The lighting is exquisite, creating a sense of his face alternating between darkness and light……
The photographer of this event seems to have a particular fondness for him, always giving him close-up shots from an extremely close distance.
Summary: Dex becomes obsessed with one of the waitresses at his local diner. (3.5k)
Tags/warnings: smut (mdni), dry humping, oral (f!receiving), face riding, cumming untouched, pathetic dex, mentions of violence, mentions of murder, stalking, obsessive/possessive behavior, reader is morally grey and kind of a freak (affectionately)
A/N: First time writing for Dex!!! Heavily inspired by the song "She" by Tyler, The Creator and Frank Ocean. English is not my first language and this was not proofread. Enjoy!
masterlist
A routine, that's all you craved for when you skipped town a couple of months ago. That's what you try to remind yourself as another day, identical to the previous, begins.
You wake up tangled in your cheep sheets, glistening with sweat as the first rays of sunshine filter through your open window.
You paddle to the small kitchen of your new home, the floorboards creaking under your bare feet, and make yourself a cup of coffee. Then, you start to get ready for another shift at the diner.
It's not your dream job — far from it, actually — but the pay is decent, and if you manage to flash a sweet smile convincingly enough to the right clients, the tips can be pretty consistent.
After a relatively long drive from the secluded ranch you managed to buy from a man who didn't ask many questions when you asked to pay upfront with cash, you park your beat-up sedan in front of the diner.
As you walk in you flash a smile to the few regulars you recognize, and you great your coworker behind the counter — a young girl too sweet for her own good.
"Morning!" she replies with a smile of her own, despite the fact that's way to early for someone to look this joyous.
After exchanging a few niceties, you tie your apron and officially begin your shift. It's the same routine as usual: go up to tables, take orders, and refill cups with coffee that you know for sure tastes like shit.
But then, just like clockwork, at exactly the same time as every day you work the morning shift, your favorite costumer walks in.
He's older and unfairly attractive, with his broad shoulders and graying blond hair. Like usual, he sits at a booth far from the windows and he picks up the menu, carefully studying it, despite always ordering the same thing.
"Good morning, Tony! What can I get you today?"
You take out your notepad from the pocket of your apron, and let the pen hover over the blank page, waiting for his answer.
"I'll have a banana milkshake," he replies, looking up at you with a controlled smile, making a shiver run down your spine.
There's nothing unusual about him. He's polite, always thanks you when you get him his order, and tips way too much considering he always gets the same banana milkshake.
But there's something in the way you feel his eyes following you whenever he's in the diner that makes you feel naked — like he knows what you're so desperately trying to hide.
Still, you keep on the facade you use whenever you're interacting with other people, especially costumers, and leave to make his banana milkshake.
His gaze burns on the back of your head, and your hands tremble slightly as you pour the milk in the blender. You try to sneak a glance in his general direction, but when your eyes land on his figure, he's already looking somewhere else.
After, the routine resumes as usual. He drinks his milkshake, you give him his check, and he leaves a generous tip before walking out of the diner.
In the past, you tried imagining what his life outside might look like. Where does he work? Does he live nearby? Does he have someone waiting for him at home?
Questions like this usually leave you feeling uneasy and unsatisfied when you realize that you'll probably never know the answer.
Later that night, desperately trying to push further away any thoughts about Tony, you decide to call Chris over.
He's a nice guy. Definitely not the love of your life, but a pleasant enough distraction from your previous life.
You met him a few weeks ago at the diner, and when he shyly asked for your number — after pushing the initial instinct to give him the wrong one — you left it written on his check.
After that first encounter, he brought you on many dates, but still, you never got past first base, and he, like a gentleman, never pushed further.
Tonight, though, things are going to change.
At 8 pm sharp, you hear the doorbell ring, and when you open your door, you find him still in uniform, holding a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.
"Sorry, I just got off work. I would have changed, but I didn't want to be late, and-" you press your lips against his, muffling the rest of his apology.
