in a way. He leans against the screen, picturing you right beside him. Checking out his bandage, brows lowering with worry. Your lips in a cute pout.
He thinks back to your picture and blood rushes to his cheeks. âDid you wear makeup today?â
âNo. Why?â
âNothingâŠâ He mutters. âYou just lookedâŠnice.â
âYou said pretty.â
âYou did look pretty. And bright.â
His stomach churns at your giggle, âThanks.â
Even your laugh is nice. It always has been. He doesnât know why heâs noticing it now. He mightâve took too many painkillers.
âItâs clear youâre not going on a mission any time soon.â
âI knowâŠâ
âWhich is good. We can hang out more often.â
âYeah? And do what?â
âWhatever you want. Itâs only right since you got hurt on the job.â
âOf course.â
As expected, Dex had to take some time off from missions until he heals.
The doctor gave him two weeks to make a full recovery and to take advantage of resting and relaxing. Not to do much physical labor to increase the recovery time. Dex shouldnât like that. His work involves helping people, getting rid of the bad ones to make the world a better place. Now, he canât do that.
If this were eight years ago, he wouldnât know what to do himself. In all the get-well cards and flowers, it hardly meant anything in his empty apartment. But there are visitors.
His team stopping by to check up on him, give him food, update him on whatâs been going on in the office. Saying they missed him. He missed them too. Especially you.
You who is always at his place before anyone else. Who gives more food than he needs, make sure Clover has everything she needs in case he canât give it to her. It was funny. Itâs not like he was hit by a car or thrown off a building. He is still capable of taking care of himself. But you, how you try to take care of his needs before you work, itâsâŠHe doesnât know how to describe it.
His heart thumps faster than normal whenever youâre there. When youâre close. So close he can smell the peach scent from your lotion. That makes him want to lean in closer for more.
When you dress, itâs all very nice.
Despite the colder air, your style with sweaters, jeans, and boots looks good on you. Splashes on orange and brown every time you come over. He wants to say how good you look, but doesnât. The reaction you had when he called you pretty was unexpected. And donât get him started on the nickname.
You bring light to his life like the sun, rays peering past the suffocating darkness that surrounds him. Sunshine wasâŠharmless. Obviously, you didnât think so.
He just got good at being friends with someone. He didnât want to mess it up because you look prettier than usual. Smell better than usual.
Dex just wants to take walks with you and Lady. Enjoy the park with just the three of you. Lady running after the ball he throws, you laughing at how fast sheâs going. He wants to make you laugh like that all the time.
When youâre exploring a new restaurant, he likes when you coax him into trying your food, wanting him to enjoy whatever you just ordered. He doesnât miss when he eats from your fork and then you use it, not caring that it came from his lips. He simply watches, a question about their evolving relationship lingers. But nothing is said. Just laughs and your lovely smile.
âCharles is thinking about taking you out again.â You say, scooping some cheesecake and eating it.
Dex follows how your tongue swipes across your lips, catching any whipped cream. âI need to get back in the game again. Makes sense he wants to take me out now that Iâm healed.â
âThe doctor cleared you yesterday.â You grimace, shoving another bite in your mouth. âYou shouldnât rush back into things again.â
âDonât wanna get rusty.â He locks onto the spoon you hand out to him to try the cheesecake. Dex slowly nods, like heâs making an important decision in his life. He takes the piece, lime and graham crackers dancing on his tongue. He doesnât leave your face when you lick the spoon, diving in for another taste. âIâm useful. Donât want anyone to think otherwise.â
âNo one will. Iâm just saying itâs okay to take a few more days off.â
Dex chuckles, âSo, you can have me all to yourself?â
âYes.â You wink, eating another piece.
âCareful. If you keep this up, the team will think weâre dating.â
Your brows raise, âOh? Is that what people are thinking? That weâre dating?â
It was meant to be a joke, but youâre asking with such intrigue that makes him shift in his seat.
âNo, wellâŠyouâve heard the jokes. The teasing. Everyone thinks we are, but we both know itâs not serious.â
You snort, âJeez, you donât like the idea of dating me, Dex?
