♉️ Welcome to my blog ♉️ You may call me April or TV. I’m 22. Here I reblog fanfics of DC, Marvel, RPF and other fandoms. Hope you enjoy them! Everyone is welcome here. There will some 18+ and dark content.
Can you make a fluff fic about Dick and mom reader? Something like this pin on pinterest: https://pin.it/1NqhD43S3
This is so cute! I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for requesting it. For anyone that wants to see, here's the link.
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“Baby, we talked about this,” you sigh as you stroke your daughter's cheek, “It's only the second night. You promised to be a big girl and stay in your room.”
Co-sleeping with your baby girl from infancy into the early toddler years had worked really well for you. With Dick out most nights, something was comforting about having her so close. Except now, to keep up with developmental stages, it was biting you in the ass. This was the third time in the last thirty minutes that she’s found herself standing beside the bed as you lean over the edge to coo at her.
“I am a big girl, mommy. I just want to sleep with you,” Izzy pouts at you, leaning into your palm as her hand curls around the edge of the bed. A test to see if you’d really make her go back to her own bed.
Something in you just wants to squeeze her cheeks and kiss her all over her face. You settle on combing her wild hair, no doubt from tossing and turning, back out of her face, “I know you do, Iz, but part of being a big girl is sleeping in your own bed.”
Her foot stomps, the start of a not enough sleep tantrum, “But Daddy sleeps in your bed!”
The unreliable fiend in question just laughs muffled against your shoulder. You roll your eyes. The fact of the matter was the only reason you had yet to get out of bed and carry Izzy back to hers was because of the insistent weight of a vigilante lying across your back as you talked to your girl.
“He doesn’t always, babe; sometimes he sleeps on the couch,” you reply as you wiggle under the weight of Dick. He doesn’t shift.
Izzy’s eyes water, bottom lip pressing out. Before you even know what happened, she’s crying. That finally gets Dick moving, climbing off of you to scoop Izzy up and pile into bed together. You slink close, admitting defeat for the night as Dick coos at her and settles Izzy between you both.
Dick murmurs to Izzy in soft, dulcet Romanian that you don’t quite understand, his hand rubbing her stomach to soothe. She babbles incoherently in return, and Dick softly reminds her, “We can’t help you if we can’t understand you.”
She takes a heavy breath, “Mommy’s mad at me.”
“Oh no,” you sink closer, curling your arm around her and nosing against her temple as you meet Dick’s gaze with a pinch of worry, “I’m not mad, sweet girl. Why would you think that?”
“You said- you said-” she stutters through her breaths.
“Breathe, Iz.” you remind, “Everything’s okay.”
She pauses talking, and Dick breathes performatively against her ear until her panic settles, breath matching his. He mumbles, “That’s better. Tell us why you think Mommy’s upset.”
She takes another steady breath and sniffles, “Mommy said I was like when you sleep on the couch. Daddy only sleeps on the couch when you're mad.”
Her frown deepens as you realise the connection she’s made. You're quick to rectify her confusion, “Oh my sweet girl. That's not what’s happening. I love you so much, and I wish you could sleep in my bed forever and ever, but that’s not how things work. I don’t sleep in my mommy’s bed, do I?”
She sniffles again, rubbing her eyes, “No.”
“See,” you hum as your hand meets Dicks where it rests on her belly.
He grins at you as he adds, “And daddy doesn’t only sleep on the couch when mommy’s upset. Sometimes I do it when I get in so so late. I don’t want to wake her up.”
“I… know,” Izzy frowns, but she melts between you.
You and Dick have a silent conversation over her head before you speak again, “You can sleep here tonight, but tomorrow it's back to your big girl bed, okay?”
She blinks at you then looks at Dick. he smiles at and kisses her nose before agreeing, “Mom’s right. You gotta sleep in your own bed.”
“Okay,” she mumbles before she’s curling up between you, eyes droopy, sleep already dragging over her. Her eyes flutter shut. You and Dick look at each other again.
“You so easy,” you tease softly, “one elephant tear and you folded.”
“You’re terrible,” he mumbles, “you were just gonna let her cry?”
You scoff, squeezing his fingers. “No. But she does need to get used to sleeping in her bed.”
“I know that,” he replies, “just want my baby to stay a baby.”
“I'm sure you'll say that when she kicks you in the nuts,” you snort as you settle back against the bed, eager to fall back asleep.
Dick shakes his head, mimicking you, “She's never kicked before.”
“Times change, baby,” you hum before you follow Izzy to sleep.
The next time you wake its to pained groans muffled by a pillow.
“Told ya,” you mumble, not moving to help other than to shift Izzy straight on the bed.
“Tomorrow night,” Dick muffled, voice cracking in a way that makes you want to laugh far too loud for the late hour.
NOTES : congresswoman! reader is trying to pass a bill, one matt murdock is actively campaigning against, yet he still c(u)mes when you call for a sloppy fuck in your car.
WARNINGS : car sex, fwb, rivals, hand job, praise, talking about work in sex, unprotected sex, marking, bratty matt
CONFIDENTIAL MATERIAL ── 18+ ONLY.
the car door opened and matt slid inside, the scent of his cologne hitting first. she was already waiting in the back seat, legs crossed, skirt riding high on her thighs. "you really think you can stop this bill?" she asked as soon as he settled, voice sharp but her hand already reaching for his belt.
matt smirked, leaning in close. "i know i can slow it down enough to make you sweat." his fingers caught her wrist, guiding her hand straight to his cock as he kissed her hard, tongue sliding against hers while his other hand grabbed her thigh and yanked her closer. she moaned into the kiss, stroking him through his pants, both of them already pulling and grabbing like they were fighting for control.
"you’re such a smug bastard," she breathed against his mouth, biting his lower lip as she freed his cock and wrapped her fingers around it. matt laughed low, the sound warm and cocky, his hand sliding up to grip the back of her neck.
"and you love it," he murmured, kissing her again, deeper this time, teeth scraping her jaw while his hips pushed up into her fist. "that bill’s dead in committee and you know it."
she shoved him back against the seat, climbing into his lap without breaking the kiss, her skirt bunching around her hips as she ground down against his bare cock. "fuck you," she hissed, grabbing his tie to yank his head back so she could kiss him rougher. matt’s hands were everywhere—squeezing her ass, sliding under her blouse to grab her breasts, thumbs rubbing her nipples through the fabric.
"keep talking like that and i might let you," he teased, voice smooth and charming as he rocked up to rub his cock against her pussy. "but we both know you’re the one who called me for this."
she sank down onto him in one motion, taking his cock deep while she kissed him again, swallowing his groan. matt grabbed her hips hard, fingers digging in as he thrust up to meet her. "god, you feel good," he said between kisses, one hand moving to slap her ass before gripping it tight. she rode him faster, both of them still arguing between moans.
"the bill passes whether you like it or not," she panted, nails scratching down his chest through his shirt. matt laughed again, pulling her in for another bruising kiss while his hand slipped between them to rub her clit.
"we’ll see about that," he murmured against her lips, voice low and cocky. "i’ve got a few tricks left."
she grabbed his hair, yanking his head to the side so she could bite his neck, grinding down harder as he fingered her clit in tight circles. matt’s free hand slid up to grab her throat, not squeezing, just holding as he kissed her again, tongue pushing deep while he thrust up into her. "you always get so wet when we fight," he teased, voice charming even as his cock drove into her. she clenched around him, moaning into his mouth, both of them grabbing and pulling like neither wanted to give in first.
"shut up and fuck me," she demanded, riding him faster. matt grinned against her lips, slapping her ass again before gripping both cheeks to bounce her on his cock.
"make me," he shot back, voice smooth as he kissed her hard, tongue and teeth and heat while the car moved through the city. she grabbed his shoulders, nails digging in as she came first, pussy pulsing around him. matt followed right after, groaning into her mouth as he filled her, hips jerking up one last time.
he kissed her slower then, still holding her close, both of them breathing hard. "round two when we get to your place?" he asked, cheeky grin back in place. she bit his lip again, grinding down on his softening cock.
"only if you admit the bill’s going to pass."
matt laughed, pulling her in for another kiss. "not a chance."
Yello? Idk if anyone can help me find a fanfic that was posted around adrian’s bday. It was had adrian being married to y/n and being a father to a daughter. It was just mainly about him getting a letter from his dad and then later going to cali to meet his dad, which that trip is just about him connecting with his dad and what not.
I was trying to find it, but the result from google did not lead me to the fanfic. And I did not want to go through the tags where there are so many posts. So I’m testing my luck if people know the fanfic that I’m talking about 🍀
Edited: someone found the fanfic i was looking for.
18+ cw: unprotected [irresponsible] sex. just the tip (until it isn’t). mutual loss of virginity - slight bleeding. thighfucking. pussyjob. slippery slope. creampie. mutual pining. idiots in love. religious references/guilt. banter as foreplay lol
summary: your friend’s reputation of being good in bed is common knowledge to the entire living-and-breathing student population of columbia. confusion arises when he tells you he’s actually a virgin. (wc: 11k - i know 😔)
a/n: hello. :) this is PURELY self-indulgent wish fulfillment, initially written for the touch prompts “foreheads pressed against each other” + “two fingers against a pulse point,” then i swiftly lost control after the first 2k words. I LOVE LOVE LOVE MATT MURDOCK JUST THE TIP FICS, i love their authors, and so here is my contribution!!! addtl warnings: lots of talk about religion, purity culture talk, matt’s guilt (featuring my favorite: intrusive thoughts of bible verses during sex). matt & reader lose their virginity to each other. that’s it… enjoy my filth…
“No fucking way.”
It’s ridiculous: Matt’s desk isn’t made for two. Not even close. It’s for this reason that you’ve ended up almost on top of him, trying to act like your thigh isn’t pressed to his.
And if your excuse for all this was that you were trying to get any real learning in, you’d be a liar, and a bad one at that.
Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Matt’s visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred.
The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, you’ve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. It’s an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossip—and Foggy’s colorful commentary—is concerned. It’s also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.
Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. It’s your conviction he’s on a much different playing field than you—his revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you weren’t even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him.
Besides, it’s not that you like to wallow. You’d like to believe you’re fairly attractive yourself, thank you very much—but there’s much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Matt’s face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and he’s so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious it’s only natural he’d be surrounded by people just like him.
Not like you.
So, rash girl that you are, you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.
“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, “that you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?”
His lips twitch at the corners, amused. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“What the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quote–‘he was really good’? You giving them confession or something?”
Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, “Who knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.”
Your silence must clue him to the fact that you’re gaping.
“What? Girls love him!” he says, grinning wide. You can’t argue with that, at least, that much is true. “Besides, it’s a question of semantics. For one, what the word ‘virgin’ even entails when—”
“Just strangle me if you’re going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. You’re a virgin or you’re not.”
Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully.
“Well, then, enlighten me.”
Enlighten me.
You’re being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding can’t hold its own water—embarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone you’re wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.”
You have to hope you’re doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesn’t send your blood pressure skyrocketing.
Calm as ever, he continues, “One would define a virgin as someone who’s never had sexual intercourse.”
One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like he’s in a debate.
“Yeah,” you manage.
“Sexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?”
“Oh, stop it, Matt,” you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.
“Well—yes?”
“Okay. Yes.”
“Okay.” He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “If penetration has to be the only metric—then yes, I’m a virgin. Again, if it has to be.”
As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. “Yeah, yeah.” Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. “Has to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, he’s enjoying this—“do you think sex is just penetration?”
It takes you a second.
To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lips…
Oh.
“Oh my God,” you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. “Oh my God.”
Jesus. Of course he’d eat pussy like a champ.
“What? What?” His voice has gone high and incredulous.
“Shut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.”
He’s grinning wide. “Because?”
“Because!” Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. “I’m pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. It’s one thing to brag about being good at sex, y’know, the–uh–uh…p..”
Just say the word, goddammit! You’re giving yourself away!
“C’mon,” he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. “You can do it. P-p-p–”
“Penetration,” you spit. “Ugh, Matt!”
You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, you’ll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan.
“You are such an asshole. Anyway—being good at that is one thing, but you’re saying all that praise was for oral? That’s even worse.”
“Worse? How is that worse?”
“You can’t really coast on– on mutual friction with that. You gotta… um… actually be good at it.”
Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently you’re now picturing Matt’s face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that aren’t yours.
A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.
Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. “They said it, not me. I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Sure. Right.” Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself can’t even make form of. Jealous, though you’d sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are. In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Life—and Christ take yours now, you’re praying. Matt’s lucky enough he can’t see the withering look you’re leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, “That’s all fiction anyway.”
His head tilts fractionally.
“Sorry?”
“It’s all fiction.”
“Being good at oral is fiction?”
“Yes.”
“As in, not real?”
“Yes.”
Where you’re going with this, you don’t know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.
There’s a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful.
“So in the entire span of human existence—through all of time—you’re telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?”
“Yes!” You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. “Because I’m horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Or—feel, sorry. So as far as I’m concerned, no, it has not existed.”
A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why can’t you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!
“That’s a terrible worldview,” Matt says at last.
“You’re welcome to leave,” you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.
“Mm. Fiction,” he drawls, mouthing the word again like he’s testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know you’ve made a mistake: he’s got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.
“I don’t know,” he muses, “it seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women you’re currently calling liars.”
You roll your eyes hard enough you’re sure you can see your brain.
“No, I’m serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agency–”
“Oh God.”
“–but you’re also insinuating I was– What? Pity-praised?” Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. “You think it was pity praise for the blind guy?”
“What?! No! I think–” You reel back, flailing, face hotter than it’s ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if that’ll help. “Matt, fuck you for real.”
Matt’s grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you can’t bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.
“Christ. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.”
“Yeah, you did,” Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. “I hope that’s not from experience.” He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. “Is it?”
“I- I– Well.” You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.
So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage:
“Who I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.”
Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, you’d roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream weren’t currently on fire.
“Duly noted,” he says coolly. “And who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.”
You blink. Fuck.
He’s right. You’re unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse that’s technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that you’re the asshole for slut-shaming him when really you’re just…
A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous…?
“I– um– shit…” you answer brilliantly. “Um… Shit… Okay-you’reright-I’msorry.”
But Matt doesn’t have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You can’t see much of his face like this—only his mouth twitching in a tight line.
He’s… crying.
That made him cry?
No way. You’ve never seen him cry before.
No, no. He’s wheezing.
From laughter.
“Ha!” he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. “Got you!”
“Oh fuck OFF, Matt!” you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. “I thought you were crying! That’s not–!”
“You walked into that one again.”
“That’s not funny!”
.
Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though.
Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he weren’t currently fighting for his goddamn life, he’d have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that… what even is it?
That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.
Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if he’s being generous.
An indulgent part of him wants to believe it’s jealousy.
But why would it be? You’ve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that you’d think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest.
The kind of person who’d never waste time on someone who can’t keep his dick in his pants.
Which is clearly how you see him.
So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good… For lack of a better expression, he’s not blind to the fact that you’re disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, he’s certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmation—since anything deeper would be too much.
Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if he’s honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like he’s supposed to.
Still, it’s not so easy, especially not like this. It’s not so easy now when he’s in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he can’t even begin to dissect.
He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help him—just from this stupid conversation, he’s already hard.
Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.
Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.
“Fine,” he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. “I plead guilty. The rumors are true.”
Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what he’s risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. “The nuns at the orphanage, they’d say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.” Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, “I’m not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak.
“It’s just…” voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesn’t even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows that’s too much to hope for. “I haven’t found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with the”—he waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumble—“the words… in my head, and all.”
“What?” Your brow furrows. “What words?”
He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. “Nothing.”
“What?!” Before you can even finish talking you’re laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you don’t have his senses or you’d know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch.
“What words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?”
He huffs. “I think it’s called a conscience, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
For a second—just a second—your heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, it’d be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, it’s a useful gift, one that’s gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girls’ jeans that he’d expect. Only it’s not like that with you. He’s long learned that you’re anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
Just as he’d expected, it’s annoyance. Not interest.
Matt glances away, smile wavering. “Ah. Sorry.”
But like it’s nothing you’re already chuckling and saying, more quietly, “All that repression, Matt. M’starting to believe your rumors now.”
Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. There’s not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. But for him, it’s less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in… Anticipation?
Erratic, like a caught moth, like you’ve found something to say that’s titillating, or inappropriate.
He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.
No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Don’t.
Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.
“Okay,” you finally eke out, mouselike. “My turn.”
Matt tilts his head.
“I’m a virgin too.”
Oh?
That’s not what he expected, and he’s not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when he’s attempting to buy himself time.
Of course, there’s nothing wrong with your admission. It’s not a big deal; it shouldn’t even be one at all. Only, it’s sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet it’s for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else he’s spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it.
He can’t afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.
“Okay,” Matt says gently. “That makes two of us then.”
You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you.
“Ugh. Actually, I’m like half a virgin too or something. Aren’t you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.”
“No, not at all. I’m deeply moved by your honesty, actually.”
“Dick.”
He smiles.
You sigh, scratching at your temple. “I know there’s more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that that’s a thing. Like, I don’t give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?”
Matt nods solemnly, though the smile’s still tugging at his mouth. “No flaws in logic there.”
You swat at him again, but it’s lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.
“It’s not even about the sex,” you continue. “A lot of stuff makes me feel like it’s a lot more important than it actually is—”
“Hey.” He cuts you off, soft and steady, “You don’t have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.”
You nod, shoulders relaxing. You’d gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.
“Thanks. Sorry.” You pause for a bit, thinking. “I’d just… I’d like it to be with someone I like. Doesn’t even have to be someone I love– I think I’d actually prefer that, just so it isn’t that big a deal. Just… not some random asshole.”
Right.
Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.
He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.
“Mm,” he says, noncommittal. “Yeah, I know.”
“Just do it once—then it’s over.”
“Then it’s over,” he agrees helpfully.
“Stop repeating my sentences!” You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch he’s a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.
“Right,” Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back in—a futile effort, he’s unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears—and swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.
The issue, of course, is that he’s hard.
Hard and sweating and stuck.
If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. He’d take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he won’t. He knows it’s just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now.
Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.
You’re murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he can’t hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you’re leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your top’s brushing his arm. You don’t realize how much he’s shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breath’s fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact.
“You okay?” you murmur.
He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. “Just trying to focus.”
“Oh, sorry.” You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, “I can move–”
“No, no.” Matt’s hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. “Stay. I like it when you’re close.”
Something in your chest flutters, and Matt’s more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.
Christ, Matt. This how you do it?
He’s so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and he’s listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove it’s more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking.
But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t care anymore.
His thumb strokes your side.
“Alright,” Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”
You nod before your brain can even catch up.
“…Okay.”
For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowly—almost painfully so, like he’s giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heart’s ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.
And then his mouth is on yours.
The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a sound—a little hum, surprised at yourself—and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it. He’s clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.
There’s the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwi—no matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he can’t help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back it’s only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of it—before you can even think about what you’ve ruined, what you’ve just begun—you’re already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful.
Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as you’re shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and then—
It jerks, slipping sideways.
You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Matt’s faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.
“I got you,” he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that you’re straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure.
It’s then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing it’s impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.
“Should we…” you start, unsure what it is you’re even asking.
“Yeah,” Matt says shakily, “Bed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.”
You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you again—arms looping around you without effort—and then he’s standing, lifting you against him like it’s nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. There’s a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certainty—exactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not to—don’t ruin this, don’t rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment.
Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time it’s worlds away from the one before—it’s deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.
“Can I—?” he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below.
Jesus.
But you don’t get to ogle him as long as you’d like—it’s your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Matt’s an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.
“Goodbye, Nick Cave,” you murmur solemnly.
Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roam—sliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. You’re tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Matt’s hand covering yours to help.
Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Matt’s still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your mouth.
“For what?” you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.
He hesitates. “I just… didn’t know if you wanted to keep going.”
“Are you kidding?” you whisper. “I was about to ask you that.”
A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. “This feels good,” he mumbles against your lips.
“Yeah?” you breathe.
“Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. “Fuck—sorry—can’t—”
“Let me,” you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.
Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like he’s starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you can’t steal enough of his warmth to be sated.
His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then he’s at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think you’re already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.
“Wait. Wait—”
He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like he’d been caught mid-word. “…What?”
“I don’t—” The words knot in your mortified throat, and you can’t find the nerve to look at him directly. “Um—I just—”
It’s a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if you’re disappointing, what if you’re not worth it, if every rumor you’ve pretended not to care about has been true after all and you’re nothing compared to them—
“What’s this, then?” His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, “Gonna keep pretending it’s fiction?”
You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. “Shut up. Next time, okay?”
His brow quirks. “‘Next time,’” he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like it’s proof you’ll never get away from him now.
“Ugh, Matt—just come here—” Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the necklace, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like this—lying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgotten—and you’re melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.
Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. What’s left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precome’s already leaked through.
You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. “This okay?”
His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. “Yeah. Please.”
Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because he’s beautiful, Christ, he’s so hard, and he’s already twitching.
You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.
It’s everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Matt’s hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.
“These…” he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, “describe them to me.”
For a beat you’re not even sure you heard him right. “What?” you manage, though it’s hardly more than a whisper.
That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. “Tell me what they look like.”
At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. You’re not sure whether it’s that or simply the love-addled lens you’re viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because he’s waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely.
“They’re… white,” you begin, voice faltering as though you’re confessing something forbidden, “cotton. Lace at the sides.”
And because this is Matt, you can’t seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.
Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. “Mm. Fancy?”
“Not really.”
“They expensive?”
“What? Jesus. No, you perv.”
“Good.” His tone’s dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdict— his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply.
RRRIP—!
Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though they’re paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until you’re bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum.
“Couldn’t wait,” Matt pants, “Sorry.”
“You’re not sorry.”
“No, I’m not.” His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. “Not even a little.”
“You’re gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.”
His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once more— “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?”
“Yeah. God, yes. Oh—” Yet despite thinking you’ve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. “Wait, Matt. Are we gonna— I mean, is this—?”
Christ, you don’t even need to finish. He knows what you’re asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Matt’s will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that it’s you. You’re the one offering, wanting, needing. He’s the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop.
But how the fuck can he stop, when you’re whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?
The thought of whether this is the line he’ll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt can’t bring himself to say it out loud, can’t let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.
He should stop.
“C’mon,” you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. “As long as it doesn’t go in, it’s okay. Right? For you?”
Matt’s breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding, rendered helpless by the way you’ve said it.
“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”
Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like he’s about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts.
You’re wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.
And Matt’s losing it.
He’s not even inside you and already he feels like he’s going to break.
His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you he’s holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft it’s cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until you’re breathless, gasping, toes curling.
You don’t realize you’re whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, “Mine.”
His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.
And it’s true. You’re his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him.
You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.
It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking good—all of it, all of it—all building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: it’s not nearly enough.
“I want more,” you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, “Want you.”
“I know,” Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. “Me too. But we can’t.”
As if a spoiled child, you whine, “Why not?” high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.
Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because I’m an asshole.
“Please,” you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. “Please, it won’t change anything. We’re still friends, right? Right?”
And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.
The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.
The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds you—just that sliver of him breaching you, and you’re undone.
Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor.
Matt doesn’t move, shouldn’t, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what you’re pleading for.
“Fuck—m’sorry,” he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. He’s shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—You’re just so wet, fuck, I’m sorry—”
And if your hand causes you to sin…
“It’s o-okay—” You’re trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you.
Singular and decisive: you can’t stop now.
“Matt,” you whisper, sordid with want, “what if—what if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. It’s not enough. It won’t even count.”
You sound like you’re begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.
Matt’s hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, “Don’t tease.”
“I’m not,” you plead, “S’long as… s’long as it’s not fully in, it doesn’t count, right?”
“Fuck—” Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience.
He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.
Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.
But how can he refuse you?
“Fuck. Okay. Are you sure?”
You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. “I need you to tell me you’re sure.” His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.
You do no such thing.
“Fuck, I’m sure,” your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you alive. “I need you, Matt.”
Need you, Matt.
He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?”
You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief.
God can forgive him if it’s just the tip. It doesn’t even count. He’ll be forgiven.
No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability…
Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what he’s about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.
Then he’s pushing forward.
Just the tip—barely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.
“Mmff—” the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. “Fuck—that’s tight. You okay?”
You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.
“Y-yeah,” you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, “it just… hurts. A little.”
Hurts.
Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.
If he’s looking for a sign, this is it. He’s hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this never—
But your body won’t allow him to believe it. Not with the way you’re squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his word—just the tip. So he doesn’t move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat that’s clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.
The moment he’s lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadn’t begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that you’ve had it, there’s no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.
As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.
Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal you’re drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All he’d need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle you’re writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.
“Unfair,” you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.
“What’s unfair?”
Jesus. He’s so hoarse he can’t even recognize his own voice.
“You get to—” your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, “—get to jerk yourself off while I—while I can’t even—” Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks you’re going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. “I can’t even take it all.”
Christ.
Matt swallows.
This girl is gonna be the death of me.
“S’not—” he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess you’re making all over him. You’re so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles.
“No, no– see–” As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.
“See?” he rasps, eyes wild. “See? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.”
Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.
“Fuck—” his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, “fuck, sweetheart, I can’t—”
The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.
“I’m not gonna move,” he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, “I’m not gonna—fuck—”
But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.
The truth is, Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. A live wire embodied, he’s guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.
“Shit—sorry—sorry—” he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like he’s being wound too tight, like he’d snap if he stopped.
“Matt—” you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. “More. Please. More.”
“I can’t,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. “I shouldn’t.”
But your body’s melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.
He shouldn’t, but Christ, it’s you.
You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.
“Fuck—” the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, “You’re—Christ, you’re so good to me, my girl—”
Sweat’s beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeper—just a fraction, just a millimeter more. It’s not conscious, not yet, but his cock’s greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.
His mouth is everywhere—kissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until he’s slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.
You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.
“It’s alright,” Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. “It’s just a bit, just a little, it’s okay, right? S’okay? Sorry, sorry, shit—”
Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.
And then suddenly, inevitably, he’s in all the way.
Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.
Knowledge with self-control… self-control with steadfastness… steadfastness with godliness…
Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. He’s not praying anymore—he’s fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good.
“Matt,” you whimper, soft and urgent. “Move. Please.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and then—hesitantly, testing—he slides his cock out.
It’s too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.
“Fuck, so tight,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.
He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.
And then he does it again.
And again.
And again.
Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch him—watch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly he’s splitting you open.
“Oh my God,” you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. “Matt.”
As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouth—and almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around him—nearly unspools him.
“Fucking hell,” he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. “You’re so—so fucking tight, sweetheart.”
Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you can’t stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.
One moment he’s easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next he’s simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, he’s resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feral’s taken hold of him. He’s sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesn’t need finesse, and when someone’s fucking you like this—driving into you hard, desperate, needy—the result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like you’ll die if he stops.
“Fuck—fuck—” Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. He’s greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skin—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—pressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.
The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. There’s no space left between you at all; he’s smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and you’re drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though he’s swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.
“Matt,” you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, “Matt, Matt, Matt…” with the same fervent rhythm he’d once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.
He can’t get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he can’t stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, “So fucking tight—Christ, you’re so tight—” before his hand’s sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.
Knowing you so well, that’s all it takes—your whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.
By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussy’s gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way you’re still trembling and panting his name like it’s salvation—
He can’t.
He’s not thinking anymore. Just fucking.
And the bed’s tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and there’s nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and he’s laughing now—breathless, manic—between thrusts.
…That each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honor…
It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenly—but instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that you’ve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesn’t stop to think, finding himself unable to.
…not in the passion of lust.
Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?
He’ll be forgiven. He’ll be forgiven.
As long as he doesn’t come inside you.
That’s the line. That’s the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good he’s dazed with it.
But he wasn’t supposed to go this far, so what’s a little farther?
He doesn’t believe in halfway sins. If he’s going to hell, then he’ll make it worth everything.
“I’ll pull out,” Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. “I’ll pull out, I swear—just a little longer, just—fuck—”
But “a little longer” turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like he’s being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, “Mine.”
And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, “Yours,” clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he can’t take it, can’t fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.
“Oh fuck—fuck—” he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.
It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.
And all you can do is take it—take every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until there’s nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.
Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.
Afterwards, there’s nothing but silence.
Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. You’re trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what you’ve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.
Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. It’s not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely.
His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, don’t drift away from me.
The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Matt’s hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where it’s fallen between you.
“…Jesus Christ,” you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.
“Yeah.”
Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. “That was intense.”
The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and you’re aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: “You okay?”
“Yeah.” You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, he’s going to tell you he wishes it hadn’t happened. “...I was about to ask you.”
Oblivious as you usually might be, you know you’re feeling each other out, testing the waters.
“Yeah. I’m okay,” he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, “but you’re not… freaking out?”
“No,” you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, “I liked it.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughter—half relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment you’re content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling.
Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. “Don’t.”
“I should—I should get you cleaned up.”
“Later,” you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. “Let me have this, Matt.”
There’s no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be what’s ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck.
A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. “What?”
“I think my brain’s finally coming back online,” you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.
“Aw, tragic,” Matt drones, “You were so agreeable when it was melted.”
You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.
“We should probably get back to studying.”
“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who said you were behind.”
“You’re the one who made me more behind!”
His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. “Five more minutes, then.”
You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.
For once, you don’t care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.
The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet she’s been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But he’d been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what he’d had planned all along.
“They better not hook up,” she mutters idly.
“You might as well just pay up now,” Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesn’t even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. “I told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.”
Marci glares at him. “How the hell do you even know?”
“I’ve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,” Foggy says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. He’s toast.”
There’s a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.
“You guys are so weird. And disgusting.”
“Yes we are,” Foggy agrees cheerfully, plucking the bill from her hand. He tucks it neatly into his wallet and tips his dice bag toward her in mock toast. “To young love, and finally getting its head out of its ass.”
꒰ wc ꒱ 15k words
꒰ summary꒱ after stalking you for years, dex is completely unprepared for the dizzying reality of finally being invited into your life—your apartment, your bed, your soft thighs opening for him so sweetly that he can barely tell where fantasy ends and addiction begins.
.ᐟ contents |
18+ (MDNI), stalking, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f&m!receiving), pervert!dex, canon!dex, fbi!dex, horny!reader, oblivious!reader, stealing, panty sniffing, panic attacks, mental breakdown, suicidal dex, mentally unstable dex, canon compliant, somnophilia, dub-con, inexperienced!dex, mentioned murder, humping, groping, spit swapping, finger sucking, creep!dex, breeding kink, fluff, dark romance, manipulation, gaslighting, all in dex's pov
.ᐟ lizzy’s note |
this fic has been plaguing my life for the last three months and now im finally free. genuinely just wanted to write smut, then forced myself to create plot leading up to it. trying out a new layout, pls don't burn me at the stake.
at this rate stay tuned for my next dex fic in 2027 <3
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
divider by @uzmacchiato
Dex loved sushi night Fridays.
You two had settled into the routine months ago without either of you ever really acknowledging it. Fridays after work. The same tiny sushi place tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, the sign flickering like it was running on borrowed time.
Inside was all warm amber lighting and fogged windows, the air thick with rice vinegar and the low hiss of the grill.
The hostess smiled the second you walked in now, already reaching for a menu you never looked at, because you already knew what you wanted, and Dex already knew you’d order it before you did.
You referred to it as your “cheat day,” something Dex privately thought was bullshit. You were always working on cutting back on takeout or “trying to be healthier,” only to cave every Friday night without fail.
But the word cheat implied you were doing something wrong. Indulging something shameful. And he hated the idea of you apologising for your own appetite.
He’d watched the pattern long enough to know it by heart; Sushi Fridays. Thai food on bad days (red curry, extra spicy, no matter how much it made you sweat). Wings—any kind really— when you were too tired to cook… or on your period.
And coffee, too much coffee, all throughout the week, the same two-pump vanilla order from the cart on 47th.
Dex didn’t think you needed to worry about your weight. The thought irritated him every time it surfaced, a low-grade static at the back of his skull. You were beautiful exactly as you were.
If he had things his way, you’d indulge every craving that crossed your mind. Midnight milkshakes. Extra dessert. Those strawberry candies you liked from the bodega near your apartment.
He’d drive across the city at two in the morning if you suddenly decided you wanted dumplings or lemon cake or greasy diner fries.
The restaurant lights caught against your jewelry when you moved, tiny gold hoops glinting near your jaw. Warm light softened everything about you.
Your skin took on a honeyed tone, the shadows beneath your cheekbones gentle rather than sharp. It made you glow in a way Dex had never been able to properly explain to himself.
Like candlelight catching honey, or the last sun ray through a window at dusk.
He watched you pick up another fried roll with your chopsticks, your nose wrinkling slightly when it nearly slipped apart before you got it into your mouth.
That made him chuckle. A sound that died in the hollow of his chest, swallowed by the space between his ribs.
God.
He needed this.
Needed the quiet rhythm of it after the last week spent buried in FBI work. The lies. The noise. Too many voices in his ear, too many meetings, too much time spent orbiting Wilson Fisk and his suffocating shadow.
His apartment never helped either. Too quiet and too still. Silence had a way of making his thoughts louder, the walls pressing in until he had to pace just to feel like he still had room to breathe.
But here, things felt… normal.
Outside, rain poured weakly past the windshield of Dex’s car.
The wipers had been off for a while now, leaving the glass streaked with dried residue. The heater hummed low near his knees, filling the car with dry warmth and the heavy, layered smell of fried tempura, soy sauce, and burnt coffee that had long gone cold in the cupholder.
Across the street, through the fogged window of the sushi place, you laughed suddenly at something on your phone, leaning forward across the table.
Dex smiled before he could stop himself.
He adjusted the takeout container balanced carefully in his lap before it tipped against the console. The plastic lid was beaded with condensation, the heat of the food fogging it from inside.
Soy sauce packets crowded the cupholder beside the coffee and crinkled napkins were shoved messily near the parking brake.
One dumpling had leaked grease through the paper container onto his slacks minutes ago, a dark stain spreading across the fabric near his knee, but he barely cared.
He hadn’t even registered the warmth of it until it had already cooled.
Dex stuffed another piece of sushi into his mouth absently, chewing without tasting, his eyes never leaving you.
The rice was a little dry. The ginger had that sharp, stinging bite that made the back of his throat tighten.
He’d picked up the order right before you came in, timed it so the food would still be warm when he settled into the driver’s seat.
His monocular rested against his thigh for barely a second before he lifted it again automatically. He settled it back against his socket without thinking, the world snapping into that familiar, compressed clarity.
His pulse eased the moment your face sharpened back into focus.
There she is.
Chin propped lazily into your palm now, reading something intently on your phone. A server passed behind you carrying a tray and even distracted, you looked up at him automatically. Sweet and polite.
Warm in that effortless way that still twisted something painfully tight inside Dex’s chest after all these years.
You gave pieces of yourself away carelessly without even realising it. A smile here. A laugh there. A small wave to a regular who held the door for you.
You never hoarded your warmth. It just spilled out of you, abundant and unguarded, and Dex collected every stray drop like a man dying of thirst.
His thumb moved slowly against the steering wheel, tracing the seam where the leather had begun to crack near the top.
This was exactly what he needed after the week he’d had.
Just you and him.
The thought surfaced without permission, settling somewhere deep behind his sternum. He let it sit there as his hand drifted toward the glove compartment without looking away from you once.
The latch gave with a quiet click, and his fingers found the familiar bundle by touch alone, soft cotton folded neatly in the dark, tucked beside his registration and a crumpled gas receipt.
He drew it carefully into his lap, keeping his eyes fixed on your silhouette through the monocular.
The pale fabric bunched lightly in his fist. The lace trim was cool against his palm, delicate, a detail he’d traced with his fingertips so many times that he could map it blind.
Almost absentmindedly, like a man reaching for a cigarette or rubbing a familiar scar, he brought the stolen panties toward his face and inhaled slowly.
The smell hit him in stages. First the faint, clean scent of your vanilla lotion, the one you applied after every shower. Then the warmer note of your shea body oil, the one you massaged into your elbows and knees before bed.
Beneath that, something warmer and distinctly you, something saline and soft that settled low in his stomach hard enough to make his slacks tighten slightly. A familiar, hungry ache that bloomed behind his fly at just your scent.
He held the breath for a long moment, letting it steep in his lungs, before exhaling through his nose.
A small souvenir he’d rewarded himself four months ago, after letting himself into your new loft late one night to make sure everything was secure.
You’d forgotten to latch one of the windows facing the fire escape. Careless sweet thing. The lock had been loose, the frame warped slightly from humidity, and when he’d tested it with his fingertips, it had swung open without resistance.
Dex had fixed it for you before leaving. Tightened the screws on the latch, oiled the track, made sure it would hold.
He’d found the panties in your laundry basket on the way out. A pale blue cotton pair, with a small tear near the waistband that you’d never bothered to mend. He’d slipped them into his jacket pocket before he could think better of it.
Across the street, you laughed again, shoulders shaking lightly this time, your head tipping back just enough to expose the column of your throat.
He exhaled softly through his nose, smiling along with you like he really was sitting across the table
Just you and him.
That was all he needed.
He didn’t know what to think when he saw the newspaper.
For one suspended second, there was nothing. Not anger. Not fear. Not even confusion. Just a sharp, empty stillness, like a pin had dropped somewhere inside his head and every part of him had gone quiet trying to hear where it landed.
Dex had been sitting there for hours, spine rigid, eyes fixed on the bank of screens showing Fisk’s penthouse from every angle. The man himself was visible in one frame, seated at his dining table. Calm and unbothered like always.
Then the paper landed in front of him.
FBI INVESTIGATES ONE OF THEIR OWN.
Agent Kane shifted beside him. “I’m sorry, Dex. This isn’t right,” she said quietly.
He heard her voice, but it came from somewhere far away, as if she were speaking through water. The words landed and dissolved.
Dex stared at the headline until the letters stopped being letters and became just shapes—black ink pressed into pulp, arranged by somebody who didn’t know him, didn’t care about him, didn’t understand anything about what he’d done or why.
The static began to rise. It always started like this, a low hum at the base of his skull, building as the world pressed in.
Around him, the room kept moving. Agents passed behind his chair, their footsteps a rhythmic interruption. Phones rang in overlapping cadences. Somebody laughed too loudly near the elevators, the sound slicing through the air before smearing into everything else, sharp and meaningless.
He could feel them looking at him.
Not directly, none of them were stupid enough to stare. But he felt the glances anyway. The way people looked at car wrecks when they slowed down just enough to see blood but not enough to admit they wanted to.
His jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple pulsed once, twice.