Truth be told, at first the fact that he's a cop made you nervous. You worried he would look into your past and find out what made you run away. Instead, he seemingly believed every word that came out of your mouth when you told him your made-up background story, and it made you more inclined to keep seeing him. At least, until he realizes that everything you told him, even your name, is a lie.
"Don't worry about it," you mumble against his lips. "I'm pretty sure I've got some clothes that could fit you. Now, come in."
You take his free hand in yours and drag him past the threshold, closing the door behind him.
Then, after putting the bouquet in a vase, you walk towards your bedroom, looking at him over your shoulder, silently inviting him to follow you. Like a siren luring in an unfortunate mariner.
He seems to take the bait, and gladly follows you. Men are so predictable.
"Here, let me see if I can find some sweats," you say, looking inside your closet.
In the meantime, Chris stands awkwardly near the door, looking so out of place in your bedroom.
As you rummage through the few clothes that you brought with you, he takes off his holster and places it on your nightstand, making it land on the wooden surface with a loud thud.
The cold night air enters the room through your open window, moving the blinds in an almost hypnotic way, catching Chris' attention.
Then, he freezes.
You turn around in that exact moment, holding a pair of oversized sweats in your hands, and furrow your brown when you see him looking attentively at a distant point outside your window.
"What is it?"
"I think I saw something."
You let out a giggle, taking a step closer to his unmoving body.
"I live near the woods. It was probably just an animal."
You can see it in his eyes that he's not convinced, so you lay the sweats on your bed and place your hands on his chest.
"Come on. Let's get you out of this uniform, officer," you whisper near his ear, before placing a languid kiss on his jaw.
It turns out to be a good enough distraction. His gaze shifts in your direction, and his hands immediately find your hips, pulling you closer to his body.
You push him on the bed, and then straddle him, before moving your hands on his shoulder and leaving a trail of kisses from his jaw down to his neck.
His back is pressed near the window, making it possible for you to see some movement near a couple of trees outside your house.
Before you can think about your next move, a knife slices the air, landing on the opposite wall. You let out a scream, as Chris moves your body and lunges towards the gun on your nightstand. He then fires two shoots in the general direction of the attacker. But it's too late. He's gone.
Your heart is beating so fast in your chest that you're pretty sure Chris can hear it as well. He has something more urgent to think about though.
Blood is running down his left arm, soaking his uniform. The wound is pretty close to the spot where your hand was just a few moments ago, and yet, you're unharmed.
Did the attacker miss, or were you never the target?
"Shit," Chris says, as he tries to apply some pressure on the cut.
"Wait, let me help you."
You raise from the bed and run to your bathroom, where you keep your first aid kit. Once you're back in the bedroom, you help him take off his uniform, and as you begin to disinfect the wound, Chris breaks the silence.
"Who the fuck was that? He had a fucking- A fucking mask, and he-" his tone is understandably panicked, and his mind was clearly running a hundred miles an hour.
"Was that one of your exes?"
The question sounds so absurd you almost laugh, but decide that now is probably not the right moment.
"If that's your ex you should probably own a pistol, you know that?"
You blame his rambling to the adrenaline that's probably running through his veins right now, and keep cleaning him up.
It doesn't take you long to stop the bleeding. The cut is actually not that deep, but it doesn't seem to ease his mind. On the contrary.
As soon as you finish securing the sterile gauze over the wound, he grabs his things and almost runs to the door, mumbling something about calling you tomorrow.
He does offer you to spend the night at his apartment, but when you decline he doesn't try too hard to change your mind, instead getting in his car and driving away as if someone were chasing him.
When you go back to your room, for some reason unknown to you, you don't feel scared or threatened.
Your eyes land on the knife, still plugged in the drywall. You walk closer and pull it out, the weight feeling oddly comforting in your hands.
There's some of Chris' blood on it, so you wipe it on your sleep shorts, before hiding it in your underwear drawer.
And in that moment you think: it was never meant for you. It was meant for him only.
The next morning, when you check your phone, you don't find any missed calls from Chris. You think that what happened last night must have scared him away for good, and, weirdly enough, it gives you a strange sense of relief.