âI didnât say that.â
âItâs okay if you are. I get it, I donât do much. I just work and go home and sleep. Iâm boring.â
Dex scoffs, âYouâre not boring. I like that.â
âBut not enough to date me.â
âDo you want me to go out on a date with you?â
âMaybe.â
âSo, letâs go on a date.â
You blink, dropping your spoon. The room gets small. Suddenly, he realizes thereâs a lot of people in this restaurant and he just dropped that he wants to go out with you. What the? How the hell did this happen?
âShit.â Dex shakes his head, âI didnât mean to-â
âYou didnât mean to ask me out?â
Silence. Just you and him staring at each other.
âNo, I didnât.â He covers up, unable to see you past the rapid blinking, âWeâreâŠjust friends. Right?â
âRight.â You force a smile, but he immediately sees that its fake. Not the one that makes you glow every time he sees you. Crap.
Dex pays for dinner and walks you home. Hardly anything is said, besides work, him mentioning he was going to bring breakfast tomorrow. Nothing about what happened in the restaurant. That he didnât want to date you.
Itâs not that he didnât. That would just mean you two wonât be friends anymore. Just more.
Heâs never had more before. He canât think of the last time the opportunity of having more was given to him. This was too different. Heâs already doing a lot by having a pet, making the effort to make friends without disguising himself as someone socially acceptable in society. What will this mean? If he became more with you?
Dex isnât sure. Not when heâs in the headquarters in the next day, bringing breakfast as usual. You take your usual order, saying thank you with a smile. Youâre still faking. Even when he tries to make conversation with you. You indulge, but donât go further as usual.
He doesnât like that.
When he offers to visit Lady, you shut him down, saying youâll be tired later. He pretends to understand.
Were you looking forward to going out with him? Dex didnât see why. Heâs boring. Heâs the one who needs help in reclaiming his mind. You? Anyone would be lucky to go out with you. So out of all peopleâŠwhy him?
A mission to Canada does little to stop his rushing thoughts.
Youâre doing your job, as youâve always done when you handle him. This time itâs brief. No follow-up questions, jokingly telling him not to lose another weapon, text him to be careful. It feels off. Weird.
âNo picture?â He sends a brief text, lingering by the front door of his hotel room. Not running out to kill his target yet.
âNow? Donât you have a target to eliminate?â
âIâm early. Thereâs plenty of time for a picture.â
âIf youâre early, you can kill the target now and get the next flight out.â
âNot until I get a picture.â
There are three dots, then itâs gone. It pops up again, then itâs gone. Dexâs heart slowly creeps, almost like when heâs about to catch his prey. But this time itâs waiting for the moment of truth. To see if youâll indulge him or not. Have proof that youâre not mad at him.
Five minutes and nothing.
Of course. The friendship is gone now. Points have been erased from the board and the sign flips from friends to acquaintances. All his hard work. Gone.
His phone vibrates and he immediately opens the message. Itâs you butâŠvery different.
Youâre looking up at the camera, showing off more of your body. Your blouse is unbuttoned, not too much to show off more than you want, but just enough to see your cleavage. Youâre wearing a push-up bra and everything isâŠhighlighted. Defined. Did you always wear push-up bras?
Your lips are parted, your eyes wide. He doesnât know what to say. You look nice. No, more than nice. Nice doesnât apply in this instance. Same thing on why he doesnât think you look pretty. Youâre more than that.
âYou look sexy.â
Dex doesnât leave yet. Not when his phone vibrates once more. He doesnât look at it. What he said starts something he canât help but start. Itâs the truth, you look sexy. The rising tent in his cargo pants is proof enough. Good thing heâs early.
After taking care of himself, killing his target in a park, and take the next flight back home, he canât stop looking at the picture. And your response to his comment.
âThank you. <3â
Is that what you wanted? To be noticed by him? Heâs always noticed you, even before the restaurant fiasco. He justâŠdoesnât know what to do.
Dex isnât sure what will happen once the friendship twists into something more. Itâs because what if you think heâs too much for you? Friends is one thing, being involved requires more commitment, feelings he isnât sure heâs felt before. Or in a long time.
Are you sure you want that?
When heâs back in the office for debriefing, making sure you send all the important details to Mr. Charles, neither of you brings up the picture. Youâre still dressed similarly to what you sent him, your chest profound under the blouse, work pants tight on your legs. Your glasses resting on the tip of your nose, increasing the desire to step forward and push them up for you.