He was being used as a scapegoat.
By the time Winn and Hattley called him into the office, the static had thickened. It filled the room around their fake sympathetic voices.
“We’re going to find out who leaked this,” Hattley said, leaning forward with that practiced look of concern people used when they wanted to seem human.
Dex looked at her mouth while she spoke.
Not her eyes. Her mouth.
The words were too clean. Too prepared. Every syllable landed exactly where she wanted it to, like she’d rehearsed this conversation. There was no surprise in her tone, no real outrage. Just a performance of solidarity.
She was lying.
They all were.
The thing inside him stirred, restless and cold. He pressed it down. But it was harder now, when the structure he’d trusted was cracking around him, when the rules he’d followed were being used to crush him.
It had been the Bureau.
They were throwing him under the bus because someone had to bleed publicly, and it was easier if it was him. Easier because he had no wife waiting at home. No kids. No loud, charming friends in the office to make a scene on his behalf.
Easier because he was useful until he wasn’t, precise until precision made them uncomfortable, disciplined until discipline stopped protecting him from becoming disposable.
After everything, they were disposing of him.
If he followed the rules, he could be normal. He could be safe. Everyone else could be safe.
But the rules had just thrown him away.
“Think of it as a paid vacation,” Hattley said, offering a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
The static in his skull sharpened.
Dex looked down at his badge before he realised he’d already taken it off.
He didn’t remember doing it. His fingers had moved on their own, undoing the clip, sliding the leather folder from his belt.
Now it sat in his palm like something foreign, the gold shield winking at him tauntingly.
His hand didn’t feel like his own when he set it on the desk. The leather made a soft, final sound against the wood. Then the gun. The weight of it leaving him felt wrong in a way that made his stomach tighten sharply.
Badge. Gun. Credentials.
Structure.
Mercer’s voice rose in his head before he could stop it.
Get a job with structure, Dex. Rigid structure. Stay disciplined. Stay useful. Routine is important for you.
Routine. Rules. The job gave him rules. Rules told him what to do. Rules made the edges of the world sharp enough to hold onto. Without them, everything blurred.
Everything bled into everything else. The thing inside him pushed against its cage like an animal scenting an open door.
And now they were taking it away from him like it was nothing.
By the time he reached the hall, the migraine had settled behind his right eye, hot and pulsing. It pressed against his optic nerve, sending thin spokes of light across his vision.
Nausea turned slowly in his stomach, a greasy, rolling sensation that made his throat tighten.
He was aware of his body in pieces. His pulse hammering in his wrists, too fast. Sweat cooling under his collar, the fabric damp and clammy against his neck. The empty space at his hip where his gun should have been.
Empty.
Empty.
Empty.
By the time he stepped back out into the hall, the Bureau felt wrong around him. Hostile in a way it hadn’t ten minutes ago.
But the air had changed. It pressed against him differently now, thick and heavy, as if the building itself had decided he didn’t belong here anymore.
He walked past an agent he’d worked with for two years. The man met his eyes, then looked away.
Dex’s fingers twitched at his sides.
None of it belonged to him anymore.
Or he didn’t belong to it.
The job was gone. The badge was gone. The rules were gone. And without them, he felt himself starting to come apart at the seams, the threads that held him together snapping one by one.
His breathing thinned. Too shallow. Too fast. The edges of his vision began to grey, just slightly, like someone was turning down the lights from far away.
He needed out.
He needed air.
No.
Not air.
You.
He needed to see you. Now.
The thought cut through the static like a blade. A fixed point in the chaos.
Dex looked down at his watch.
6:17 p.m.
Thursday.
You did your grocery shopping on Thursdays after work because you hated weekend crowds. End of the week, but not the weekend. Practical. Smart.
Sometimes you bought tulips even though you worked at a florist and could probably get better ones for free.
He had never understood that.
He loved that he didn’t understand that.
The Bureau, Hattley, Winn, Fisk, the paper, the headline, the badge sitting on that desk like a dead thing. None of it mattered. Not right now.
Not when his mind was splitting open and the only thought holding him together was the image of you standing under grocery-store fluorescents.
He turned before he’d fully decided to move.
His feet carried him toward the elevator. Each step felt like pushing through water. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in, then expand, breathing with him.
By the time he reached the elevator and pressed the button, his jaw ached from clenching. His hands were steady, but only because he had trained them to be.
Inside, everything was coming apart in small, quiet pieces. Like a dam with a thousand tiny cracks, water seeping through each one, the whole structure holding only by habit and memory.
That was fine.
He didn’t need the badge.
He didn’t need their rules.
He had you.
The drive from the bureau to the grocery store did nothing to settle the storm clawing through Dex’s chest.
His palms were slick against his slacks. He’d just walked in. Empty-handed. Bereft of purpose beyond the single, desperate need screaming through every nerve ending in his body.
Find her. Find her. Find her.
The automatic doors hissed shut behind him, sealing him inside a world of too-bright lights and Muzak and the sharp chemical sweetness of floor cleaner.
His tie felt like it had shrunk two sizes since he’d left the Bureau, the knot pressing against his throat like a noose. He tugged at it once, twice, but it only made it tighter.
The migraine was still there, settled between his eyes like a hot coal. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a steady, throbbing pressure that made the aisles seem to swim when he moved his head too fast.
And Mercer’s voice.
She was there, in the back of his skull, the way she always was when things got bad. But today she wasn’t the steady, grounding presence he remembered.
Her voice flickered and warped, sliding between registers like a broken radio.
Stay calm, Dex. Breathe. You’re okay.
Then, lower, twisted. Freak. Look at you. They threw you away because they saw it. They knew what you were.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
You were supposed to be better than this. All that discipline. And you can’t even—
“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, but the words came out wrong, too loud, and a woman passing with a toddler shot him a strange look.
He didn’t care.
He checked the endcaps, the seasonal displays, the little stand with flowers near the entrance because you liked stopping there.
You weren’t there.
His breathing got thinner, shallower, each inhale less satisfying than the last. A tightness gathered behind his eyes, hot and humiliating, frustration swelling so quickly it scared him.
Not here. Not here. Not—
He crossed the store, his shoes squeaking on the polished floor. He passed a man in a dark coat who frowned at him. He ignored him. He rounded the corner into the makeup aisle and his chest seized.
Empty.
The shelves stretched out before him, neat rows of bottles and tubes and compacts reflecting the harsh light. A woman stood at the far end, examining a lipstick, but she had different hair. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
The frustration crested, crested, broke.
Tears pricked at his eyes, and he blinked furiously against them. His throat closed. His hands shook.
This was stupid.
This was—
Where the hell are you?
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. The pressure helped, briefly, grounding him in pain instead of panic. He counted to ten. Then to twenty.
He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, the way Mercer had taught him when he was thirteen and didn’t know how to exist without breaking things.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. You’re in control, Dex. You’re always in control.
But the voice was quiet now, drowned out by the static.
He dropped his hands and looked up.
There.
The fruit and vegetable aisle. Eight feet away. Your back.
And everything stopped.
The world snapped into focus like a lens being adjusted. The lights dimmed to something bearable. The buzzing of the fluorescents faded to a dull hum.
A shock ran through his system, ice-cold and bracing, like being splashed with water in the middle of a fever dream.
His throat worked. He swallowed once, twice.
He dragged his eyes up, angry at himself and not angry at all. Angry that he couldn’t just walk up to you, couldn’t just be normal, couldn’t just—
His hands were still shaking.
His chest was still tight.
His breathing was still too shallow, too fast, each inhale catching on something sharp lodged in his lungs.
He was still falling apart, and you were right there, six feet away, squeezing pears and humming to music he couldn’t hear, and he couldn’t calm down.
The realisation hit him like a fist to his throat.
If he couldn’t pull himself together now, if he couldn’t drag his shattered pieces back into something resembling a whole person, he was going to have a full mental breakdown with you a few steps away from him.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He couldn’t.
He stood at the end of the aisle, frozen, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his heart hammering against his ribs, his eyes fixed on the curve of your spine and the gentle sway of your hips as you moved down the display.
And for a long, terrible moment, he didn’t know what to do.
The word nectarines repeated in his skull like a lifeline.
He didn’t know why that particular fruit had caught his attention—maybe because they were closest, maybe because they were red and blushing and reminded him of the colour your lips had been at the diner.
It didn’t matter. He grabbed one, then another, turning them over in his trembling hands pretending to inspect them.
Three steps away. You were three steps away.
Dex’s shoe scuffed against the linoleum as he adjusted his stance, positioning himself so he could see you in his peripheral vision without turning his head.
Look at something else. Let your eyes find the target naturally. But his eyes weren’t listening.
They kept sliding back to you, hungry and helpless, drinking in the curve of your hip where your sweatpants rode low.
He could smell you.
Estée Lauder. Beautiful Magnolia.
He knew the scent because he’d bought a bottle once, from a department store in Midtown, just to understand what it was that clung to your clothes and lingered in the air long after you’d passed.
He’d sprayed it on his pillow that night and buried his face in the fabric, breathing you in until the noise in his head quieted to a hum.
He inhaled now, deep and long, hoping it would do the same.
It didn’t.
His hands were still shaking. He could see the tremors as he turned a nectarine over, the fruit wobbling in his grip like he’d never held anything in his life.
Just breathe, Dex, Mercer whispered, but her voice was thin, frayed, like a recording stretched to breaking.
We don’t know how this got out, Hattley’s voice cut in, smooth and false, dripping with pity. We’re going to find out who leaked this.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
He wanted to hit something. Wanted to drive his fist into the display of nectarines, into the wall, into his own skull if it would make them stop.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
He tried to focus on you. On the sound of your breathing. On the fact that this was the closest he’d been to you in years.
But nothing helped.
The voices swelled. The migraine throbbed. His hands shook. His chest constricted. And he was drowning, drowning, drowning in the fluorescent light of a grocery store—
“Excuse me.”
The world snapped into silence.
Dex’s head shot up so fast his neck cracked. His eyes found yours, and everything in him locked up like a circuit breaker tripping. You were looking at him.
He stared.
He blinked.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
The silence stretched, and your smile tightened at the edges, just slightly. You cleared your throat, shifting your weight, the picture of casual confidence.
“I don’t know if this is gonna sound a bit creepy,” you said, and your voice was smooth, rolling, the same voice he’d heard a thousand times in his memory, “but do I know you?”
His heart stopped.
Then restarted at double speed.
Say something. Say something normal. Say something human.
“I—” He cleared his throat. The sound was raw, scraping. He forced a smile onto his face, “I don’t think so.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “No, I do.”
There was no room for argument in your voice. No uncertainty.
He tilted his head, mirroring you. Let his eyes narrow slightly, as if he were searching his memory.
As if he didn’t have every moment he’d ever seen you catalogued and cross-referenced in his mind.
As if he wasn’t memorising the way the light caught in your hair, the faint sheen of gloss on your lips, the tiny beauty mark just above your collarbone.
You snapped your fingers, before pointing to yourself. “I used to work at this diner a few years ago. I don’t know if you know it—Bel Air Diner, maybe?”
He let the pause hang. Let his brow furrow. Let himself pretend, when all he wanted to do was reach out and touch you to make sure you were real.
“Bushwick?” he said finally, his voice steadier than he felt.
Your eyes lit up, and the sensation of seeing that, of being the cause of that light, was like injecting ecstasy straight into his veins.
“Yeah!” You nodded, your smile widening into something that crinkled the corners of your eyes. “The one on the corner of 9th Ave. That’s the one.”
Dex’s breath caught. He swallowed, trying to find his footing, trying to remember how to be a regular person, having a conversation with a woman who had no idea that she was the only thing that had kept him from falling apart for years.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. “Yeah, I remember.”
“But you don’t remember me?”
Dex blinked at you, the words landing like a slap he didn’t see coming.
For a long, terrible second, his brain seized, caught between the instinct to apologise and the dawning realisation that you were teasing him.
You were teasing him.
The corners of your mouth curved, and there it was, a glint in your eye, a playful tilt to your chin that he’d never seen before.
Not in all the hours he’d spent watching you. You were straightforward. Bold.
In his head, you were soft. Sweet. A little shy, maybe, the way you’d duck your head when a customer thanked you, the way you’d bite your lip when you were concentrating on an arrangement.
He’d built a version of you that was gentle and malleable, a fantasy that existed to be consumed, not to talk back.
“I’m kidding,” you said, after his silence stretched a beat too long. Like you could see him drowning and had thrown him a line.
He hated himself.
The feeling was familiar, worn smooth by years of repetition, but this was a fresh, raw kind of hatred that made his palms itch.
The Dex in his mind, the one he’d imagined a thousand times, would have had a smooth response ready. Would have leaned against the display, flashed a grin, said something that made you laugh.
That Dex was charming. That Dex was normal.
But that Dex wasn’t real. And the real Dex was standing here, sweat beading at his temples, hands shaking.
He scrambled, forcing a smile onto his face that he hoped read as charming rather than manic.
“No, no.” His voice came out too quick, too eager. He reined it in, softened his tone. “I do remember you now. I’m just surprised you remember me.”
You tilted your head smiling, and the movement pushed the apples of your cheeks up. God, you were beautiful.
“Can never forget a handsome face,” you said.
Handsome. She said handsome. She’s flirting with you. That’s what this is. Say something back. This is how it works. So do it.
But his brain was a white-noise void, every thought scattering like roaches in harsh light.
His smile felt brittle on his face, but he held it there, hoping you couldn’t see how badly his hands were shaking.
“Thank you,” he managed, and the words came out rough, almost shy.
He shifted the nectarine to his other hand, wiping his palm against his slacks in a motion he hoped looked casual. Then extended his hand.
“Dex.”
You smiled and told him your name. Like he didn’t already know it. Like he hadn’t whispered it into the dark of his apartment with his fist wrapped around his cock, gasping it into his pillow like a prayer.
Your hand slid into his.
The contact was electric. Your skin was warm, soft, impossibly real against his calloused palm.
He had to stop himself from closing his eyes, from letting the sensation wash over him and drown him.
Every nerve in his body screamed at him to pull you closer, to bring your hand to his mouth and press his lips to your knuckles, to your wrist, to the delicate skin where your pulse beat just beneath the surface.
Instead, he shook your hand once, twice, like a normal person, and let go before he did something he couldn’t take back.
“So, Dex,” you said, drawing his name out just slightly, testing it, like you were deciding whether you liked the way it felt on your tongue.
You had no idea he’d been waiting to hear you say it for years.
“What brings you to the supermarket at—” you glanced at your phone, then back at him, a small smile playing at your lips, “—seven pm on a Thursday.”
Simple question. Normal question. The kind of question one person asked another when they wanted to keep a conversation alive, when they wanted to prolong it.
And you hadn’t even seemed to notice that he had no shopping cart. No basket.
Just himself, standing here in the produce aisle like a man who’d wandered in off the street with no purpose other than to stare at fruit he had no intention of buying.
There was no way he could tell you the truth. That just hours ago he’d been framed by the FBI, scapegoated for an ambush he’d had no part in, cast out of the only identity he’d ever known.
That he’d spent the last hour spiraling in his car, hallucinating voices, pressing a gun to his own jaw before forcing it back into the glove compartment.
That he’d driven here not for groceries, but because your Thursday evening routine was the only fixed point left in his collapsing world.
He couldn’t say any of that.
So he said the first plausible thing that surfaced from the scrambled mess of his brain.
“End of the week,” he heard himself say instead. The words came out rough, but he pushed through. “But way less crowded on weekends.”
You raised your brows, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “So I guess I’m not original at all, huh?”
You were making a joke, and he’d walked right into it and now he was supposed to respond. Laugh. A laugh would be normal. People laughed at jokes. That was the expected behavior. He should laugh.
He made a sound that was supposed to be a chuckle but came out more like a choked exhale, his lips stretching into a smile that felt too wide, too stiff.
“Great minds think alike, I guess.” He tried for laid-back, tried to make his shoulders relax, but they stayed hunched, like he was bracing for impact.
You tilted your head, just slightly, and hummed in agreement.
And then there was a pause.
A little one, at first. The kind of pause that happens naturally in conversation, where one person waits for the other to speak next.
But it stretched. It grew. It filled the space between you like something physical, and Dex felt it pressing against his chest, tightening around his throat.
Say something. She’s waiting. She gave you an opening and now you’re letting it die.
But his mind was a blank wall.
He cleared his throat, the sound rough and too loud in the quiet aisle. “So, uh—” He glanced down at the nectarine in his hand, then back up at you. “You come here often?”
The words landed and he wanted to die. You come here often? That was the line he’d pulled from his brain.
The most generic, cliché, forgettable question in the history of human interaction. The kind of thing a mannequin would say if it were programmed to simulate human speech.
He braced for the look. The one that would say really? delivered with a curl of the lip, a shift of weight away from him. He’d seen that look on women’s faces before, when a man tried too hard or said the wrong thing.
So when you let out a laugh, genuine and surprised, it hit him like a punch to the chest.
You were laughing. At him, maybe, but not at him. With him. Like you found him funny, endearing even. Like his awkwardness wasn’t a turn-off but a joke you were both in on.
Dex felt his face go warm. He rubbed his brow, a nervous tick he couldn’t control, the heel of his hand pressing against his forehead as if he could massage away the embarrassment.
“Yeah, I heard it when I said it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Sorry…”
He risked a glance at you through his fingers, and you were looking at him with an expression he didn’t recognise.
You looked like you were trying not to smile and failing, the corners of your mouth twitching upward.
His heart was hammering so hard he felt it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers.
“I’ll give you a pass for now,” you said, a smile breaking through fully now.
Dex’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Nothing came out.
He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. “Thanks,” he said again , the word barely above a whisper. “I—I’ll try to do better next time.”
You raised your brows again, but your smile didn’t shift. In fact, it seemed to deepen, the corners of your mouth curling with delight. “Next time?”
The question hung in the air, but to Dex it felt like a tightrope. One wrong step and he’d plummet.
He hoped to God you couldn’t see the sheen of sweat beading on his forehead, the way his pulse was visibly jumping in his throat.
Adapt. You have to adapt. She’s smooth, she’s quick, she’s going to eat you alive if you don’t keep up.
He forced his mouth into something resembling a smile, though it felt more like a grimace on the way up. “You’re the one who said for now.”
And that’s how Dex ended up with your number.
Thirty minutes earlier, Dex had been sitting in his car, the engine off. His spare gun had been in his lap, cold and heavy.
He’d pressed the muzzle against the soft skin under his chin, felt the metal dig in, tasted the copper of a future he’d almost chosen.
His career. His structure. His livelihood. His reputation. All of it gone, stripped away in a single afternoon by people who’d used him and discarded him like a broken tool.
One pull. That’s all it would have taken.
Now, driving home, the streets of New York blurring past his windshield in streaks of neon and headlights, Dex felt something he couldn’t name.
It wasn’t relief, exactly—the weight of what he’d almost done was still there.
But it was layered over with something else, something bright and unfamiliar, like sunlight breaking through clouds after a storm.
He kept glancing at his phone. It sat in the cupholder, screen dark, but he could feel it like a beacon. Your number.
Your number, given willingly, freely, without coercion or manipulation.
The thought made his chest ache, a dull, insistent pressure behind his ribs. He flexed his hands on the steering wheel, and let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob.
It was a high he’d never experienced before. And he was terrified of coming down.
He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, cut the engine, and sat there for a long moment, staring at his phone. The screen was dark, but he could still see your face, the memory of your smile burned into his eyelids.