Throughout the rest of the day you keep occasionally checking your phone, mostly because it feels like the right think to do, not because you're actually concerned.
You should be worried. Maybe you should try to reach out. Go to his apartment, even. But you never do.
Instead, you go back to your house and slip in the shower, trying to wash away the smell of fried bacon and burned coffee that always lingers on you after you leave the diner.
Once you're done, you realize you've forgotten your towel, leaving you no option but to walk completely naked to your bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the floorboards.
The blinds in your bedroom are open — as they usually are — but now, for the first time since you moved in this house, you feel a pair of eyes on you.
A shiver runs down your spine, but you do nothing to cover yourself or close the curtains, because there's something familiar about this feeling.
You brush it off, instead applying lotion over your damp body, before finally putting on your clean pj's and going to bed.
Next time you're at the diner, something strange happens.
Tony walks in at the same time as usual, he sits at his usual booth, and he orders the same banana milkshake.
Nothing is out of the ordinary. Except this time the way his gaze follows you feels warmer than usual, and just as you're about to pour the drink inside the glass, the realization suddenly dawns on you.
Tony's the one who has been looking at you through your window. And he's probably the one who threw that knife at Chris.
You remain frozen on your spot until another waitress squeezes past you, reminding you that you're still in a public place. And he's in the same room as you.
You swallow hard enough to make noise, before pouring some whipped cream over the milkshake, grabbing a straw and walking up to Tony's table.
"Here you go," you said placing the glass down on the table, praying he didn't notice the way your voice wavered.
"Thank you, ma'am," he replies, reaching for his milkshake and accidentally brushing your fingers with his.
You immediately move your hand as if you got burned, and without saying anything else you walk away, busying yourself with other costumers.
His gaze, though, weights heavier than it ever has today, and you can't breath properly until he leaves.
The drive home after your shift is silent — you don't even turn on the radio — but that's fine, because your thoughts make enough noise on their own.
The road that usually seems never ending, today feels uncharacteristically short. Even after turning off the engine, you remain seated inside your car.
Your skin is prickling with a feeling similar to anxiety, but not quite.
Excitement, that's what it it.
Despite the rational part of your brain telling you that you should feel scared, that you might be in danger, and that Chris' radio silence might have been caused by something quiet dark, you can't help but hope Tony will be outside your window, watching you.
So you walk inside your home.
Everything's silent. The only sound that can be heard is the low buzz of your fridge. Despite that, you have a feeling you're not alone.
"Tony? Is that you?" and after a moment. "Is that even your real name?"
Then, from a dark corner, a broad figure emerges. Despite the tactical gear and the mask covering everything beside his eyes, you know immediately that the figure that has been inhabiting the shadows near you for longer than you might expect is none other than your favorite costumer.
"Hi, Tony," you great him, your voice just above a whisper. "Or you wanna tell me your real name?"
For a moment you're met with silence, so long that you begin to wonder whether you got it all wrong and there's an actual stranger in your house. Your heartbeat begins to raise, until he speak.
"Benjamin."
"Hi, Benjamin."
You stand there, staring at each other, until you take a step forward in his direction.
"So it was you, uh? How long have you been watching me?" you ask, but there's no real malice, or anger in your voice. Just plain curiosity.
"Ever since I first met you."
It's weird, you would have expected him to be unwavering, sure of himself. Terrifying, even.
Instead, he sounds almost ashamed, making it difficult for you to believe that he's the same man that threw a knife at your date the other night.
You take another step forward, never moving your gaze from his masked face.
"Are you going to show me you pretty face or not?"
He lets out a sharp exhale, sounding like he just got punched. Experiencing first hand the power your words have over him makes you feel almost high.
When he doesn't make a move to take off his mask, you raise your hands to his neck and do it yourself.
The moonlight shines over his messy locks, and the scar on his cheek catches the light just right, making you want to lick it.
Instead, you let the mask drop on the floor, and begin lightly scratching his chest over his suit, your touch featherlight, almost imperceptible.