âAre we still on for the film festival this weekend?â
Dex perks up, lining his eyes back to yours. âYeah. Starts at ten, right?â
You nod, still writing down notes on your tablet. âI have our passes, so donât worry about that.â
âOkay.â His eyes trace down your frame again. He should bring up the picture and ask what thatâs about. But what would he want to hear? âAre you excited?â
âYeah. Are you?â
âI am.â
A pause. Youâre done with the mission debrief notes, sending them out to Mr. Charles with the tap of your finger. Your glasses are still low, your shirt is still intentionally unbuttoned. He should leave. He should leave.
Dex moves forward, pushing up your glasses from the bridge with his finger, making sure it settles perfectly across your face. Your eyes go wide, staying still as he doesnât move back from his previous spot. Just staring at you. âWhy are you doing this?â
âWhat am I doing?â
He sharply inhales, accidentally taking in your honey perfume. âThisâŠlooking likeâŠthis.â
You look down at yourself, âJust trying something new. You donât like it? Thought youâre supposed to support me as my friend.â
âI am.â
âBesides calling me sexy yesterday.â
Dex shakes his head, âI meant it.â
âThen whatâs the problem?â
âNothing.â
âOkay. ThenâŠâ You motion him to leave your office. Looking like that. Shit.
He doesnât move, nor do his eyes. You donât either. A staring contest that may appear playful to others, to Dex, heâs trying to decide. Whether to leave or to take that next step. To be more.
Friends donât call their friends sexy. Unless they have an underlying intention.
For DexâŠhe didnât want to show his intention in here.
âIâll see you Saturday.â
The film festival took place on the west end of Central Park.
The air was cool enough for people to huddle up in jackets and blankets outside, ready for the movie of the night to play. Aisles of stalls with food, movies, CDs, and games to help pass the time before the main event.
He wasnât sure if it was going to be enough of a distraction.
When you met up with him by the entrance, nervous was the first thing he felt since he started this relationship with you.
Your ivy green sweater dress, tights that match the color of your skin, and black boots that dreadfully stopped at your knee. A breeze blew past you, banana and vanilla make him lean into the air. As an excuse to not lean on you.
He shouldâve expected you to dress like this. Well, youâve always dressed like this, but now he wants to keep looking at you. Admire how enticing you look.
âYou look handsome.â
Another hit to his heart. Dex was hoping you didnât notice he put in more effort himself to look nice too. The brown and navy blue suede jacket, black shirt, black pants are a dead giveaway.
âThank you. You lookâŠgreat.â
âNot sexy, huh?â His lips part at your teasing but you laugh it off, âIâm joking. I wonât mess with you anymore tonight.â
âRight.â He narrows his eyes, a mix of playful and suspicion.
The movie didnât start for a few more hours, so he browses with you. Endless selections of DVDs and CDs from some vendors. You browse with intention, aiming to pick out some you need a physical copy of. Some for him, too.
âI think youâd like rom-coms.â You say, going through a huge bin filled with classic movies. âThere were so many good ones back in the day.â
Dex peeks through the pile, a mountain of DVDs pushed by your hand. âWhat makes you think Iâd like rom coms?â
âBecause experiencing love and laughter is one of the best feelings in the world. Try it.â He doesnât disagree, but continues watching you go through the pile. Close, making sure you donât fall in and helplessly flail. âGot it!â
You turn and youâre right in his face. He could practically make out the pores on your skin. Dex takes a step back, not wanting to make the day uncomfortable already. You donât say anything, but show off the case you picked up.
âBride and Prejudice?â
âItâs so good. I used to watch it a lot when I was little with my mom.â
âWell, if youâd think Iâd like itâŠâ
âYou will.â
Before checking out, Dex skims over to the pile of DVDs again. âIâll pick one for you too.â
You lean over his shoulder and he tries to refrain from pulling you closer. Hold you under his arms. âOkay. What are you thinking?â
He picks up Ninja Assassin and you nod at the choice. âOf course itâs an action movie.â
âWe need some variety.â
âAh so weâre watching these after the festival?â
Dex hums, not realizing this is lowkey an attempt to get you back to his place. Or yours to continue the outing. âMaybe.â
You roll your eyes at his answer.
After the DVD shop, you wanted to browse some CDs, bringing up his CD player. Dex mainly uses it to listen to Dr Mercerâs recordings, indulging in a little bit of jazz classics or two. They were a dollar each, so fair game to you. He doesnât say anything when you pick up case upon case in your arms. Full of a wide range of genres: jazz, rock, early pop, and r&b. Things you think heâd like.