And then his phone buzzed.
The screen lit up with a number he didn’t recognise, but the area code was familiar. New York. Manhattan.
He stared at it for three rings. Four. Five.
His thumb hovered over the decline button, but something made him pause. Something cold and familiar, settling in his gut like a stone.
He answered, “Hello.”
“When I was a boy…”
His skin wasn’t buzzing.
It was flaying itself from the bone, a high-frequency current ripping through every nerve ending until he couldn’t tell where the violence ended and his own body began.
The climb back through his window was a smear of pure sensation, the groan of the frame digging into his bruised ribs, the distant wail of a siren that might have been real or might have just been the echo of the screams still ricocheting inside his skull.
He tumbled into the living room, the red suit clinging to him like a second skin of sin and sweat, and the silence of his apartment hit him like a physical blow.
He spared a blank look at the microwave. 2:37 AM.
The high was curdling. The exquisite, crystalline purpose Fisk had injected into his veins was souring into a dense, suffocating fog.
The voices in his head were warping and overlapping, layered with the fresh screams of the people he’d just killed.
They weren’t separate voices anymore. They were a single, roaring static that made his skull feel too small for his brain.
He fumbled at the gloves, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, tearing at the constricting seams.
The helmet followed. The seal broke with a soft hiss of trapped breath, and the cool night air of the apartment hit the raw cuts on his cheekbone and split lip like a strip of litmus paper.
He wasn’t in control. He was a passenger, a ghost haunting a machine made of meat and bone.
The machine moved on autopilot, carrying him across the sticky floor through the debris of his life, toward his closet. His safe.
His fingers knew the combination better than his conscious mind. Beep. Beep. Beep. The door swung open.
Mercer’s tapes.
He reached for them, his fingers brushing the familiar edges, and he could already hear her voice in his memory. She would fix this.
She would rebuild the walls, draw the clean lines of the diagram, soothe the static into structured silence.
He paused.
The tapes felt dead in his hand. Cold. Alien. The thing inside him, that had killed tonight with a terrifyingly genuine grin splitting his face under the mask, revolted.
Structure was a cage. Control was a lie he told himself so he didn’t have to look at the abyss. Mercer’s voice was the voice of a woman who had never existed, a blueprint for a life he had never actually lived.
He didn’t want to be fixed tonight.
He wanted to be real.
He set the tapes down. The plastic clattered against the wood shelf, and the sound was a door slamming shut on his old self.
His body, no longer his to command, drifted to the phone on the nightstand. The screen was a blinding star in the gloom of his apartment.
Before he could rationalise the catastrophic stupidity of it, his thumb pressed the call button.
The phone pressed against his ear. The flat, electric hum of the dial tone filled his head.
First ring. A knife.
Second ring. His breathing turned ragged, harsh stabs of air in and out. He couldn’t control it.
His hand shook, the tremors traveling up his arm to his chest, making his heart rattle against his ribs.
Third ring. Where the fuck were you? The thought was a claw in his chest, desperate and raw, scratched out from the bottom of his fractured soul.
Fourth ring. Despair hit him like a bullet. The rejection he deserved. The silence he was born for.
His thumb was already moving to sever the connection, to retreat into the familiar dark, to let Mercer be the only voice he ever heard again.
The click.
A breath on the other end. The soft rustle of sheets. The sound of someone shifting out of sleep, pulling themselves back to consciousness for him.
A voice, sleepy and warm, cutting through the static in his soul.
“Hello?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His throat had sealed itself shut, his tongue a dead weight.
The buzzing in his head didn’t stop, it changed, shifting from static into a high, thin whine of pure panic.
What the fuck was he doing?
He should hang up. He should hang up right now, pretend this never happened, crawl back to the tapes and let Mercer stitch him back together.
But he didn’t move.
“…hello?”
Your voice again. Groggy, yes, but there was an edge now. Caution. Awareness creeping in.
He could picture you propping yourself up on an elbow, squinting at the phone, trying to place the unknown number glowing in the dark.
He cleared his throat.
“Hi. It’s Dex.”
Silence. Long enough that he felt his stomach drop through the floor.
“From the grocery store,” he added, stupidly. “Earlier today.”
More silence. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. His heart was a jackhammer against his ribs, and he was suddenly, acutely aware of how insane this looked.
He had your number for less than twelve hours. He had called you at 2:37 AM. There was no version of this that didn’t make him seem unhinged.
Then your voice came through, softer now, a hint of recognition bleeding through the drowsiness.
“Oh. Guy from the fruit aisle.”
The words were flat, stripped of the teasing lilt from earlier. He winced. He was an idiot.
But he couldn’t hang up either.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the single syllable. He cleared his throat again, harder this time. “Sorry. I know it’s late. I—”
He stopped. Ran a hand through his damp, tangled hair. The words weren’t coming. They never came when he needed them. “I couldn’t sleep.”
A beat. Then, “You call everyone you meet at the grocery store when you can’t sleep?”
There it was. The faintest edge of something, not quite playfulness, but not hostility either. A testing of the waters. He latched onto it like a drowning man grabbing a rope.
“No,” he said, and the honesty slipped out before he could stop it. “Just you apparently.”
The silence that followed was different. Softer. He could hear the rustle of fabric on your end, like you were shifting, settling deeper into the conversation.
“You’re weird, you know that?” you said, but your voice had lost its wariness. There was a thread of amusement in it now.
“I know,” he said. He didn’t even try to deny it.
He could have left it there. Could have apologised again, said goodnight, let you go back to sleep.
But the buzzing in his head was quieter now, drowned out by the sound of your breathing on the other end of the line.
“I was wondering,” he started, and his mouth went dry again. He pushed through it. “If you’re free tomorrow. Or, I guess, today now. For dinner.”
The words came out rushed, jumbled together like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t get them all out at once.
He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the rejection.
Another long pause. Then, a soft, breathy sound that might have been a laugh.
“You’re asking me out at three in the morning?”
“Depends on if you say yes,” he said, and the words surprised him. They were smoother than he’d intended, a sliver of confidence he didn’t know he possessed.
Your laugh came through fully this time, quiet and warm, and something in his chest cracked open.
“That’s a good line,” you said. “You rehearse that?”
“No,” he admitted. “I’m kind of making this up as I go.”
“Pretty good for improv.”
He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, almost a smile. “Does that mean you’ll say yes?”
A beat. Then, “Depends on what you’re offering.”
He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His fingers tightened on the phone, grounding himself in the plastic and the warmth of your voice.
“Anything you want,” he said. And he meant it.
Dex prided himself on focus.
It was the cleanest thing he had, the discipline that held the loose pieces of him together. But here, across the table from you, that focus was a dead wire. Useless.
Ten minutes in and he still couldn’t land anywhere. His eyes kept skirting, from the deep crimson painted across your mouth to the sharp neckline of that tight black dress, down to where the fabric pulled across your chest.
He felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck, forced himself to your eyes instead. The dark liner made them bottomless, pulling at him with every slow blink.
His body was wired tight, locked up like he was bracing for impact. Every breath measured. Every movement too careful.
Terrified of the wrong word, the wrong look, shattering whatever luck had gotten you here.
You took a sip of your wine, watching him over the rim. Then you tilted your head, a smile catching at the corner of your mouth.
“Relax. You’re sitting like I’m gonna jump over this table and bite you.”
The image slid under his skin before he could stop it.
I’d let you, he thought. Anywhere you wanted.
He locked that down, managed a rough chuckle. “Still can’t wrap my head around why you said yes.”
You shrugged, setting the glass down. “Got nothing better to do. Thought I might as well get a free meal with a hot guy.”
Hot. You called him hot.
Then your eyes narrowed. “Unless you’re one of those guys who believe in fifty-fifty for the first date.”
The question caught him off guard. For a second, he just stared at you, his brain struggling to catch up. Then he let out a choked laugh, shaking his head quickly.
“No. No, god, no. I promise.”
“Good.”
Your voice softened into something warm, teasing. You leaned back in your chair, swirling the wine in your glass, and the candlelight caught the curve of your smile.
The waiter appeared and Dex grabbed the menu like a lifeline, staring at the words without reading them.
He nodded when you ordered, asked for the same thing. When the waiter left, you leaned forward, elbows on the table.
The neckline of your dress dipped just slightly, and he caught the black lace underneath.
Fuck. Were you doing this on purpose?
“So, Dex from the fruit aisle.” Your voice had dropped, stripped of the teasing edge from earlier. Something warmer now. “Tell me something about yourself.”
His stomach dropped. Just a flash. He pushed it down.
“I’m an FBI agent,” he said. Safe. Simple enough. “Or—was. It’s complicated.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Complicated how?”
“The kind that makes for a bad first date story.” He tried to smile. It came out crooked.
You laughed, and the sound loosened something tight in his chest. “Fair enough. I’ll take a rain check.”
He nodded, scrambling for footing. “What do you do?”
You rolled your eyes and he felt a flicker of panic before you huffed, amused. “Just a florist. Completely boring compared to chasing bad guys, I’m sure.”
There’s nothing boring about you. The thought hit him hard and fast, and he heard himself say it out loud before his brain could catch up. “There’s nothing boring about you.”
You let out a small laugh. “So you do know how to sweet talk a girl.”
He couldn’t hide the blush that crawled up his neck to his ears, burning against the collar of his shirt. “I’m just saying it how I see it.”
“Maybe,” you hummed, “but then again you don’t know anything about me.”
Never had he heard a more untrue statement in his life.
He knew your schedule. Your favourite coffee order. Your comfort shows you loved to binge. Which soap you preferred. Your go to nail colour. How you liked cats and dogs equally.
But he couldn’t say that. So he just looked at you across the table, watched the candlelight catch your eyes.
The food arrived. Steam rose from the plates between them, the scent of ginger and soy cutting through the moment. The waiter said something he didn’t catch.
“Well,” Dex murmured, “I’m hoping to learn if you’ll let me.”
Being here with you was something he had never experienced before.
The night before was a smear of violence but it all felt muted now, distant, like a transmission he couldn’t tune into anymore.
Not with you across the table, your voice cutting through the static in his head.
You kept the conversation easy. When he fumbled an answer or went quiet because his brain short-circuited trying to keep up with you, you didn’t pull back. You just smiled, shifted, let him find his footing again.
Once or twice he found himself wondering why you were even giving him a chance. You could have anyone. Smarter, smoother, someone without the weight he carried.
It made no sense that you’d picked him. Not that he’d let anyone else close enough to try, but the thought still lingered.
Still, there was a weight pressing down on him the whole time. A clock ticking. He felt it sharpest as the check arrived. Signing it, his stomach twisted into a knot so tight it made him nauseous.
The thought of leaving, of stepping into the cold air alone and watching you walk away, hollowed him out.
He could already feel the emptiness waiting. Maybe he’d just follow you home. Watch you through your window. It would be enough to comfort him.
“How are you getting home?” The words came out before he could stop them.
“Walked here,” you said, pulling out your lipstick. “Guess I’ll do the same.”
He watched your mouth as you reapplied it, the careful, practiced stroke of colour. He couldn’t look away.
“Let me drive you.”
You paused, the compact half-closed. Your eyes lifted to his, and he could see you weighing it, the stranger across from you, the risk of letting him know where you lived. The silence stretched. He felt the whole night teetering.
Fuck. He’d done too much. He ruined it. He’d pushed too hard, too fast, and now—
“Okay.”
It hit him somewhere between the Williamsburg Bridge and the mouth of your street, a strange hollow equation he couldn’t solve.
Away from you, the restlessness ate at him, he couldn’t settle, couldn’t quiet the noise inside his head.
But here, with you in the passenger seat, so close he could feel the warmth coming off your skin through the space between them, he wasn’t any better. His body was locked tight, every muscle braced for a mistake he hadn’t made yet.
He couldn’t stop glancing at you while he drove.
His hands were rigid on the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the passing streetlight. You leaned back in the seat, your head tilted, completely relaxed, watching the city slide past the window.
No tension in your shoulders. No flicker of anxiety. Just calm. It made him feel transparent, like you could see every loose wire and frayed thread in his head.
By the time he pulled up outside your building, his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, a quick, raw pulse that wouldn’t steady.
How had this happened so fast? He’d spent years wanting you, fantasising about you from a distance, and now that you were here, the wanting had twisted into a kind of fear.
The fear of doing something wrong. Of saying the wrong thing. Of breaking whatever fragile spell had let him into your space tonight.
You turned toward him. Your expression was different now. At dinner, your eyes had been sharp, playful, like a vixen toying with her prey.
But here, in the dim lamplight bleeding through the windshield, your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, and your gaze was wider, softer, something he didn’t have a name for.
“I had a good night,” you murmured.
Dex opened his mouth. His tongue felt thick, useless. “Me too.” It came out pitiful, barely a whisper.
You kept looking at him, waiting. Your lashes lowered, then lifted, like an invitation he couldn’t decode.
He stared back, frozen. Should he get out? Open your door? Walk you inside? He had no script for this, no smooth line rehearsed. His eyes drifted from yours to your parted lips. Red. Soft.
He was still scrambling through the noise in his head for the right move when your hand moved. It slid up the back of his head, fingers threading gently into his hair.
Before he could react, before his brain could catch up, you were pulling him forward.
Your lips met his.
For a long, heavy beat, Dex didn’t move.
His body locked up completely as the reality of your mouth sank in. You were kissing him. The thought cracked through the static in his brain like lightning. You. Kissing him.
Then instinct took over before he could wreck it. His lips started moving, awkward and unpracticed, trailing behind the rhythm you set.
A shaky breath left him, his shoulders dropping a fraction as he relaxed into the warmth of your mouth, the simple unimaginable fact of it.
Until he felt the wet tip of your tongue brush his bottom lip.
He tensed immediately. His eyes cracked open, found yours closed, your face slack and completely lost in it. He parted his lips. Let you in.
The second your tongues met, a raw sound caught in his throat. His cock hardened painfully behind his zipper, a rush of blood that made everything else go distant.
The taste of you flooded his senses, faintly sweet, the slick slide of your tongue against his. His brain went quiet for the first time all night.
Then something inside him snapped.
The careful, terrified version of himself fell away. He had to touch you. Now.
He pulled his hand off the wheel, lifted it. Fingers spread, hesitated. Your hair? Your waist? Your cheek? He had no idea what he was doing. Every option felt wrong, but doing nothing was unthinkable.
His palm landed on your throat before he could decide.
His fingers curved around the column of your neck, thumb settling against the flutter of your pulse. You moaned into his mouth, pleased and approving, and the sound shot straight through his chest. You liked it.
He pushed harder against your mouth, greedier. The hand on your throat tightened fractionally, pulling you closer across the console.
He didn’t care about breathing anymore.
The taste of you flooded every nerve in his body like a drug he’d been starving for his whole life. He’d rather suffocate against your mouth than take another clean breath of empty air.
Your hands found his jaw, and for a split second his brain screamed that you were pushing him away. Too rough. Too fast. He ruined it.
His grip started to loosen, a fresh wave of shame crawling up his throat—
But your fingers dug into his skin and pulled him closer.
The sound that left him was raw, almost animal. Relief and hunger tangled together as you yanked him deeper into the kiss.
Little noises escaped your mouth, muffled against his tongue, and he tried to memorise each one even as he lost himself in the wet slide of your lips.
His hand slid from your throat to your jaw, fingers curling around the bone, tilting your head back as he pushed further into your mouth.
His tongue swept against yours, messy and desperate. He didn’t know what he was doing, he just knew he needed more. He wanted to crawl inside your skin.
Then your palms pressed flat against his chest.
Push.
The separation hit him like cold water. He broke away gasping, and his mouth chased yours before he could stop himself. But you didn’t pull further back.
You caught his lips in soft, quick pecks, barely there, just enough to soothe the ache you’d left behind.
Your mouth brushed against his when you spoke, voice low and rough.
“Do you wanna come up?”
Fuck.
The words hit him square in the chest, then dropped lower, settling hot and heavy in his gut. He was already nodding before his brain caught up, pupils blown wide, lips wet and swollen.
“Yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, “Yeah. Fuck—yes.”
Dex’s pulse slammed against his ribs the second the lock clicked behind him.
Standing in your apartment. He forced his eyes to wander like he was stepping in here for the first time, even as his brain catalogued every detail against the map he’d already burned into his memory.
“Nice place.” The words scraped out of him, rough and distracted.
He tilted his head at the bookshelf, the framed photograph he knew was your mother, the throw blanket draped over the armchair that he’d watched you buy from a street vendor three months ago.
Every careful glance was a lie, but he wore it like a second skin.
“Thanks.” Your voice came from right behind him.
Then your hands were on him again, sliding over his shoulders, turning him around. He went without resistance, boneless under your touch. You pulled him down and met his lips halfway.
Your tongue pushed past his lips and he opened for you like a starving thing.
Your fingers twisted into his hair, yanking his head forward just enough to deepen the angle, and he let you. He’d let you do anything.
You bit his bottom lip, sucked it into your mouth, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.
His hands began to move. Everywhere. Your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips.
He grabbed desperate handfuls of your ass, pulling you flush against him, and the heat of your body through that thin dress made his head spin.
You were soft in ways he’d only ever imagined, and his imagination had been thorough, but nothing prepared him for the reality of you pressed against his aching body. He wanted to touch every part of you at once, to map you entirely.
You broke the kiss first, panting, lips slick and swollen. Your forehead rested against his, your breath hot and uneven on his mouth. “I don’t do this often,” you murmured, the confession raw and almost shy.
“I know,” he breathed without thinking.
The second the words left him, he felt you stiffen. You pulled back, confusion knitting your brows. “What do you mean, you know?”
Dex’s stomach dropped into freefall.
His eyes snapped open, panic flooding his veins.
Fuck. Fuck.
He scrambled for a lifeline, his mouth opening and closing before the lie managed to crawl out. “I mean I—I know what you mean. Me too. I don’t—I don’t do this often either.”
You held his gaze for a long moment. The sharpness in your eyes softened, and you snorted, a puff of warm breath against his lips. “You’re so weird.”
Relief flooded him so fast it made him dizzy. Before he could dwell on it, you were kissing him again, swallowing whatever fragile composure he had left.
Your hands guided him backwards. He followed blindly, drunk on your mouth, stumbling until the back of his knees hit something soft. You shoved him. Hard.
He landed on the couch with a grunt, bouncing once before settling, looking up at you with wide, dazed eyes.
Before he could ask, you leaned down, bracing your hands on his knees, and kissed him again. Slow and deep, a thorough occupation of his mouth that erased every thought trying to surface.
He melted into it, his hands finding your thighs, stroking the warm skin exposed by the hem of your dress.
You broke the kiss gently, pulling back just enough that he could see you.
You were on her knees. Between his legs. Looking up at him through your lashes, your lipstick smudged, your hair loose around your face.
The sight of you there stole the air from his lungs.
“What—what are you doing?” Dex heard himself ask, his voice thin and wrecked, stripped of every layer he hid behind.
You smiled as your hands slid up his thighs, fingers pressing into the muscle.
“Having my dessert.”
Dex’s brain went completely blank when your fingers found his belt buckle. The soft click-clack of it coming undone rang through the room like a gunshot in his ears.
He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, to do something other than lie there like a trembling mess offering himself up to you, but all that came out was a strained, cracked confession,
“Are you sure—you-you don’t have to—”
His hips lifted off the couch cushions anyway.