"So, you watched me for weeks. What was I doing?"
The way his expression shifts and the tips of his ears redden slightly make your lips curl into a smug smile.
You can see his gloves hands clenching at his sides, almost like he's making an active effort not to reach out. Like he's waiting for your permission.
"You were reading, mostly. Sometimes you would watch a movie, if you were not too tired. Most of the times you were too exhausted to do anything. Other times-" and he stops, his face burning.
You tilt your head, confused by what he might be referring to, until you realize.
"What? What was I doing?"
Silence.
"Touching yourself."
Your grin widens, and your hands shift from his chest to his hair.
"Hm, and how did that make you feel, uh? Did it turn you on? Did you wish you could replace my fingers with yours?"
As you ask him these filthy questions, you tug his hair. Hard.
In response, he lets out a low moan, and his hands fly to your hips, mostly trying to ground himself.
"P-Please..."
The word comes out almost uncertain from his mouth, making your lips curl in amusement.
How the tables have turned. How did he go from being your stalker to begging you to let him touch you?
"Please, what?"
"Let me make you feel good."
His voice is strained, almost as if he were in physical pain.
"You really think you can do that?" you ask mockingly.
He nods, looking so eager to please.
You don't offer him a response. Instead you start walking to your bedroom — the same bedroom he has been spying for weeks — and you don't have to look back to know he's following you.
The mattress sinks under your weight as your sit on it. Benjamin doesn't hesitate before falling on his knees, right in front of you.
He starts soft, gently kissing your knuckles. Then he starts traveling higher, his lips caressing the soft skin of your arms, making your eyes flutter closed.
He then places his hands on either side of your body, steadying himself as he kisses your neck. He keeps getting closer to his final destination, grazing your jaw, your cheeks, and finally your lips.
At first the kiss is soft and tender, until you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. This seems to be enough of an invitation for him.
The kiss turns hungry, almost desperate. You can feel the weight of his body over yours as he lays you down on the bed. But you don't stay in this position for long.
Taking him by surprise, you flip him over — but you have the suspicion he's right where he wants to be, underneath you.
His hands begin exploring your body, and your own move back to his hair, burying your fingers in his graying locks.
Underneath the layers of his tactical gear, you can feel him getting progressively harder. All it takes is you grinding your hips over his bulge to get another moan out of him.
You keep moving, chasing friction with his clothed cock, trying to ease the heath between your legs.
Surprisingly, he's the first one to break the kiss.
"Please, can I taste you?"
He sounds so desperate you can feel your panties getting even more wet than before.
In response, you take off your pants and your underwear in one go, but when you move to lay on the bed, he stops you. Instead, he moves your hips higher up, near his face.
Without a warning, he pushes you down on his face. Your hands immediately travel back to his hair, tugging them as you let out a high pitched moan.
At first, he drags his tongue from you needy hole to your clit, before laying a kiss on the bundle of nerves.
His movements are unsure at first, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. Then, when you start grinding on his face, he seems to gain more confidence, and begins to eat you out like a man starved.
Even though you're completely lost in your pleasure, you can feel him moaning and whispering praises into your cunt.
Things like "you taste so good," and, "you're so perfect."
But the closer you get to your release, the darker his words get.
"Ain't no man allowed in your bedroom except for me," or, "he couldn't have made you feel this good," or simply, "you're mine."
The possessiveness in his voice is enough to make you reach your orgasm, holding onto him like an anchor.
The sound of your release paired with the way to keep pulling his hair — hard enough to sting — is enough make him cum untouched in his pants.
After catching your breath, you move from Benjamin's face and roll over, laying by his side.
He moves as well, resting his head in your lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you so tight that you think he might be afraid that you're going to disappear at any moment.
A moment of silence passes between the two of you.
"Benjamin?"
"Mhm?"
"What happened to Chris?"
"I killed him."
A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!
How John pushed Randy's feet so that he could change his perspective……
The way Randy clung tightly to John……
That angle at the end……
I am watching porn.
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