âI hope itâs enough to add to your CD collection.â
âYou donât have to buy me all of this.â
You raise a brow, âWhy not? Weâve been meaning to get you more music anyway.â
âYeah, butâŠâ He trails off, words that might offend you on the tip of his tongue. âYou should get some music for yourself.â
âI hardly use my CD player anymore, Dex, come on.â
Dex grimaces, letting you pay for them.
Itâs not that he didnât want them or the movie. Heâs sure heâll like everything you pick for him. It feels as if youâre trying to get on his good side, like you ever left it. As proof that, despite whatâs happened before, you two can still be good friends.
It doesnât sit right in his stomach. Dex isnât sure if he can classify this as a friendship anymore. The sway of your hips, how his heart upticks when you point at a new stall in awe. That sweet scent makes him follow you wherever you want to go.
Friends donât think of each other like that.
In fact, this feels like a date more than a hangout. Maybe he should treat it as such.
âHey,â He takes a step forward, easily holding your hand, âI saw a stall that sells great tacos. You hungry?â
Your eyes go wide, darting down to where your hands connect and his eyes. âUh, yeah, yeah Iâm getting there.â
âGreat.â Dex leads, taking you to the food stand. Your face hardly changes and you donât let go either. At least until youâre at the truck and you pretend you need to get your wallet out. But heâs paying, as a gentleman should on a date.
He likes this. Itâs more natural. Just right.
You donât bring up the hand holding and Dex doesnât pry. Your movements are slower, despite your face becoming neutral. Still trying to figure out what just happened while putting sour cream on your taco.
âYou smell nice.â He says, realizing he should compliment you more. âBanana smells great on you.â
âAhâŠthanks.â You shift on the bench, not taking a bite out of your taco just yet. âSo do you. Was that aâŠnew cologne?â
âYeah. I got it a few days ago.â He figures sandalwood was a good start. For this...date.
You nod, deeming it adequate to eat. He watches, a smile threatening to break at the streak of sour cream on the corner of your lips. As a good date should, he takes a napkin and hands it to you, motioning to where the cream is. You awkwardly take it, following where heâs pointing.
âYou have an idea of what the movie might be?â
You shrug, glancing over at your pamphlet. âIâm hoping itâs that AI one. You know where the girl falls in love with her AI companion.â
ââŠI think thatâs been done before.â
âYes, but this time the roles are reversed. And the girl is blind.â
âAh, right.â
âWould you fall in love with an AI companion?â
âNo,â Dex gruffs, wiping off his hands, âI hardly use my phone, I wouldnât take my chances with something like that.â
You hide your amusement behind your drink, âBut you are open toâŠliking someone?â
He doesnât leave your face, waiting for an answer. Dex still has reservations about romance. Heâs also never taken that step, unlike other men his age. So many things he hasnât experienced that he isnât sure itâs possible for him to. This is a new arc for him. Heâs taken steps to show heâs not like he was years ago.
Romantic interests can be possible.
âYes.â He admits, âIâm justâŠitâs beenâŠIâve never really experienced that before. Iâm still a bird who hasnât learned how to fly. Yet.â
âA pretty old bird.â
âWeâre the same age.â
You laugh, âMy point still stands.â
Dex playfully scoffs, âWill you help me learn how to fly then? The whole works?â
âI can butâŠâ You pause, tongue in cheek. He has to remind himself to breathe, not think of the extremes, âyou said, asking me out was a mistake. Do you still think that?â
âNo. I didnât want to ruin what we have. YouâreâŠspecial to me. I havenât met anyone like you before.â
You donât hide your smile this time and he canât help but smile with you.
âMe neither.â
Dex feels the shift happen in real time. After eating, you immediately take his hand, letting him to sink into the reality of what this is now. What you two can be.
As it gets dark, you two take your seats. On the floor, the fluffy blankets provide enough cushion for both of you. His breath hitches at the random pain that aches his joints while he sits. You immediately hand him some painkillers and a bottle of water. That you had just in case.
Even on a date, you never truly stop working.
The movie is exactly the one you said, which makes you happy. Dex takes in the light in your eyes, how you gently shake him in excitement when the opening credits roll. On instinct and because he saw another couple in front of him, he wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you flush against him.