A complete betrayal of every word coming out of his mouth. His body didn’t give a single fuck what his brain was trying to negotiate.
It wanted you. It had always wanted you.
You didn’t hesitate. You dragged his slacks and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, baring him completely to the warm air of your apartment.
He shivered, his cock springing free to slap against his stomach with a wet, heavy sound.
He was already painfully hard, leaking against his navel, the swollen head flushed dark and slick, and the sight of you looking at it made his stomach clench so hard he thought he might be sick.
Your hand wrapped around him like it belonged there. A firm grip that made him grunt, his hips bucking up into your fist before he could stop himself.
The heat of your palm was everything. He watched, completely mesmerised, as your thumb swept across the sensitive head, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there, using it to slick your stroke.
You looked up at him through your lashes, your mouth hovering inches from his tip.
Your breath was hot and uneven against his sensitive skin, and there was a tremor in your voice when you spoke that made his heart stutter in his chest.
“You don’t want me to suck your cock?”
Jesus Christ.
The visual was so fucking obscene, you, on your knees, looking up at him with those wide, innocent doe eyes while your hand worked his shaft and your lips hovered so close he could feel the ghost of them.
He had to lean his head back against the couch cushion and squeeze his eyes shut. He was going to cum just from looking at you.
A soft, dark laugh came from between his legs. “That wasn’t a no.”
Before he could answer, something wet touched him.
His eyes snapped open. He looked down just in time to see your tongue trace a slow path along the thick vein on the underside of his cock.
An embarrassing, needy whimper crawled out of his throat before he could strangle it. His hips twitched, desperate to push into the warmth of your mouth, but he held himself still by sheer, crumbling willpower.
You didn’t stop. You laid a soft, lingering kiss right on the crown, your lips parting just enough to ghost over the sensitive slit before pulling away.
When you looked up at him, your eyes were dark and hooded, your lips slick and parted.
“Keep your eyes on me, Dex.”
He nodded. A dumb, jerky motion. He didn’t trust his voice. He didn’t trust anything. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You didn’t even have his cock in your mouth yet and he swore he could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, coiling tighter with every second you held his gaze.
His hands fisted in the couch cushions, knuckles white. His breathing was ragged, each inhale a desperate gasp.
He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, watching in rapt focus as you parted your lips and took the swollen crown of his cock into your mouth.
Your eyes stayed locked on his. You held his gaze as you sank deeper, inch by agonising inch.
The wet heat of your tongue curled around his shaft, the velvet pressure of your cheeks hollowing as you pulled him further into the slick, perfect heaven of your throat.
Every inch you swallowed made his hips twitch involuntarily against the cushions. Every flutter of your lashes made his stomach clench tighter. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t.
Oh, fuck. Your mouth was so warm. So impossibly wet.
The slick slide of your tongue curling around his shaft, the flutter of your throat when the tip pressed against the back of your mouth, he didn’t think anything in this world could feel better than having his cock in your mouth.
He was certain of it. This was the single best moment of his entire miserable life. He was ready to die right here and call it a life well-lived.
You pulled back slowly, dragging your tongue along the thick, throbbing vein on the underside of his cock before taking him deep again with a low moan.
A broken whimper crawled out of his throat before he could clamp down on it. “Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” His voice was wrecked, barely more than a ragged whisper. “You gotta stop—or I’m gonna—”
You just hummed casually against his slick, swollen tip, your breath hot and uneven against his sensitive skin.
“No, no, wait—please, I want it to last,” he heard himself begging, the words tumbling out in a desperate, breathless rush. “I’m not gonna make it—I swear to God—”
You didn’t stop. You just held his gaze with those innocent, wicked eyes and took him deeper.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was so fucking pathetic. Lasting like some inexperienced teenager, his first time all over again.
He tried to think of anything else; baseball statistics, the cold metal of his gun, the layout of the presidential hotel, but it was no fucking use at all.
Every nerve in his body was tuned to the wet slide of your mouth, the curl of your tongue, the soft, muffled gag when he hit the back of your throat.
He squeezed his eyes shut, could feel the frustrated tears prickling hot behind his lids. He couldn’t look at you anymore.
He had to stop himself, had to make this last, but his body was betraying him completely, trembling, arching, pushing deeper into your heat.
You took him back into your mouth in a single, fluid motion. Hollowed your cheeks. Pressed your tongue flat against the underside of his shaft.
And when you swallowed around the head of his cock, pulling him deeper into the wet velvet of your throat, he shattered completely.
“Oh fuck—I’m coming—”
His hips bucked involuntarily, driving himself deeper into your throat, feeling you gag around him, feeling your throat constrict and pulse as you swallowed, milking the orgasm out of him.
His release slammed into him like a freight train.
Hot, thick ropes of his come spilled into your mouth, and you swallowed around him, milking every drop, refusing to let him go even as he convulsed through the aftershocks.
His back arched off the cushions. His hands fisted so hard in the fabric he thought he might tear it. His vision whited out completely.
When his hips finally stopped stuttering, when his body went limp and trembling beneath you, you released him with a soft, wet kiss to his oversensitive tip.
The tenderness of it made his chest ache.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he felt himself mumbling, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “That was so fast—I couldn’t—I didn’t mean to—”
His hand came up to cover his face, shame and self-disgust crashing over him in waves.
But you wouldn’t let him hide. You caught his wrist, gently pulling his hand away, and crawled up his body.
Your lips were slick and swollen, your chin wet with him. You cut off his rambling apologies with a kiss, and his own taste flooded his senses. He groaned into your mouth, as your tongue played with his.
You broke the kiss just barely, your lips brushing against his as you murmured, “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He blinked up at you, dazed and trembling. “Yeah?”
You hummed against his lips, a slow, satisfied sound. “And I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”
The words hit him like a spark in a gas tank. The shame, the self-hate burned away in an instant, replaced by an animal surge of hunger.
He looked at you, still dazed, a slow, disbelieving smile pulling at his lips.
He still hadn’t ruined anything yet. He still hadn’t lost you.
His hands found your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. Before you could react, he was moving, wrapping his arms around you and hauling you up with him.
You let out a surprised squeal, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.
He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss as he stood, walking blindly toward the hallway where he knew your bedroom was.
Dex lay perfectly still, afraid that even the smallest movement might shatter the fragile, impossible peace of the moment.
You were curled against him, your back pressed to his chest, your breathing slow and deep, the sound of someone completely and utterly spent.
He had never felt anything like this. Not once in thirty-two years. This is what it feels like. This quiet. This rightness. This terrifying, exhilarating certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Happiness.
His mind drifted back over the hours, replaying the sharp, vivid highlights like a film he couldn’t look away from.
He had learned so much about you tonight. How your breath hitched when he scraped his teeth along your pulse point. How your fingers twisted in the sheets when he found the perfect angle.
You loved being on your hands and knees for him. The first time, he’d followed your lead, sinking into you from behind, gripping your hips so hard he knew there would be bruises.
He pounded into you, watching your body rock forward with every thrust as you cried into your pillows, muffling your pleasure.
But something in him had itched. He hated it like this.
He couldn’t see your face. Couldn’t watch the expressions that flickered across your features when he hit that spot. Couldn’t feel your heartbeat against his chest or taste your moans with his own mouth.
It felt too much like taking, and not nearly enough like having you.
After you came the first time, your body shuddering and clenching around him, he pulled out before you could catch your breath and flipped you onto your back.
He needed to see you. Needed to watch the way your mouth fell open, the way your pupils blew wide when he settled between your thighs.
He buried his face between your legs and drank you in with a need that bordered on worship.
He lapped at your slick, swollen folds until your second orgasm crested, your hands fisting in his hair, your hips grinding against his mouth as you gasped his name into the dark.
By the time your third orgasm rolled through you, he had your legs wrapped high around his waist, his body pressed flush against yours.
He was buried so deep inside you that the world outside the space between your bodies ceased to exist. His nose touched yours. His forehead rested against yours.
He captured your gaze and held it hostage.
“Look at me,” he breathed, the command barely a whisper. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.”
He wanted you to see everything he had felt since the first moment he saw you in that diner. The obsession. The desperation. The hunger that had consumed him for years.
He wanted you to feel it in the way he moved inside you, as if he was trying to pour every ounce of himself directly into your bloodstream.
He knew you probably didn’t understand the full scope of it.
But lying here, in the aftermath, he let himself pretend. He pretended you had been waiting for him all this time. That your body recognised him. That this was always meant to happen.
When he finally let go, he held himself perfectly still, pumping his release deep inside you with a low groan.
He pressed so close that he could feel your heartbeat through his chest, grinding against you as if he could transfer his devotion through sheer physical proximity.
His nose stayed pressed to yours, his lips hovering just over your mouth, sharing the same warm, humid breath.
He whispered things against your lips. Broken things. Beautiful things.
Confessions that would never make sense in the harsh light of day, but here, in the dark, felt like the only truth that mattered.
“Been waiting so long. So long. I fucking worship you. You’re mine. I’m yours. Don’t ever leave me.”
His voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t care. He let himself be cracked open, let you see the raw, jagged edges of him that he had spent a lifetime hiding.
You didn’t answer. You probably didn’t even hear him. Your eyes had fluttered shut, your body going lax and heavy against him.
Lost to sleep. Lost to him.
He smiled against your hair, a real smile that softened all the hard lines of his face. He didn’t need you to answer. Not tonight.
Just having you here, warm and trusting and full of him, was already more than he ever dared to hope for.
The air in the room had cooled, but wrapped around you, he was warm for the first time in as long as he could remember.
Only twenty-four hours ago, he had been suffocating. Bound by rules and routines and the desperate need to keep himself contained.
But Fisk had shattered the cage he kept himself in. He had shown Dex a version of himself that was raw, hungry, and unapologetic. And instead of retreating from the wreckage, Dex had stepped into it.
He had let go of the ropes and the rules and the white-knuckled grip on control. He had chosen himself for the first time in his miserable, constrained life.
And by choosing himself, he had found the path that curved inevitably, beautifully, right back to you.
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder. His hand splayed across your stomach, feeling the warmth of you.
I did this, he thought, pride blooming in his chest. I chose this. I chose me. And it led me to you.
Dex buried his face in the curve of your neck, his nose pressing deep into the warm, sleep-soft skin just behind your ear.
He inhaled slowly, letting your scent flood his lungs. You smelled like home—the faint coconut trace of your shampoo, the salt of dried sweat from the hours you had spent tangled together, and something deeper, muskier, that was entirely, irrefutably you.
God. This was unbelievable.
And that was where his next problem laid.
He spared a glance down, past the rumpled sheet that clung to his hips, and saw the unmistakable tent of fabric where his cock had hardened again.
He let out a quiet, shaky breath, his eyes tracing the outline of his own need with a mixture of frustration and irritation.
He couldn’t fucking help it.
He felt like a kid in a candy store. The kid being him, a thirty-two-year-old man who had never known what it felt like to want something and actually get it. And the candy store was you. Access to your body.
The knowledge that he could touch you, taste you, sink into you whenever he wanted, and you would let him. You would want him to.
He had known it would be addictive. He just hadn’t realised how quickly the addiction would take hold, how it would wrap around his nervous system and tighten until he couldn’t think of anything else.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
Spooned against you, chest to your back, he felt his hips roll forward in a slow, instinctive grind.
The thick length of him slid into the warm cradle between your thighs, pressing against the soft, slick heat of you through the sheet. A low sound caught in his throat, a choked half-groan that he swallowed against your skin.
Fuck. He should let you rest.
He had been so rough with you tonight. Your body had given him everything.You deserved sleep. You deserved peace.
But his cock didn’t give a shit about what you deserved.
Before he could stop himself, his hips rolled forward again, and this time the tip of him nudged past the edge of the sheet, finding the bare, wet seam of your cunt.
He gasped against your shoulder, his eyes squeezing shut. The slide of you against him was obscenely slick, unbearably warm, a friction so perfect it made his toes curl against the mattress.
Shit. You were still leaking him from earlier.
The evidence of what he had done to you was still there, pooled between your thighs, making you slick and ready for him all over again.
He pressed a quick, guilty kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering just long enough to form a silent apology. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I just... I need you. I can’t stop needing you.
His hand moved, sliding over the curve of your stomach, tracing the soft dip of your waist before cupping your breast.
The weight of it filled his palm perfectly, the flesh so soft and warm, molding against his fingers like it was made for him. He squeezed gently, then let his thumb drag across your nipple, feeling the peak tighten and pebble under his touch.
A small shift rippled through your body. A subtle arch of your spine. A soft, breathy sound that caught in your throat.
He froze.
Every muscle in his body locked tight. His breath stopped. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he was sure it would wake you on its own. He waited, suspended in the pure terror of being caught.
She’s going to wake up. She’s going to see what I’m doing. She’s going to realise what a fucking creep I am—that I can’t keep my hands off her even when she’s asleep, that I’ve been watching her for years, that I am completely, irreparably obsessed with her.
The seconds stretched like hours.
But you didn’t wake. Your breathing deepened again, settling back into that slow, even rhythm. Your body relaxed against his, soft and trusting and completely oblivious to the war raging inside his chest.
He should have stopped. He should have been grateful for the reprieve, thanked whatever cruel god had given him this moment, and let you sleep.
Instead, he kept moving.
His hips resumed their slow, steady rhythm, grinding against your soaked cunt, the head of his cock sliding through the mess of his own release and your combined arousal.
The sensation was maddening; a wet, slippery tease that promised heaven without delivering it.
His hand stayed on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, feeling the way your body responded even in sleep.
He pressed his lips to the back of your neck, a long, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of salt and skin. His breath came hot and uneven against your nape.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your skin, barely a whisper. “But I can’t... I can’t stop touching you. Every second I’m not inside you feels like I’m wasting time I don’t have.”
His hips rolled again, slower this time, deeper, the blunt tip of him catching at your entrance before sliding away, teasing both of you.
A shudder ran through his entire body.
“Please. Just a little more.”
The words slipped from Dex’s lips against the warm skin of your neck, a prayer offered to himself more than you, a plea for permission he was already taking.
He buried his face deeper into the crook of your shoulder, breathing you in until his lungs ached, and let his hips move.
There was nothing graceful about it. He rutted against you like a man possessed, the thick length of him sliding through the slick heat pooled between your thighs.
The sensation erased every rational thought. There was only you. The need to be inside you again. To own you. To fill you so completely that you couldn’t forget him, couldn’t leave him.
His breath came heavier against your nape, as his hand slid from your breast down to your stomach. He pressed his palm flat against the soft curve of your belly and pulled you tighter against him.
The arch of your back pressed your ass directly against his cock, and a fractured groan escaped him.
That’s when he felt it. A shift in your body. Your muscles tensed, your breathing changed, the subtle alertness of waking. Your voice cut through the dark, rough with sleep.
“Dex...?”
He froze for the span of a heartbeat. Then his hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back just enough for him to press a kiss to your cheek.
His hips never stopped their relentless grind, his cock catching at your entrance before sliding away again.
“Shhh,” he breathed against your ear. “Go back to sleep, honey. I’ve got you. Just let me stay right here.”
He needed you to stay in that space between dreaming and waking, where you were pliant and accepting and he could pretend his need wasn’t completely out of control.
But you turned your head toward him, your lips parting.
“Dex—”
He couldn’t let you finish. He kissed you, his tongue sliding into your mouth before you could form the rest of the sentence.
And you let him. No, you kissed him back. Your mouth softened under his, your body melting into his, your tongue meeting his with a lazy, sultry rhythm that told him everything he needed to know.
He felt your hand slide down between your bodies, your fingers searching blindly until they found him.
You traced the slick head of his cock, your touch featherlight, and a shudder ripped through him so violently he had to brace himself against the mattress.
“Fuck,” he gasped against your lips. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged. “You want this too.”
You didn’t answer with words. You nudged the tip of him against your opening, a silent direction that drove the last shred of his restraint into the dust.
He answered with a small grunt as he pushed inside.
The heat of you swallowed him whole, and he dropped his forehead to yours, breathing you in. A soft, breathy moan escaped your lips, and your fingers curled against his back.
“Dex,” you murmured again, but this time it wasn’t a question. It was a sigh of surrender. A welcome.
He pressed another kiss to your mouth, before he began to move.
He tried to start slow. He tried to savour the sensation of sinking back into your slick heat. The attempt lasted only a handful of careful thrusts before the hunger surged through him.
His strokes turned hard and punishing. The rhythm of his hips fell into a desperate tempo that rocked the mattress beneath you, the steady thump-thump-thump of the headboard keeping time with the wild beating of his heart.
His hand slid up from your hip, fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach, your ribs, before curling around your throat.
You looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, your pupils blown wide, your lips parted around soft, broken ah-ah-ah sounds that spilled from your throat with every deep thrust.
He leaned down, his mouth hovering over yours, and deliberately let a thick string of saliva fall into your open lips. He wanted more of himself inside you.
More of his taste, his mark, his presence seeping into every crevice of your body.
A low, guttural groan rumbled up from his chest as he watched you swallow it without hesitation, without question. Your throat worked under his palm, accepting him, taking him in, and the sight nearly sent him over the edge.
“Fuck,” he murmured against your lips, his balls slapping wetly against your ass as he drove into you harder. “You liked that, didn’t you? Touching you while you were asleep. Groping you. Fucking you like I own you.”
Despite the dazed pleasure softening your features, despite the way he was fucking the very thoughts out of your head, you still had the audacity to smile.
That slow, lazy, knowing curl of your lips that had haunted him since the first time he saw it. You hummed a soft, satisfied, “Uh huh.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, a fractured sound against your cheek.
He hooked your thigh higher over his arm, opening you wider, sinking deeper into your perfect, willing heat.
Your voice came out in fractured moans, but there was a teasing edge to it. “’S fucking hot. Knew you were a freak the second I saw you.”
Dex couldn’t help it. A laugh cracked out of him, low and disbelieving, pressed against the warmth of your cheek.
Here he was, balls deep in the object of a years-long obsession, and you were calling him a freak like it was the highest compliment.
The laugh faded into a shuddering exhale as he shifted his angle, driving into you with hard, deep thrusts that pushed the air from your lungs and left you gasping beneath him.
He wanted to leave a permanent mark on your soul. He wanted your cunt to remember the exact shape of him, the exact weight of him.
He wanted the memory of this night imprinted so deeply into your body that you would feel the ghost of him every time you closed your thighs.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, breath ragged and hot.
“I’m gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”
Your response came as fractured, desperate moans, words swallowed by the rhythm of his hips driving into you.
Without breaking pace, his hand moved. Two fingers pressed against your lips. You opened without hesitation, taking them into your mouth just as you took every part of him.
He pushed them deep, curling them against your tongue in perfect time with his thrusts, a double rhythm that had you moaning around his knuckles.
The sight of you like this; mouth full of him, cunt full of him, eyes glassy and fixed on his face, pushed him to the edge. He could feel the tension coiling tight in his gut, the familiar ache building at the base of his spine.
He was seconds away from coming. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
He needed you there first.
With a wet gasp from you, he pulled his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva breaking between his skin and your lips. His hand dropped without hesitation, finding your clit.
He rubbed fast, precise circles against the swollen bud, his own rhythm faltering as he poured every ounce of focus into your pleasure.
His eyes locked onto your face. He watched every micro-expression. The furrow of your brows, the way your lips parted on sharp, punched-out breaths, the flutter of your lashes as pleasure overtook you.
You looked up at him, dazed and pleading, and he nodded like a man possessed, a dumb, frantic motion that matched the speed of his fingers.
“C’mon,” he breathed, the words cracking. “Let go f’me. Let go, baby.”
And you did.
The orgasm hit you like a wave, your back arching, your mouth opening in a loud moan. Dex felt it, the way your cunt clenched around him, choked him, milked him.
The sensation ripped a loud, guttural groan from his chest, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. He closed his eyes, the world going white, and let himself go.
Deep, pulsing spurts of cum filled you, and he thrust into you with every wave, pushing himself as deep as he could go, holding himself there, making sure every drop stayed inside you.
When it was over, the room was filled with nothing but harsh, shared breaths.
He collapsed against you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. He made no move to pull out. No move to let you go. He stayed buried inside you, as close as flesh could get.
“Jesus Christ,” you murmured in a daze, the words barely a whisper.
The silence that followed was a dangerous thing. It let the thoughts back in. The insecurity. The horrible, gnawing fear that he had done too much.
He pressed his face into the curve of your neck, hiding, breathing you in until his lungs ached. His voice was rough, muffled against your skin.
“Too much?”
A beat. Then your hand, slow and heavy with exhaustion, slid into his hair. You laughed, soft and drowsy.
“No.” A pause. “By all means... keep me in your basement if you want.”
Dex’s eyes snapped open.
The joke hung in the air, clearly just a sleepy, affectionate jab. But he didn’t hear the joke.
He heard the offer.
Having you to himself. Forever. In a place where no one else could touch you, see you, take you. A place where you were his, every single moment of every single day.
And if you wanted it... if you offered it up with that same trust you gave him your body, your mouth, your cunt...
Then why the fuck wouldn’t he do it?
He lifted his head slowly, looking down at your face. You were half-asleep, lips curved in a soft sex-dazed smile. You had no idea what you had just given him.
His voice dropped, quiet and raw. Completely serious.
“Yeah?”
Your lashes fluttered. You hummed, already drifting back into sleep, but the sound was an affirmation. A yes.
His hand slid up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced your cheekbone, and when he spoke, the words were a vow pressed against your lips.
“Then I’m never letting you go.”
a/n | dex feeling absolutely blessed and a surreality of being seen and chosen by you, meanwhile reader is just a youngho and overly horny
everyone thinking clark and his girlfriend are the most vanilla, sweet, innocent couple because of how they act around each other and present as a team — never cursing or fighting, never drinking or getting belligerent, never lying or betraying anybody including and especially to each other. they were the golden couple. they only amp up that image to everybody even more when clark buys them promise rings. everyone thinks it’s sweet, cute as a button how virginal they both are and are waiting for marriage. they’ve only ever seen him give her a kiss on her cheek or her forehead, rub her arm, hug her in a warm embrace and whisper their adorable inside jokes.
but in the private space of their bedroom, they’ve done just about everything but.
even before clark got them the rings.
every night, he whimpers her name and ‘please’ on repeat right in her neck, wearing nothing but his glasses. grinding his cock up and down the front slit of her pretty, glistening pussy like he’s a horny little bunny that couldn’t ever be sated.
“it doesn’t count, right? if I don’t put it in, mmmmuhhh— oh, god — if I don’t put it in then we’re still virgins,” he pants. still humping her up and down, their parts rutting up against one another as they both implode from the friction. she grinds her clit back, bumping it up against his head and all his throbbing veins, and nods her head up and down, agreeing.
“of course baby, just keep going, we can cum like this as much as we want. it won’t count.”
“oh, oh my, yes, yes please! I have to keep going. I’m about to cum. it’s gonna get all over your pretty little pussy.”
he learns all his dirty talk from the dirty movies they’ve watched too. apart from his instincts and his imagination, and of course all his grunts and movements were purely primal.
“it looks so big when you press it up against me. I don’t know how it’s gonna fit when we get married,” she gasps, watching him rut like a dog and how it goes past her belly button. it’s sloppy, slippery, jutting around from all the blood that’s filled up. his sac is even heavy against her too. the way it bounces against her hole, gives her another part of him to clench onto too.
“shhh, we’ll make it fit. I won’t let it hurt you. we’ll be nice and wet together, just like this, then it’ll just… it’ll just slide right in,” he gulps. losing any other words that are left to say the more he thinks about it. “we’ll feel so good. and you’re gonna be my wife.”
“keep — keep going baby, don’t stop now,” she pleads. clark nods immediately, kissing on her neck while he humps her even faster. the slick is audible, gushing in between them as they whimper and slide.
“they think I don’t even touch you,” clark hums a laugh, slobbering on her throat through a wet, lazy kiss. “mmm. they think I haven’t even seen you naked. they don’t know I can still make this pussy feel good without even putting it in.”
she sprawls out her legs even wider, mouth open as she has her toes further up in the air, letting him take over their gyrating completely as they both leak all over each other.
“let’s cum together, honey. let me make you feel good. let go for me, cum on me. I wanna make this pussy feel nice and happy.”
clark ruts harder, faster. kisses her chin and swallows up his favorite noises that leave her mouth when they both feel the electric dip in their bellies. both of them clench, clark’s tip stills and presses up right against her clit while he lets out his long, gushing first spurt. she cums just as he’s creaming all over her clit, making a mess of her mound and even up to her stomach. they both roar and hum and whine as they rub out their highs, the splatter of all the evidence of their innocent fun coated all over her as they catch up to their wild heartbeats.
he kisses her and hums all his praises right into her mouth, some of it even nonsense as he slaps his filthy, heavy wet tip back on the lips of her pussy and the hood of her clit.
“you um, felt good? jeez, it’s so wet….”
clark is in awe at her shiny center, enthralled while he plays with the mess a little more. he gets shy and ducks his head back with a laugh and says he’s sorry if she’s too overstimulated. she laughs right back at him and shook her head, wrapping one leg around his hips to trap him back in.
“you can keep playing. it’s all yours.”
“it’s ours. our mess… and gosh is it pretty,” he breathes, rolling his head and tapping the sopping wet folds. “prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I can’t wait to be your wife.”
“well I can’t wait to be your husband,” clark retorts, pointedly looking at her and leaning in to give her a warm, selfish kiss.
“can’t wait to feel you inside me. all the way,” she whispers. holds onto his face.
“I’ll make you feel so good. I already can’t keep my hands off you.”
“and they’ll never know.”
“nope,” clark grins.
eventually, shortly after clark proposed they graduated to ‘just the tip’ making both of them cum after only a few shallow pumps of clark tearing her open with just his crowned head. and he grazes her g-spot with the most perfect angle to drive them both crazy. but in public, with their matching shiny engagement rings gracing their fingers, they still are perceived as modest as can be.
Introduction: You had always been inexperienced when it came to life, it wasn't until you met your next door neighbor that you began to realize just how much you were missing out, and how intoxicating belonging to a dangerous man can be.
Request
CW: SMUT, No use of Y/N, Readers features are never described, Implied that reader is smaller than Dex but he's so broad that most people are, He's a freak, You're a freak, Knife play, Clothes Ripping, Unprotected sex, Porn WITH a lot of plot
Word Count: 11.5k (4k of this is just smut lol)
AN: I love the diner scene so in this story I based Dex’s characterization off of that. Reader has mommy issues and trauma but it's build up for smut. Somehow I managed to outfreak Touch Me!Dex with this one, enjoy!
The threshold of the small, one bedroom apartment felt less like a physical boundary and more like the precipice of an entire world. To anyone else, the compact square footage, open-concept kitchenette, and the isolated bathroom were simply standard urban housing. But to you, standing perfectly still with your palms flat against the cool frame of the doorway, it was everything. All that you had spent years praying for, laid out in front of you.
You took a single, heavy breath, inhaling the sharp, unfamiliar scents of fresh paint, old plaster, and the distant, metallic tang of the city outside. You made it here to your new life. You arrived despite everyone's prediction of your failure, every quiet doubt whispered in the dark, and every loud, toxic absolute hurled at your head before you left. You crossed an entire continent with nothing but five thousand dollars in your pocket and a beat-up car crammed to the ceiling with your entire life. Somehow, the fragile hope of your survival had held together, delivering you straight ownership of this apartment in New York.
Your feet moved on their own volition, carrying you across the space as you began to map your new home. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath your weight, full of knots and individual character. Your gaze tracked the deep bay window that overlooked the elevated train tracks. Watching the late afternoon sun pierce through the glass, illuminating a slow, rhythmic dance of dust mites suspended in the air of your empty space. This was a life you could get used to loving, perhaps the life you should have been promised since the very beginning. One filled with serenity and the promise of stability within these walls. A life where you didn't have to balance on a tight rope on a daily basis, where home could foster growth and ambition rather than squander it. This is what it should have been like, not the terrible cards life had dealt you.
Suddenly triggered by the calm, an immense, suffocating sensation flooded the center of your chest. Your throat tightened to a painful knot, and your heart began to hammer against your ribs with a relentless, frantic tempo. It was a volatile, agonizing cocktail of pride and still resonating, white hot anger. Your fists clenched at your sides, your knuckles turning white as your eyes locked onto the pathetic, sparse collection of cardboard boxes sitting in the center of the empty room.
Fuck everybody.
The words echoed in your mind like a mantra. Fuck them all.
Your jaw locked so tightly your teeth ached. In the sudden silence of the room, the memory of your emotionally incompetent mother’s voice flooded back, louder and more invasive than the rumble of the subway outside the glass. Years of belittling, of being told you were useless, of being overlooked and treated not as a daughter, but as an unwanted burden. None of it held any leverage over you anymore. Because you were free. You were thousands of miles away, while they remained entirely stagnant, rotting back home, working themselves into an early grave at the same exact, unfulfilling job your mother had held for fifteen miserable years.
For over a decade, you had navigated the landmines of an emotionally abusive parent who viewed her own flesh and blood as direct, threatening competition. But the war was over. In a way it felt like victory. You won your freedom.
And that single realization should have been enough to calm the internal storm, but the peace felt incomplete as you stood there. Perhaps it was the empty space that left you wanting more. A deep, visceral part of you still craved violence. The quiet, dignified exit of the "being the bigger person" narrative society forced down your throat, felt unsatisfying compared to the scale of the damage. You felt a raw need to physically tear that woman apart with a knife, to make her feel the exact same pain she had inflicted upon your childhood. The concrete image of it flickered in your mind, vivid and bloody, because being better wasn't a currency that bought back the years that had been stolen from you.
Her lingering voice was still a tenant in your head, she was the internal structure that spoke and criticized every waking minute of your day. Yes you had gotten away but in some ways she was still here. The heaviness settled right back over your shoulders, bringing the anger and a deep, nameless starvation along with it. You couldn't even identify what you wanted at this moment as you stewed. Did you want validation? Did you want happiness? Or did you simply want the dark daydreams of shoving a cold knife into her body to finally become real? And were you regretting not doing it before you left…
"That's interesting," a voice muttered from the hallway.
The sound shattered your trance immediately, pulling you back from the depths. Your head snapped toward the doorway, your gaze averting to the apartment door you had left wide open. Cussing yourself out silently for it as you schooled your expression and kept the emotions at bay.
Standing across the narrow, dimly lit corridor was a man. He had been in the exact middle of unlocking his own door before your rigid posture caught his eye. His sharp brows parted slightly as his cold eyes took in the sight of your moving boxes, your tightly clenched fists, and the mean, hostile frown you didn't even realize you had been wearing as you zoned out.
Dex studied you for a fraction of a second. To his hyper acute mind, you were a sudden, unregulated pawn in his clean, quiet hallway. He made the deliberate decision to pocket his hands, leaving the keys dangling on his lock as he began to walk directly toward your open door.
Your mind scrambled to re-engage with reality, your feet carrying you forward to meet him halfway at the threshold. Dex's focal moved with precision, immediately logging the sparse contents of your life: exactly four small boxes and a half-disassembled mannequin laying on the bare hardwood. His focus honed in on the heavy packing tape sealing the cardboard shut, explicitly stamped with a small, red maple leaf.
"Hi, I'm your new neighbor," you said.
Dex’s internal wiring instantly analyzed the pitch. Your words were incredibly tense, the register high enough to suggest performance of pleasantries, but there was a distinct strain underlying the syllables. He tracked the rigid alignment of your shoulders, noting how the tension made your collarbones stand out sharply beneath your skin.
"Not from New York?" he asked, raising a single brow. He already knew the precise answer based on the tape, but his programming needed him to hear the confirmation roll off your tongue.
"No," you shook your head, your posture remaining stiff.
"You sew?" Dex nodded his chin down toward the dress form resting on the floor.
"Um... yeah," you offered, your response clipped and protective. You had absolutely no desire to delve into how that purpose was the singular anchor of your soul, or how you had abandoned the little shred of safety back home just to pursue it here.
"Hm. Keep the noise down past ten. Thin walls," he said plainly.
You eagerly, rapidly nodded your compliance. Dex lingered for a moment, his body weight shifting. By all accounts of his daily routine, he should have walked away. Conventional human interactions were a tedious, exhausting ordeal that rarely benefited him unless they served a specific purpose. But the absolute immediacy of your agreement, the way you submissively shrunk back under the order, made his mind pause. He sees people afraid on a daily basis as Bullseye, yet you, for some odd reason, were already on edge before he even made his presence known.
"I'm Tony," he quipped, the introduction sounding just a fraction too rehearsed, a carefully selected line from his mental archives. His eyes flicked back down to the foreign maple leaf on the box before a low, quiet intensity crept into his voice. "But my friends call me Dex."
"Dex," you tested the name, the word falling softly between you.
A faint hum of genuine satisfaction vibrated in his chest. It had been an exceptionally long time since he had heard his actual name spoken by someone who wasn't a target or a handler.
"Don't let Mrs. Smithers hear you call me that," he said, offering a sudden, sharp grin that didn't quite reach his dead, unblinking eyes. There was an invisible, dangerous undercurrent to the words, a hidden threat wrapped in domestic clothing. "I'm serious, or else she's gonna start thinking we're not as close."
His delivery possessed a sudden, calculated charisma, a charm that successfully baited a small, hesitant half-smile from your lips.
"Knock at my door if you need anything," he added, throwing in a brief, practiced wink before he turned on his heel. He didn't truly understand the psychological impulse that had driven him to offer the concession, but his research on human integration had taught him that these specific gestures effectively relaxed women. He had already decided you wouldn't be a problem for his daily structure.
In the weeks that followed, you went to extraordinary lengths to avoid apartment 20B. It wasn't that the initial interaction had been explicitly unpleasant, but an invasive, persistent nervousness had settled deep in your stomach whenever you heard his footsteps in the hall. Dex’s presence made you feel extremely anxious, exposing a raw, aching deprivation of basic social interaction that you weren't ready to face.
But the avoidance strategy completely collapsed on a Tuesday evening over a remarkably stubborn jar of marinara sauce.
You had spent twenty-five agonizing minutes exhausting every trick in your arsenal. You had sandwiched the thick glass between your thighs, twisting until your skin was raw; you had hammered the metal lid with the heavy handle of a butter knife, praying for the vacuum seal to pop. Nothing worked. Looking back at your tiny kitchenette one final time, at the pathetic pot of rapidly cooling noodles and the messy counter, your feet began to move toward the hallway before your brain could protest.
You stood before apartment 20B and knocked once.
The sound had barely dissipated before the door swung wide open. Dex stood beneath the frame, wearing a plain white muscle shirt and a pair of loose gray sweatpants. His broad, heavily muscled shoulders completely blocked the view of his interior. He raised a single, questioning brow.
You pathetically shook the glass jar once in front of his chest. "Open," fell from your lips in a flat, monotone whisper.
Dex blinked, his gaze dropping to the jar.
"I mean- um, can you please open this? Please?" you tried again, your voice cracking with embarrassment.
Without a word, his large, calloused hand reached out and took the glass from your grip. With one smooth, effortless twist of his wrist, the metal lid popped open with a loud snap. Your eyes involuntarily darted to the thick expanse of his bicep, watching the muscles flex and shift beneath the skin with the casual display of strength. A sudden, suffocating feeling of intrusion washed over you, making you feel entirely out of place.
You frantically snatched the opened jar back into your possession, attempting to execute a rapid speed-walk back to the safety of your home before he could engage.
Dex watched your skittish retreat, a faint flicker of amusement piercing through his usual apathy. Conventional neighbors were loud, unpredictable nuisances, but you were different. You stayed entirely within your perimeter, exactly how he preferred it. You made no noise, you never slammed your doors, and you never returned home late. In fact, Dex had realized he almost never saw you leave the building at all. You treated apartment 20A like a hiding hole, a sanctuary against the outside world.
Perhaps that was the exact reason his mind felt inclined to participate. To actively engage and solidify the illusion of "Tony" as a real breathing person that cares about others.
"What're you making?" he asked, his voice a low interrogation that stopped you in your tracks.
"Um, one-pot pasta?" you murmured over your shoulder.
Dex's sharp brows furrowed instantly, his gaze narrowing into a harsh, hyper-focused line. You instinctively clutched the marinara jar tighter against your ribs.
"What the fuck is that," he cussed out, the sheer lack of culinary skills genuinely offending his sense of order.
"It's... pasta you make in one pot," you shrugged, your voice defensive.
The concept thoroughly grated on his compulsive need for proper sequencing. Before you could offer a verbal protest, Dex stepped over the boundaries of his apartment, his tall frame moving right past you and directly into your private space. You stood frozen for a second before silently trailing behind him.
His linear, tracking eyes scanned your apartment, and a cold weight settled into his chest. My god, it was sad.
In the center of the kitchenette sat the offending, solitary pot, filled with starch and water. Your bed wasn't even a proper piece of furniture; it was merely a single mattress dumped onto the floor, heavily dressed up in expensive duvets and a mountain of pillows to overcompensate for the lack of a frame. A small lap-table sat on top of the blankets instead of a proper dining set. Five long, perfectly level shelves lined the walls, crammed with meticulously folded fabrics. By the bay window sat an ancient, cast-iron sewing machine that looked at least a century old, positioned next to the dress form wearing a stunning, intricate gown that looked entirely too beautiful to exist within this depressing space.
"You're not okay," Dex deduced immediately, turning his rigid frame around to face you.
A nervous, fractured laugh broke from your throat. "What?"
"You're not okay," he repeated, stating it not as an insult, but as an absolute fact as he walked back over to the stove to inspect the cursed pot.
"I'm fine," you muttered, peaking through the kitchen archway, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. Jar forgotten beside you, a bystander in this weird conversation.
"Then why do you live like this?" His tone was sharp, accusatory, mildly insulted that any functional human being would willingly subject themselves to such a lack of domestic structure. It bothered him. It bothered him an extraordinary amount. Too much for him to resume his usual disregard of others personal business.
"Um, for the record, I live fine," you raised a single finger to defend yourself.
"Your bed is on the floor," he countered, his expression entirely unamused.
"There's a rug! And it's cozy!" you pointed down to the plush pink faux-fur rug stretching beneath the mattress.
"It's sad," Dex noted flatly. He deeply disliked the specific deregulation this room was forcing onto him. Without asking permission, his hands began to move, instantly taking ownership of the kitchen, determined to fix the failure of your meal. And you could only do nothing but watch in bewilderment as your next door neighbor moved with clear certainty in your home.
"What's that about," he asked after a moment, jerking his sharp chin toward the elaborate gown by the window.