Itâs a little cold and the body heat will help as well as the blankets.
Thatâs his logic anyway. Not because he gets direct access to your banana scent, but finally able to feel you. You fit so well against him, too like you belong there. And he wasnât going to let you go. Not if he had anything to say about it.
Something else has an opinion too.
During the movie, Dexâs pants get tight again. You taking his hand, thumb rubbing it didnât help either. He knows its been a long, long time since heâs gotten physical contact like this. And you saying that youâd be willing to help him.
This? Itâs too perverted right now. Dex canât expect you to help him with something like this. Not when you two just started dating.
It would be too much.
He inhales when you accidentally brush against his crotch, trying to get yourself situated.
âOhâŠâ You whisper, making eye contact.
âSorry. Just ignore it, itâll go away soon.â
âYouâre okay, Dex. Itâs natural.â
âReally?â He forces out a laugh, âI didnât wanna scare you.â
âIâve experienced my fair share of boners. Itâs okay.â
Your lips press against his cheek and he feels the imprint of your lips on his skin. Unfortunately, it makes his cock jump. His heartbeat rising. You have his hand stay on your hip. So close to your ass. YourâŠnicely sized one.
His boner remains, difficult to keep all of these thoughts at bay while the movie is playing. Dex should take it easy. Not want to feel all over you behind closed doors. Wonder how you sound against his ears.
It would be too much. Too. Much.
He softens right when the movie ends. The sad ending changes the mood for the evening and you were sniffling a little. Dex gently pats your back, lowkey not understanding the movie at all, but not wanting to ruin how youâre feeling.
âDidnât expect that movie to be sad at all.â
âMe neither.â He agrees while taking you home. A few blocks and a subway ride away. âChanged the mood a little.â
âYeah, sad movies arenât good for boners.â
Dex shakes his head, âDonât bring that upâŠâ
âWhy? Donât be embarrassed. I told you thatâs common.â
âYeah butâŠâ He shuts up when they go inside the subway car, picking the seats a bit away from the rest of the riders. âI wanted toâŠdo more things. When you kissed me IâŠI wanted more. Needed it.â
âOh. I didnât realizeâŠâ
His cheeks warm up and he glances away, pretending to focus on the train car behind them. Itâs ridiculous. Feeling all of these things so fast. You shouldnât witness him being aroused and inexperienced.
Dex wants to get some books to understand what youâd like. Emotionally and physically. Itâs only fair.
âDo you still need it?â
He faces you, a hand on his thigh, gently squeezing it. That simple touch heats up his skin, surging down below. ââŠwhy are you asking?â
âYou forgot what I said before?â You laugh a little and he swallows hard. âJustâŠhelping you learn how to fly.â
Dex doesnât tear away from your eyes, pleading, awaiting a truthful answer. He should say no. It would be too quick. And he didnât want to disappoint you. Set any unfair expectations because heâs plagued by salacious thoughts and feelings.
ButâŠwhat would you want to do?
âYes.â
Back at your apartment, everything is quiet.
Besides Lady yipping and begging for pets, which she gets after a few tries, before you lead him to your bedroom. Dex takes everything in stride. As you close the door behind you, light from your blinds hits parts of your dress. Each step you take is slow and cautious, giving him room to change his mind if heâs uncomfortable.
He wasnât. Instead, his heart picks up speed. The gentle sway of your hips boosts his arousal. Dex doesnât try to fix himself this time. Itâs just you and him. Alone.
Your arms wrap around his neck, coaxing him to bend down a little. No kiss is shared yet. He has time to admire the shape of your eyes, their color, the tip of your nose, and your lips. Like youâre sculpted carefully. With purpose.
And he gets to have you. Him. Of all people in this world.
âIs this too much? Too close?â
Dex shakes his head, capturing your lips. A simple peck, so that he can get used to the feeling again. The softness of your lips, the indent of your makeup on his own. He quirks a smile before kissing you again.
More force, more passion. He needs to show that he really likes this. Kissing you, your body against his own. He grips your dress for some restraint, not wanting to lose control immediately. Banana and vanilla live inside his brain. Imprinted so he can remember this moment forever. Youâre following his lead, sighing a breath apart.