"Someone's paying me to make it," you offered softly.
"So you're a designer?" he questioned, his large hands efficiently raiding the contents of your refrigerator. You tried your absolute best to ignore the terrifying reality that an exceptionally attractive, intimidating man was currently taking control of your life.
"No. Designers get people to buy their clothes because of their name. I just... I just make clothes." You clarified, shifting your weight on your feet.
"You have people buying your clothes for how they look. How's that any different?" Dex questioned, because truthfully your logic made no sense.
"It just is, okay!" your voice finally spiked, a sudden rush of raw, defensive emotion breaking through your shy exterior. "They have degrees, and money, and connections, and I just have a bed on the floor!" You pointed a trembling finger at the mattress.
Dex stared at you for a long second before a low, genuine laugh slipped past his lips. He bit down a smile, turning back to the stove to completely salvage your atrocious food. You amused him. Your strange, combative nature hidden beneath your meek form was fascinating enough to make him stay. So he kept cooking in the silence, letting you calm down from your outburst. For a while the only sound echoing the room was rhythmic cutting as he minced garlic with efficient speed.
"How'd you get that scar?" you blurted out suddenly when you decided to speak again, your eyes tracking the pale line slicing through his features. It was a brave question to ask, perhaps the wrong one, but it'd been the only thing you could focus on since the minute you met him. And you decided on impulse, that if he got to invade your life, you at least earned the right to ask an equally invasive question.
Dex’s muscles tensed for a solitary second, his fingers tightening around the kitchen knife. His mind instantly executed recalibration, regulating his breathing just as he had rehearsed a thousand times in institutional therapy. He locked the bloody, violent memories away in a vault, forcing a normal, charismatic mask over his face.
"It's New York," he said plainly as if that was enough of an explanation, which in a way it was. "What I wanna know is why you chose here over Canada?" He turned his head, his gaze drilling straight into your eyes.
"I didn't like it there anymore..." your voice dropped into a hushed, incredibly heavy register. The sheer, concentrated depression radiating from your small form filled the room like dense fog. It irritated him. It irritated him because a creature with your specific, meticulous talent shouldn't be radiating the scent of a wounded animal. He hated the lack of coordination between what you were capable of creating and how you viewed your own worth.
"Taste," he ordered softly, lifting the wooden spoon directly to your mouth.
Your lips parted in a slight hesitation, your eyes locking onto his as you slowly leaned forward. Dex watched with a hyper-focused intensity as your mouth closed over the wood, taking in the rich, perfectly balanced sauce.
"That's really good," you nodded, your cheeks flushing a fierce warmth as you stepped back, suddenly shy.
“Isn't it," he murmured in that attractive, playful lilt of his. The gesture and tones of his voice are a characteristic you'd come to associate with your odd neighbor. Without a hint of hesitation, Dex slid the exact same spoon into his own mouth, tasting the leftover sauce, his eyes never leaving yours.
That night he left you standing there in the center of the kitchen with a perfectly prepared plate of fresh food, not even bothering to sit down or have a meal with you. His mission for the day had been executed, leaving you thoroughly confused and breathless in his wake.
The confusion only deepened when the exact same sequence repeated itself the following morning. You opened your door at nine o'clock, only to be firmly pushed aside as Dex hauled a heavy canvas bag of groceries directly into your space.
"What're you making for breakfast now?" His voice carried a dry, biting edge as he interrogated you.
"I don't normally eat breakfast," you muttered, leaning against the counter.
Dex’s brows furrowed deeply. Wrong. That was incorrect in every preferable scenario to him. The human brain required proper nutritional fuel the precise moment it transitioned into an awake state in order to function throughout the day. And yet you skipped breakfast regularly.
"I brought proper food," he noted, emphasizing the word proper. Safe, balanced foods that didn't emerge from an aluminum can.
You paused, staring at the broad expanse of his chest, then down to the fresh produce, and then back up to his sharp features. "Why?" you asked, your voice small, genuinely confused why this terrifying neighbor cared enough about your life. Maybe he did care, or maybe the sheer lack of order in your existence simply violated his internal programming in an incomprehensible way. It didn't take much for you to realize that Dex most likely had OCD, judging by what you've observed from him, he was a very one track minded man.
"Why're you doing this shit," he countered, his hand gesturing vaguely to the fabrics, the mattress, the entirety of your isolated world.
Your brows knit together, trying to parse the exact thing he was attacking. You made an educated guess that he was referring to the fundamental reality of all of you.
"I moved here because I believed in myself," you said, trying to sound firm.
But the delivery was a far cry from actual conviction. To Dex’s tracking eyes, you looked like a frail, hyper-vigilant thing that was merely surviving the days rather than actively living them. It didn't look like belief; it looked like an escape. But Dex could respect the raw, stubborn determination underlying the performance. He had recognized your immense talent within the first sixty seconds of entering your apartment. You were a creature of singular focus, prioritizing the creation of a beautiful dress over basic human comfort. He wasn't one to judge an obsession. You possessed the spark required to carve your name into the stone of the city; you simply weren't fully convinced of your own gravity yet.
It reminded him entirely of his old, fractured self, desperately searching for a script to prove he was allowed to exist. Maybe that was the exact reason he couldn't just let you go. He tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing as you visibly squirmed under the pressure of his gaze.
"But you still sleep on the floor," he said slowly, taking a deliberate step into your orbit.
"But I still sleep on the floor..." you confirmed, your voice hitching as you took a small step backward. He continued to advance, completely abandoning the grocery bags on the kitchen island.
"You should be sleeping in a bed made for royalty. Not that," he noted, a faint trace of dark amusement in his voice as he watched you try everything in your power to avoid his proximity.
"That requires princess money," you countered with your chin held high, your heel catching slightly on the edge of the faux-fur rug.
"That's not how the story goes. Isn't the fairytale answer to marry a king?" He crossed his massive arms over his broad chest, blocking out the light from the window with his form.
You stopped moving, taking a long, deliberate look at the rigid picture of his features. "Are you mocking me?" you asked after a heavy silence. "Is this a joke to you?"
"What? No,” he spat out with equal conviction.
“You are not a joke," the concept genuinely offended the man. You were everything but.
"I don't need help, Dex," your voice suddenly cracked, an exasperated, rushing tide of buried rage spilling through the seams of your composure. He had unknowingly poked at a raw, unhealed wound you didn't even know you had. "I don't need anybody. I've made it this far entirely on my own, and I-"
"I didn't say you needed it," the words rolled off his tongue like velvet, cutting through your fervor. "I'm offering it."
"Why?" your eyes narrowed into suspicious, defensive slits. You were a guarded little thing.
"Because you're alone. In a dangerous city," he pointed it out as if it were a fundamental law.
Truthfully, his conscious mind didn't fully comprehend the psychological reasonings driving his desire to intervene; he simply knew that his system demanded it. Perhaps it was merely basic human nature to seek out a companion. Or perhaps he decided that for "Tony" to maintain his flawless civilian disguise, he required a friend. Tony was a good citizen. Tony helped his neighbors; Tony fed the old lady's cat on the third floor; Tony fixed the plumbing for the single mother upstairs. Tony was a pillar of the community. Though it wasn't just that. Dex knew you had resonated with him, with your awkward self and unpredictable outbursts hooking him. Despite how it looked, he wasn't trying to fix you, he was in no position to be handling another person, instead he felt the urge to provide you with the support he never had.
"Sit down," he ordered simply, turning his back to you as he began to masterfully prepare the fresh ingredients he'd brought.
"You have talent," he said twenty minutes later after the silence got too heavy, his hands efficiently wiping down the counter space while you consumed the meal he made. You sat up a fraction straighter at the validation. "But talent without exposure doesn't mean anything."
You almost flinched at the sharp accuracy of the statement.
"You should be out there. Not locked in here all the time," he continued. By now, Dex’s surveillance of your habits had mapped your highly dysfunctional sleeping patterns. You remained awake through the entire night, whenever he left for an assignment or returned in the pre-dawn hours, the golden light from your windows were always visible. You spent the daylight hours sleeping, unless you were forced to leave for your underappreciated assistant position at the Daily Prophet.
He turned his head to look at you, tracking the way your soft lips parted slightly as you absorbed his assessment.
"You're a pretty woman. Here in New York, that's enough to open most doors," he said. The words weren't delivered as a compliment or a cheap attempt at flattery; it was simply a cold, structural fact.
A fact that caused you to violently choke on your eggs, a brilliant crimson blush detonating across your cheeks.
"You okay there?" he asked, his hand pausing its polishing over the mug in his hand. You urgently nodded your head, frantically reaching for a glass of water. Dex kept wiping the porcelain clean, a dark, thoroughly amused smirk settling onto his features.
Life with a man in your orbit was an entirely surreal reality, especially when that man was a massive, hyper-stabilizing force looming permanently in your background.
Dex had helped you source a proper, high-backed "princess bed" frame, assembling the heavy wood with a silent, terrifying efficiency. In return, you began to prepare your meals with his specific caloric needs in mind. You found yourself dressing in the mornings with the absolute certainty that you would be looking into the cold watchful eyes of your neighbor before the day concluded. No longer donning old sweats with thread stuck onto them, instead you chose more curated lounge wear. Nothing that suggested you were trying too hard but cotton sets and satin shorts that helped remind you that you were a girl. A girl with a very attractive man coming to her apartment on a daily basis. By the third month of this unspoken arrangement, Dex possessed a key to your apartment. You couldn't recall the exact moment he acquired it, nor did you feel any concern that he had it. Dex had proven himself to be so utterly dependable, so fiercely protective of your sanctuary, that you never once questioned the breach.
You simply allowed him to appear. Sometimes you would open your eyes in the morning to find him silently reading by your bed; other times, he wouldn't slip through the door until the dead of night. He had informed you, in his flat register, that his operational hours were highly dysfunctional as well due to his past employment with the FBI and his current status as a private contractor. It was the explanation that perfectly accounted for the jagged, violent scars lining his well maintained body.
The routine fractured slightly on a stormy Thursday evening. A violent thunderstorm had completely knocked out the power grid across your section of Brooklyn, leaving your apartment illuminated by the flickering, amber glow of a dozen candles. You sat across from him at the small table, the ambient silence magnifying the heavy, intrusive thoughts you normally managed to suppress. Without the distraction of your sewing machine or the television, the ghosts of your past were entirely too loud to ignore. It was better with Dex around, but tonight it was oppressing.
"You still with me?" His quiet, gravelly voice sliced through the dark.
"Yeah. I'm sorry," you nodded quickly, your shoulders drawing inward.
Dex’s eyes tracked the movement. He often wondered why that specific word, sorry, dropped from your lips with such automatic frequency, even when you committed nothing wrong. He had analyzed the way your entire system would shut down, retreating into a silent, unreadable fortress whenever you perceived even a flash of tension in his tone. He had logged it during his first critique of your mattress, and again when he regulated your breakfast habits. You would instantly succumb, allowing him to rewrite your parameters without an ounce of resistance.
It didn't align with the true matrix of who you were. It didn't fit the woman who possessed the fierce, unyielding determination to cross a continent alone for her art. You had been systematically programmed by someone else to react this way. It was a defect in your confidence, and it bothered him. He wanted to understand the code, but his lack of conventional empathy made the vocabulary invasive. He didn't know how to ask how you had been broken. He only knew that over the past five months, his motivation for being around you had completely evolved from a selfish need for a civilian disguise into an undeniable reality: he thoroughly enjoyed your company. You were awkward in a specific, quiet manner that made his own internal fractures feel normal. It was almost funny.
He searched his mental archives, selecting a play designed to foster emotional trust. Because he wanted you to trust him, he needed you to.
"You say that a lot. You okay there?" he asked, his chin gesturing toward your tense form. He worried the phrasing was either too forward or completely off the mark.
"Um, yeah. Sorry. It's just that..." You took a long, ragged breath, the amber candlelight catching the wet sheen of your eyes. "I grew up in a reactive home… and quietness kinda makes me uncomfortable" You nodded to yourself, tasting the bitter, familiar poison on your tongue as your throat tightened. Growing up was like navigating an active minefield. You were always criticized rather than praised. Everything you did was wrong. At some point, you just learn that it's safer if you shut down completely and don't engage.
Even now, miles away from the source, the conditioning remains a permanent tenant in your nervous system. It was an agonizing process trying to dismantle years of trauma; when you were raised by a monster, accepting genuine care or praise felt like a trap. You would hyper-fixate on every single micro-mistake you made throughout the day until isolation felt like the only true sanctuary available to you.
Dex offered a slow, deliberate nod. He lacked the capacity for conventional comfort, but he forced himself to try.
"My parents weren't really that involved," he offered, his voice a flat line of history.
Before he could expand on his own dark childhood, you cut through the quiet. "It was just me and my mom." You paused, your fingers tightening around the edge of your napkin. "But sometimes... I really wished it was just me."
Dex’s brow raised a fraction, a sudden spark of intense interest flaring in his irises. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean... I've definitely imagined pulling the trigger on her fucking head more times than I've said 'I love you,'" you said, a sharp, dark laugh breaking from your lips.
Dex’s jaw involuntarily ticked, smile flicking though his eyes remained ever dead.
Huh.
He never once suspected that you possessed such a beautifully morbid, violent architecture within your mind. You were laughing, your head tilted back, but Dex’s hyper-calibrated focus recognized the truth instantly: you were only partially joking. He knew that specific, cold look in a human eye; he had seen it in the mirror, and he had seen it in the field. He knew with absolute certainty that if a weapon were placed in your hand in that exact moment, you would have executed the directive without an ounce of hesitation.
This was an extraordinary development.
"Was she that bad?" he tested, his voice dropping into a low, predatory register.
You took the bait instantly, your fingers wrapping around the handle of your silver dinner knife with a white-knuckled, bruising grip. "She's an emotionally immature woman who never accomplished a single thing with her life, and she chose to take her anger onto me. She's a fucking bitch who was entirely content being the other woman to some married man rather than-"
You cut yourself off abruptly, your chest heaving as you realized you had allowed the floodgates to open entirely too wide. But Dex didn't pull back in horror. Instead, his focus was completely locked onto the violent, white-knuckled grip you maintained on the knife handle.
"Sorry," you whispered, trying to force your features back into a polite, submissive mask. "That was too much."
"It's alright," Dex murmured, his voice incredibly steady as he leaned across the small table, his shadow completely enveloping your form. "I wanna hear whatever's bothering my woman."
The phrase fell from his lips with an absolute, seamless finality. Your entire body locked up, your breath catching in your throat, but you didn't offer a single word of protest. My woman. You didn't argue the timeline; you didn't ask when the boundary had shifted. Instead, you slowly lowered the knife, took another quiet bite of your dinner, and tried your absolute best to suppress the small, genuine smile forming at the corners of your lips. You were somebody's woman!
To Dex, the word girlfriend was inadequate. It belonged to the fragile narrative of normal society, and absolutely nothing about Benjamin Poindexter was normal. He had initially categorized you as a necessary component of his disguise, but you had evolved into something infinite. The transition into ownership had been effortless, occurring somewhere between the hours he spent selecting your furniture and the quiet moments he spent watching you create. Girlfriend was a childish title. His woman possessed posture. It possessed permanence. His woman was a creature he took exquisite care of; his woman was an asset he would dismantle the entire world to protect if she asked. And now, he realized with a sick surge of adrenaline, that his shy but explosive woman might actually possess the exact same dark, violent streak that lived inside his own ribs.
He made the decision to test that thought on a violent, rain-slicked Saturday night.
The window to your fire escape rattled violently before swinging wide open, and Dex tumbled into your bedroom, his broad frame covered in dark fabric, heavily smeared with fresh, steaming blood.
"Oh my god! Dex!" You instantly bolted from your sewing machine, rushing across the hardwood without a single second of hesitation. You didn't scream; you didn't question the firearm strapped to his chest or the array of lethal tactical knives lining his thighs. Your system immediately engaged in operational mode. "What can I do? Tell me what to do."
"Need those hands of yours," he groaned through his teeth, his face pale as he collapsed onto the edge of the bay window, his large fingers frantically tugging the heavy curtains shut to kill the view. "My girl's amazing at sewing, yeah?" It was a desperate, raw plea masked as a casual question as he violently yanked his dark shirt upward. "Need you to deal with this for me."
Your eyes locked onto the jagged, deep gash splitting the skin over his ribs, the blood welling rapidly. You offered a sharp nod, your voice entirely steady. "I'm gonna clean it first, okay? I need to see exactly what I'm fixing up."
"Do what you gotta do, baby," he sighed, his head falling back heavily against the covered glass pane as his eyes closed.
Your small, nimble fingers moved with an extraordinary, professional efficiency. You didn't have medical-grade thread, but you swore by the integrity of your heavy-duty Guterman spool. You guided the needle through his flesh, weaving a series of incredibly precise, perfectly spaced navy-blue stitches to seal the breach. Dex remained entirely silent, watching your face through a haze of acute physical pain. His compulsive mind felt an immense, soothing wave of gratification at the perfect symmetry of your stitches. He found it incredibly, beautifully intimate that you had chosen a deep navy thread to match his clothes.
"So," you whispered, your fingers snipping the excess nylon. "Is this a common occurrence for a private contractor?"
"It's not normally this bad," he graveled out, his breath hitching. "But I ran into the devil tonight."
"And did you leave him looking worse?" you asked as you peered up at him, wiping the remaining copper from his skin.
Dex let out a low, ragged laugh, a fierce surge of pride warming his chest. It was an extraordinary response; a normal person would have demanded an explanation, but his woman's primary concern was the dominance of his performance.
"Mhm," he hummed in deep satisfaction.
From that exact night onward, you became a non-negotiable axiom in his existence. You were the absolute anchor of Dex's reality. Your domestic skills were remarkably useful, but more than that, he liked you. He liked you in a manner he had never experienced with another living entity. It boarded on enamored infatuation now. You remained your quiet, skittish self during the daylight hours, but Dex noted that your defenses dropped significantly whenever he returned bloody and damaged. You became infinitely more generous with your physical touch when he was vulnerable.
Yet, the conditioning of your childhood still dictated your movements. Whenever you sat on the velvet sofa together to watch the news, you automatically maintained a strict, ten-inch barrier between your bodies. Whenever you walked down the crowded concrete stretches of Brooklyn, you never reached for his hand; it was always Dex who had to reach out, wrap his massive arm around your shoulders, and physically drag your frame against his side to close the distance.
Dex began to wonder if your mind truly comprehended what it meant to be his woman. You didn't have to exist on the defensive; you didn't have to carry the weight of the world in isolation because his weapon was entirely at your disposal. But your broken programming prevented you from understanding intimacy. Reading your desires was like parsing ancient hieroglyphics, he was forced to rely entirely on your micro-expressions. Because apparently you would rather die than verbally articulate what you wanted. But at the same time you'd get silently pouty whenever he couldn't read your mind, which was almost never but it has happened once or twice. And that was more than enough times for Dex to start picking through your preferences.
Dex knew with absolute certainty that you liked his hands; your eyes would track their movement whenever he was using a blade to prepare food. And his hyper-calibrated focus had noted the way your demeanor changed when he altered his training regimen to bulk rather than cut. You liked his size. You liked the security of his weight.
The realization reached its zenith on a quiet Monday evening. You were hand-sewing an intricate, embroidered bodice, completely ignoring his repeated words, that strayed too closely to whines, to abandon the work and rest with him while he cooled down from the high adrenaline of a recent assignment. Your nimble fingers reached across the coffee table, casually grabbing one of his tactical throwing knives to cleanly slice your thread.