A small press against his torso. Dex sharply inhales at the roll of your hips, right over his erection. You donât stop, pushing him towards the end of your bed. He breaks the kiss just enough to land on his back as you crawl on top of him, eyes filled with desire.
Dex doesnât want to break off the kiss more than he has to. He groans at the fat of your thigh, how heâs able to handle the weight on top of you. The only time he does is when you pull off his jacket, and you kick off your boots.
You take his hands and place them on your ass, causing him to tense up for a moment. You notice, immediately stopping.
âShit, was that too much-â
He silences you with another kiss, kneading your cheeks in his palms. You gasp against his lips, pushing your hips back so he can have more to hold. Youâre rolling your hips again, causing him to let out a guttural growl.
You pull his bottom lip back between your teeth. Dex rolls his eyes back when you close the distance and trace your tongue across it. His lips slightly part, beckoning your tongue to his. Easily gliding against it to help him get used to it. He does, angling his head at a better angle for the tongues to dance.
All while he helps you move your hips over his bulge some more. The tension between his pants and you is becoming unbearable. He needs them off. Now.
You slide your hand between your bodies, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling down the zipper. Without words, Dex lifts up his hips to help you pull down his pants. A very clear imprint in his boxers, but with less tension.
When you grind your hips against his covered cock again, he gropes your ass for assurance. Itâs too good that itâs almost criminal. And when you do it again, he expresses that delicious ache with a grunt. You swallow it, grinding against his bulge again and again and again.
The edges of your dress rise; your tights are gone now. The seat of your panties against his leaking tip brings tears to his eyes.
He should say slow down, not have his body ruin this night. But when youâre rotating your hips like that, hitting a spot that makes him bite his lip, he canât say anything. Dex holds you down, making sure youâre rubbing his shaft at a decent pace. He canât focus on kissing you anymore, but he likes when you nip and suck his. A trail of spit as a bridge between the two of you.
Breaths are quicker, his joints slightly crack when you go faster, making the bed creak. Heâs lost in that sweet scent when he stills, cum coating his boxers. Dexâs cry is silent, his lashes fluttering in disbelief. His entire body is heavy when he comes up for air, gasping against your neck.
âThatâs goodâŠyouâre okayâŠâ You reassure, parting his hair with your fingers, scratching his scalp.
Dex jerks at the sensation, moving into your touch. âI didnât mean toâŠâ
âItâs okay. I think you needed that.â
He tsks, leaning up for another kiss. A slow one. One with intention. âYour turn.â
âOh, you donât have to. We already did a lot.â
âI want to.â You raise your dress, showing off the lacy black panties. As you bend down, he pulls them down to your ankles. âHelp me.â
You guide his fingers to your wet hole, a sigh fanning his face. He takes some of your slickness and presses two fingers along your clit. âSlow, small circles pleaseâŠâ
Dex takes your guidance, circling your bud. Your eyes lower, lips part. Youâre kneading his hair too at the same time. He dips inside you again then rubs your clit once more.
It picks up in speed and so does your voice of ecstasy. A moan ignites goosebumps on his skin.
âThat feels good, Dex.â You coax him, trying to show what a good job heâs doing.
He doesnât change his pace while figuring out which rubs work and which donât. The ones that make you sigh and the ones that make you shift. He was worried about not being well-read in this topic, but whatâs a better experience than hands-on?
Dex increases the speed of his rubs and focuses on your quickened breathing. How your body relaxes when you stop feeling his hair and grip it with need. Youâre grinding against his fingers and he has to keep you still with a hand on your back, unable to help but smile at your reactions.
You tug his hair, back slowly coming into an arch. âD-DexâŠIâmâŠohâŠâ
âDo itâŠâ
You moan along his face, body tensing up and sending shockwaves across it. Your brows furrow, your lovely lips part in a way that makes him want to kiss you again. Exposing yourself to him until you canât anymore. Then crash against his chest, panting along it.
Dex looks at the sheen on his fingers and licks them, humming. âYou taste good.â
âUh, thanks.â Your laugh is breathy and alive.
He doesnât let you move, wanting to enjoy the mess you two found yourself in. Half-removed clothes and a dog whoâs begging to come in and see what youâre up to.
Would sex be an upgraded version of this?
âThank you.â Dex starts, eyes still at the ceiling. âFor wanting to be my friend.â
You smile, caressing his cheek so he can look at you, see the care thatâs written in your eyes. âOf course. Iâd do it all again too.â
âEven theâŠawkward stuff?â
âYeah.â You giggle, âEven the awkward stuff.â
your blog is soooo sweet!! i recently read your bullseye fics and i am in awe with how you write him. i was hoping for another smau fic? it can be about any!! but maybe ddba dex if u can? thank you so much and i love your fics!!<33
Passion
featuring: Benjamin Poindexter
warning: MDNI 18+, suggestive, dex threatening to off your coworker, both of you are slightly crazy
A/N: Awwww thank you so much, this is so cuteeđ„č These are random chats with dex, I hope you enjoy<33
What do you mean âchatâ is now referring to ChatGPT and not twitch chat? What? What? What the fuck? No?
When I address chat I am speaking to a presumed Greek chorus of real human people shitposting on their lunch break, not a machine that devours lakes to covert electricity into slop.
bunny offering herself for dex to practice knots and tying people up on her đ«ą see which positions are the most efficient
curling up on the couch while heâs all in serious mode, brow crinkled as he clicks around on his laptop. you knew he was doing bullseye stuff purely from his demeanour, and you knew you werenât supposed to interrupt. but, scrolling on pinterest was getting boring â so you strike up conversation.
âdexie?â you chime, dropping your phone and turning your body toward him.
âhm?â he doesnât look up, continuing to click, click, click.
âwhen youâre doing your big boy bullseye stuff, do you ever have to tie people up?â you tilt your head curiously and he blinks out of his concentrated trance, observing you for a second before speaking up.
âwhat?â
âlike, when you go toââ you make a dramatic throat slicing action with your hand, followed by another performative rendition of you pretending to throw a knife. you then also played the role of the victim, throwing your hands up and whisper-screaming, pretending to die as you slump against the couch.
âspit it out, kid.â
âdo you ever use rope to tie people up? so they donât escape?â you clarify, clearly excited from the topic. dex scratches his jaw in thought, shrugging a shoulder.
âif i gotta â yeah. why?â
you hop up out your seat, holding up a manicured finger to gesture âone secâ to him, toddling off to your room. he hears a bunch of shuffling and a few things falling before you come skipping back out â a soft pink rope between your hands.
âwhy donât you practice on me? you know â to figure out which positions are most efficient for you.â you beam, hopping on one foot to another as you hold the rope in two hands infront of you. dex licks his lips, placing his laptop on the coffee table before taking the rope from you, passing it between his hands.
ââfuck do you think i do with these guys? tie their legs open nâfuck âem? i tie their wrists together so they canât reach for a weapon. sometimes their legs if they try nârun. theyâre not hard knots to make, baby.â he goes to hand the rope back as you pout, shaking it in his hand when you donât take it.
âbut⊠but you could just try new stuff? it could be really helpful? i wanna be helpful.â you sulk, feeling rejected. dex sighs out his nose, a small smile tugging at his older features.
âyou just wanna get off, that right?â
âno i donât.â you huff, stomping your foot. as a reflex, dex grabs your wrist and yanks you into a manoeuvre in less than a second, arched over his lap.
âyeah you wanna stomp that foot at me?â he challenged and you concede, shaking your head with a pout.
âsorry daddy.â
âuh-huh. you want me to tie you up just say that, donât gotta make up excuses.â you feel him roughly begin to bind your wrists together at the small of your back and you kick your legs happily behind you. âpractice.â he scoffs. âjust wanna feel like a victim, donât you?â
summary: you forgot to socialize your cat and now it became your girlfriend's problem
word count: 1k+
tw: none!! set in early season 4, reader is not a supe
a/n: based on this request! me and my cat bucky hope you like it
| getting a cat while working full time in government probably wasn't the smartest decision of your life but you somehow made it work anyway. tabby, a long haired boy that you adopted from some old lady from facebook was definitely a full personality. honestly you would let him represent you in court. tabby wasn't a typical cuddly kitty but he had your whole apartment always under watch and ruled a very strict schedule of feeding times. he also had a lot to say. because of the way you worked, at some point you had to get him a petsitter, pretty common thing in new york city. elizabeth, that was her name, quickly became almost a part of your family. you even ended up hosting a birthday party for her after stalking her friends online. with that being said tabby knew personally two people - you and his petsitter.
even if you actually had time to meet with your friends it never happened at your place, and when your then almost-girlfriend, victoria was suppose to come over for the first time you realized that tabby actually has never seen another person in his cat life. for the first few brief meetings that vicky was at your place, drinking wine and talking, he kept his distance usually just watching the two of you from the highest platform of his cat tree. he was quiet enough that victoria didn't even notice you having a cat till one time he meowed loudly because you forgot to feed him. she mentioned then that she never had a pet in her life or knew anyone who did. tabby ignored her presence completely not even looking up at her, focused on you preparing him food and meowing loudly so you would do it faster.
now, good two months later victoria started staying at your place for more nights in a row and tabby started to act like he usually did. walking infront of you, making you almost trip over him whenever you stood up. looking at both you when victoria was cuddled around you on the couch like he was measuring whenever you needed saving. it wasn't anything new that you had full conversation with him but victoria seemed pretty shocked when he kept meowing back at you. at first she would pretend tabby didn't actually exist and honestly it wasn't hard as he wasn't the type to join you in bed. she would stand and curiously look over your arm when you were preparing him food, at some point she started telling him to shut up and wait till you finish and you would laugh at how he completely ignored her.
vicky quickly figured how much this cat meant to you. but she also understood why stan edgar never allowed any animals in the house. it's not like she exactly dreamed of having a cat or a dog as a child, she grew up pretty quickly and was focused on whatever her father figure wanted from her. she didn't hate pets, no but she noticed how time consuming those little creatures were and that she didn't have enough patience to bother with it even if it meant having company. she also liked (to say at least) having everything under control so the way you would be always unbothered by tabby doing whatever he wanted was not exactly understandable for her. once she tried to pick him up from the counter and he jumped out off her arms the second she lifted him in the air. she almost had a heart attack. and he yelled at her after landing on four paws.
one day you left victoria alone at your place when you went downstairs to pick up the takeout. vicky nodded, closed the door behind you and the second she turned around tabby was standing infront of her looking as she later said "straight into her eyes".
- what? - she asked seriously looking down at him.
- meow - tabby didn't move a step, actually he decided that sitting down infront of her was the perfect choice.
victoria kept the eye contact few more seconds and carefully went over him to go back to the couch. tabby meowed again after her like he was offended that she so casually ignored his presence. before vicky could answer he spawned now infront of the couch again looking at her while licking one of his paws. vic frowned back at him and tried to look at her phone when tabby meowed back making her move her eyes away from the screen.
- what do you want from me? - she asked, dead serious like he could actually answer (well, usually he did but it's not like she would get it).
tabby stayed quiet looking at her still so victoria lifted herself up and put her hand out to pet his head. she saw you few times before, patting him or going through his long fluffy fur with your nails. maybe that's what he wanted. some touch and love since he was left just with her. maybe she had an actual shot on forming an alliance with this creature. unfortunately, tabby instead of leaning into her touch, very dramatically stood up and walked few steps away from her hand to sit down again. victoria signed when he meowed back.
- i think your cat hates me - that was the first thing you heard when you walked inside with takeout in your hand.
- meow - you laughed hearing him meow back at it and placed the boxes on the couch. tabby stood up and bumped your leg with his head.
- see he agrees - vicky seemed almost offended by it but got distracted when you handed her a box of fries.
the conversation drifted off after, both of you sitting down on the couch to eat. tabby kept you company now lying down on a coffe table, apparently when you get a cat every surface becomes his automatically. you stopped trying to stop him long time ago. at least he wasn't the type to steal food like you knew some cats were cause victoria wouldn't survive sharing her food with a cat. even though you had to share yours with her almost everyday.
- do you think he knows i'm a supe? - victoria asked at some point looking back at him.
- i mean, i'm a firm believer that animals can sense more stuff than we can - you answered putting more fries into your mouth - can you imagine pets on v?
- yeah, maybe that's why he hates me - vicky murmured not really commenting on your new theory.
- imagine like murderous chickens or something - you laughed at your own thought, ignorning what victoria just said and also how she furrowed her eyebrows while avoiding your gaze slighty, focused on her drink now
- crazy concept
a/n: shoutout to my favorite episode of the series wih this one! requests are open for vicky, firecracker and whoever you want honestly. share your thoughts, like and reblog
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