Dex watched the interaction with an intense, quiet focus. You were comfortable with the weapon. Though you had always been unbothered by his brutality.
"Have you ever used one before?" he asked, his voice a low vibration in the silence.
"No," you hummed, your eyes never leaving the fabric in your lap.
"Ever wanted to?" he pushed, a split second later.
"Yes," you answered truthfully, the syllable rolling off your tongue without a hint of hesitation.
A profound, intoxicating wave of pleasure flooded Dex’s chest at the confirmation.
"Stand up. I'll show you how," he ordered, his body instantly shifting into motion.
The command broke your creative trance, but your body automatically complied with his authority. You watched as he stalked into the kitchenette, his large fingers fishing an empty soda can out of the recycling box. He placed the aluminum on the far edge of the island, turning to trail back to you.
Dex stepped directly behind your frame, guiding your body to stand perfectly parallel to the target, exactly twelve feet away. The moment his large palms settled firmly onto the soft skin of your hips, your entire spine went completely rigid. With a hitched breath, your focus momentarily shatters as he holds out the cold steel.
"Hold it like this," he whispered against your ear, his large fingers wrapping over yours to adjust your grip on the hilt. The metal was ice-cold, perfectly balanced, and terrifyingly thin.
You didn't wait for the final instruction. Driven by a sudden, volatile surge of adrenaline and need to please, your arm snapped forward, hurling the blade across the room with a terrifying amount of force. The knife sliced through the air, striking the exact center of the aluminum can, knocking it to roll tarnished on the floor. If Dex had been satisfied before, his cerebrum was now operating at absolute capacity. A low, feral sound of pure delight escaped his lips as he prowled across the hardwood, inspecting the absolute ruin of the can before plucking the blade from its body. He turned, his whirlpool eyes raking over your flushed, trembling form.
"Impulsive," he murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, heavy register as he slowly stalked back toward your position. "I bet if I gave you a gun, you'd be a trigger-happy little thing..."
You didn't utter a word. You stood completely frozen, your chest heaving as you stared up into the dangerous, unblinking intensity of his face. There was nothing left to say. Without a doubt, he enjoyed what you had done, it was evident in the way the corner of his mouth threatened to pull.
"Should I?" Dex asked softly, stepping into your immediate personal space. He lifted the throwing knife, using the flat, ice-cold plane of the steel blade to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The contrast of the freezing metal against your hot skin sent a violent, electric shiver straight down your spine.
"Should you what?" you breathed out, your posture straightening in raw anticipation.
"Give you a gun," he nodded, his gaze tracking the frantic pulse fluttering in your throat. "You're my girl now. You have to know how to handle yourself." He tilted your chin upward with the spine of the knife, forcing your eyes to lock onto his. "What if someone takes you when I'm not here?"
The question was heavy with an invasive paranoia that constantly plagued his mind. The mere possibility of an external threat having access to your sanctuary was enough to deregulate his entire system. His breathing grew ragged, his self-control straining at the seams as you stepped back against the wall. He feared for a microsecond that his darkness had finally shattered your views on him.
But you didn't look terrified. Your eyes were wide, dark, and obviously earnest. You wanted more, but didn't know how to ask for it.
The knife in his hand moved with instantaneous precision. Before your brain could process the movement, the razor-sharp edge sliced cleanly through the left strap of your tank top, the fabric snapping away from your shoulder. You let out a sharp, gasping breath. With a flick of his wrist, Dex flipped the blade within his palm, the steel flashing once more as he severed the right strap, letting the material pool at your waist.
Your hands immediately moved to cover the view, only to stutter hesitantly when Dex decided that he didn't like that. Brows knitting in disdain like you had offended every fiber of his being. His armed body moved, tapping the blade once over the shield of your hands before guiding it back down with the weapon. Hunger invaded his irises as his pupils dilated, taking in the portrait of you in a baby blue bra, top irrelevant and ruined around your waist. You watched as his head imperceptibly weighed side to side, as if he was conversing with the devil and angel on his shoulders.
And as always, the side that benefited him the most won.
In a blink, the knife had slipped beneath the center of your bra and with a firm grip Bullseye had sliced it in half. An audible sound of shock broke from your lips as you stammered back slightly. At that he took a moment to observe you, looking for the silent cues of your discomfort and was pleased to find none. Though the wide eyed expression on your face didn't distract him from the way your thighs pressed together, and how your stomach clenched in flutters to try and suppress the butterflies panicking.
A melodic hum escapes him as he uses that damned blade to push the scraps of your bra aside to expose and show off your skin. His focal trained on the bare swell of your chest, sharp metal purposefully grazing over one hardened nipple and your breathing sucked in. Dex’s eyes snapped back to your face, taking in the way you refused to look at him or down at yourself, instead paying very close attention to the overhead light. He watched your parted lips exhale with baited breaths, how your shoulders caved in an attempt to shrink into yourself and disappear.
Though, contrary to your demeanor, your core gave you away. Direct in the way your hips angle towards his, pressing into him despite how very hard you tried to avoid acknowledging the situation. Dex knew you'd never outwardly say what you wanted due to your own personal struggles expressing your needs. You two weren't there yet, not until he builds consistent intimacy to disassemble your preconceived notions.
So instead of teasing you, his lips moved forward, peppering affection on the skin beneath your ear before claiming your lips. Kissing was not a thing between Dex and his woman. A flaw in the architecture that he eagerly wanted to change the very moment he decided you were his. It was extremely grating in ways that he didn't understand. Poindexter had never been interested in the idea of sharing saliva with another human being, sure he's kissed women before, not many, but enough for him to decide that kissing was pointless. Yet when you became his, it was all that he could think of. Being near you wasn't enough, he needed to be on you, in you. All over, everywhere, connected in every possible way.
An invasive need that grew tenfolds when you melted because of his touch, reciprocating in a skittish dance of squirming away and pressing back onto his lips. His large hands held you in place by your waist, forcing you still as his kisses migrated. Your body was electric, writhing from him and anxiety, mind desperate to form any thoughts that weren't: my man, my man, my man. But his next action only made it worse and an actual, involuntary, moan echoed out of you as his hot tongue licked a slow path up your neck. Your head anchored back against the wall, biting down the sounds that threatened to sing again. With eyes blurred and focused on the surroundings as you tried to compose yourself, only for you forced them shut as Dex does it again.
“Stop doing that,” he whispered with no conviction, the words dancing the thin line between a plea and playful attempt at banter. Though his easy tone did little to calm the building anxiety. Stop doing what? Stop being so fucking needy and desperate and–
“Stop denying yourself,” he clarified.
“I know, it's new, I know you feel weird. And I know your brains talking” Dex rasped out into your ear, pressing himself impossibly closer to you as his hand reached to adore one breast. He didn't offer any following words of reassurance, and you silently thanked him for it. God, you couldn't handle the embarrassment from being comforted because of your own inability to express yourself.
“I'll make it feel good.” He nodded a promise as he stared into your unsure eyes. “So good that it all shuts up.”
With certainty in his tone, Dex gently tugs you towards the bed, brushing the remnants of your bra off your shoulders before tearing the fabric of your disgraced tank top off your body. Your eyes immediately locked onto his biceps as he exuded force, yet with the gentleness of a true man, he laid your body down as if you were fragile. Large hands roaming your body, tugging at your shorts till they were stolen from you. Every ounce of security you had now gone with them.
He noticed almost immediately the crease settling home in your brows and he moved to balance out the scale. Removing his own shirt to display equal vulnerability in the hopes that it'll calm you. Your fingers at your side twitched once, unsure and hesitant, before your open hand raised, heel of your palm still planted on the mattress but you were indicating that you wanted touch. Dex complied, pushing your thighs apart to settle between them. The broad form of this man comfortably laid over you, chin resting on your abdomen as he laced his hand with yours.
He stayed like that for a moment, breathing with you. The analytical voice in the cortex of his mind knew that he was asking a lot from you, to be so open and bare when all your body had ever known was to hide and shrink. Dex wanted to make sure that your nervous system had calmed down enough to embrace what he gave you without fear of overthinking. In a rare human moment of easy sentiment, he brought your intertwined hands closer, planting a small kiss over the back of yours. The gesture soothed the tempest wake of your internal storm and you subconsciously parted your legs around his laid form wider. It was a barely there action but an entirely unavoidable movement for Dex as he took it as a welcome.
With firmness embedded in his bones, his other hand crept up to your inner thigh. Two fingers sliding up barely an inch beneath the elastic of your underwear. A raw, strangled exhale forced its way out of you as glossed irises darted down to meet him. Watching as he just laid there, playing wth your underwear as his fingers glided along the thin elastic. Up and then back down, too close to your soaked entrance but never touching, when he'd get too close his rhythm would change and you tried to ignore the way his knuckles brushing against your pelvis made you go insane.
Dex’s eyes watched you, rapt as the war on your face played out. Maybe he was doing this to try and soothe you, but he knew it in his heart that he wasn't that pure. He was absolutely doing this to fuck with you. He wanted to see if you were capable of getting over yourself, if that explosive nature of yours would finally appear if you were frustrated enough. And judging by the way you looked at the ceiling like it was the sinner, he knew he was getting close.
You blinked once at the myriad of thoughts, chewing on your bottom lip. The monster that he was, grew green with jealousy when he decided that your attention strayed far enough. Fingers drawing back to snap the elastic of your cotton blue panties against your inner skin where thigh met heat. A fraction of a second was all it took for you to pin the smug image of him with your gaze and the dam broke the self conscious overthinking.
“Oh for fucks sake!” You groaned, ripping your hand out of his and burying your face in your palms. Frustration and something you don't dare to name blossoming in your soul.
A sinister laugh corrupted the air, insidious and dark. “You gotta tell me what you want.” He shook his head, his fingers still doing that criminal trail. For a man who had such little regard for your clothing earlier, he sure treated your underwear like some sacred thing to devout himself to.
You huffed, eyes avoiding him. “I want you… but I feel terrible being naked,” Dex tried to suppress how absolutely adorable he found you right now, stubborn and pouty, like voicing your wants was such a painful task.
Maybe he should've thought the moment out some more, pick apart your statement and the context clues of your precise wording. But instead he found himself crawling over your body before his hand moved on its own accord, pushing his sweatpants down, along with his restrictive boxers. Hearing you say that you wanted him was the only incentive his veins needed.
“You don’t have to be naked,” A purr invades your ears as your jaw slacks when you feel him. The hard tip of his length pushing up against your entrance, through the barrier of your drenched underwear.
Your gaze travels down finally, watching as he rubbed his hard length on your clothed cunt. Blinking in an attempt to regain focus, you never thought about that… You didn't have to be completely bare. And secretly you thought the sight of Dex playing with you like that was the most erotic thing you've ever witnessed. For a man as condemned as yours was, God was certainly very generous with all of him, and his cock was no exception. Solid with intimidating girth that made you equally nervous as you were excited.
Your hips responded to the pleasing revelation, moving to match him despite your anxiety.
“There she is, that's it….” He groaned out as he rutted onto the soaked fabric, your lustfilled eyes darting to lock onto the scar on his cheek. It was one of the things you found so devastatingly attractive about Dex, save for his broad shoulders. Maybe you were drunk off the liquor of your own pleasure induced stupor. Hive mind calming as you reigned control over the tempest anxiety. Whatever had become of you was needy, leading with your chest as your tongue darts out to lick at his marred cheek. Copying the same sanctified ardor he had with your neck.
The sound that left him was barely restrained, if at all. Your focus is drawn to the way his biceps strained around your form and how his large palms gripped at the pillow beside your head. It was honest, an uncontrolled groan as his hips staggered once, followed by one hard grind before that incisive obsession in his genes demanded more. Ears perking at the curse he spat, and you saw it there, barely a second appeared that pensive expression that came when he weighed out the consequences of his actions. That one you'd come to know as Tony , Tony was good, Dex was questionable. As he once worded it, Tony was the structure whereas Dex was the wild card. It was a never ending impulse for him to switch between the two.
Before you could question who had won, Dex’s volatile, steadfast precision tipped the scales, pulling back away from you. And as concern began to take its hold on your features, his deadly hands took what they wanted, ripping the drenched fabric and security of your panties apart. You gasped, a startled wail that blurred the lines between fright and thrill, gaping at the torn scraps around your thighs. Peering up at the heaving man but his attention was locked onto your gleaming cunt, exposed and waiting for him. No longer hidden as the last bit of safety you had was reduced to a sorry excuse of a shield, torn hole evidence of his ferocity.
Dex’s calloused hand moved, palm pushing one thigh back as his thumb stroked your clit once. With starved gentleness that wasn't there before, he touched you with fondness. Preening at the pretty sight as he took note of how your thighs would flutter when he applied a certain amount of pressure.
Despite your debilitating infrastructure that had deduced you into a stubborn woman, you could only handle so much of his analyzing gaze. You knew he meant well, taking in the image of you and committing it to flesh till it was root memorization but fuck it was insanity.
“Dex….” A shy request that made him focus on you.
“Please…. Just…… fuck me already…” Muffled in embarrassment as a heat kissed your cheeks, he didn't say anything more, knowing that it'll only make things worse for you. He didn't dwell on the adorable mess that you were for too long. Not when his woman had given him an order.
He sat back on his knees, hand knowingly fishing into the pocket of the forgotten sweatpants loose on his thighs. Pulling out the condom wrapper Dex made sure to carry with him all times when he entered your apartment. A little thing that had earned its way on the check list of items he required on his body along with his knives. The act was fueled by preparation rather than the perverse idea that sex was his intention every time he crossed the threshold. Although sex was nice it was never his mission, you were. He rolled the rubber on, hands stilling half way when he took in that forming expression he categorized was your pout. It was a mean scowl but so fucking cute in a way that made him admit weakness. With your brows pulled, gaze narrowed and bottom lips so inviting, he raised a brow in question.
“Why do you need that?”
You said it with such distaste in your tone that the sheer vigor of it made Dex blink. Society had instilled in him that a condom was expected, it was the right course of action when you're with a woman to be a gentleman and always protect her body. But your words indicated absolute certainty that you didn't want him to use protection.
“I'm on birth control,” you nodded.
He blinked again. Dex didn't know that, and he knew everything about you, he had made sure to learn all that there is to. And yet he was unaware of this very important knowledge.
“Since when?.” He asked slowly.
“It doesn't matter, fuck me….” You let out a bold whine and his gaze turned piercing. It did matter. If it was a fact he didn't know thoroughly well about you, it mattered more than anything.
“It does, when?”
He repeated firmer, his mind wondering when you'd managed to slip pass your shared schedule long enough to maintain it. Wondering if there were gaps in the day or if he wasn't paying close enough attention to you.
“3 years ago, I have an IUD,” you murmured under your breath, arms crossing over your bare chest and Dex's eyes momentarily drop down to your cleavage.
Okay, that was a much better answer. He wasn't neglectful or blind, and relief dispelled his nerves. Though the calm was cut short when your nimble fingers suddenly found its way on his cock, pulling at the rubber with deliberate slowness causing his head to lull to the side. He'd never seen that look on your face in the kaleidoscope of pretty expressions he'd cataloged.
Your eyes were pinned up, defiant and dead in a way that almost mirrored his own. The ones he's come to intimately know, only ever seeing that assertiveness in the throne of the mirror, never on you. Dex's internal world halted as a groan rumbled in his chest caused by whatever the hell you were doing with your hand. Looking down to watch you pull at the condom, only to roll it back up when you stroked him. Again and again, for minutes too long.
Fucking hell you were vengeful.
Stubborn and shy, harboring immense emotions in your little body, and now you wanted revenge for his game earlier. Dex tries to suppress the smile that threatened to break free because my god weren't you just perfect.
You pulled the condom off with a snap, throwing the useless thing for him to catch mid air before he was on you again. Peppering kisses along your cheeks, causing you to squirm and laugh at the attack.
Though the sweetness of the moment only lasted half a second as a sharp audible gasped that sounded remarkably too close to a moan escapes you. Mouth parted wide with your head thrown back as Dex fucked into you with no warning. His face morphs into something unrestrained as he buries himself to the hilt, deep and unforgiving. Eyes locked onto the sight of your tight cunt fluttering around him, soft fabric still framing your skin.
“Dex….” You whined out a plea.
“What? You wanted me to fuck you raw and now you can't handle it?”
His hips moved, accentuating his spat words with thrusts so leisurely that it all but melted and ruined you. The heat between your legs intensifies at the feeling of him. Maybe he should have given you a warning, eased himself into you inch by inch till you got used to the stretch of him. But Dex was so far gone pleasantries at this point, not when you asked him so earnestly to fuck you raw.
And God did the thought stroke something greedy inside him. All he ever wanted was to be close to you in every possible way, and to know that you wanted that as well fed something insatiable in him.
Your moans were a hiccup of an orchestra as Dex maintained a bruising pace, fucking into you with a hungry force, expertly angled to dismantle your body. His thrusts were harsh and drawn out, almost pulling out all the way save for his tip kissing at your entrance before sliding back into you again. The sheer duress of his movements filled the room with lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin and your thighs quivered.
Dex forces them to stay put, large hands gripping at the torn fabric of your underwear and using them to pull your cunt close, forcing you to meet his thrusts. You were a mess. A beautiful, vocal mess that struggled against the sheets. Hands trying to find anything to stabilize yourself as you writhe beneath him. He didn't know which sight pleased him more, your tits bouncing to the rhythm of his thrusts or your leaking sex.
You were far beyond drenched, your slick spreading with every thrust in a way that was shockingly satisfying. Dex was a man that prided himself in strict cleanliness, evident in his spotless apartment, but in this moment he wanted nothing more than to make a heap of you. He didn't really understand it, this revelation that fueled his avaricious hands as they gripped at the fabric tighter. A covetous need that called to him like a siren song to see your cunt painted with his cum. As if somehow, someway, it laid his claim over you. He groaned out at the thought, picturing it as he watches you swallow his length whole. Strings of your liquor sticking to his pelvis with every movement back and the obscenity of it only made him want to fuck you harder, if that was even feasible.
“D-Dex….”
You mewled out and his focus was on your face instantly, only to snap back down to where you both connected. Your heat clenching around him in beats.
“I know baby, I know,” he breathed out, heart pounding in his ears as he readjust his angle, your body involuntarily arching as a loud whimper left your lips. You were close, the pressure in your stomach threatening to snap and he wasn't far behind either. Fuck he should've just done this from the start instead of wasting time teasing you, maybe if he had the pretty sight of your pussy would've been covered in his cum by now before he even got the chance to fill you.
His hands migrate from the makeshift handles of your ripped panties, finding home on your hips as he leans down to take one nipple in his mouth. You cried out, arching into him, hands finding place on his shoulders as he nibbled and sucked. That action was the last bit your self restrain needed to devastate. Ecstasy floods you in white-hot waves as you came without warning around him, your hips moving on their own accord to meet his movements. Your muscles tensed as your nails dug into his skin, baiting a loud groan from Dex. His hips stilling deep inside as his cock twitched, mouth still on you as he watched you get lost in your own pleasure. Hips locked against each other as ropes of his cum filled you.
Only when your breathing calmed did he decide to pull out gently. The serenity that had taken hold of you shattering when Dex groans, opening your eyes in alert. Though his attention was only onyour heat, wet and abused with his cum spilling out of you. His hands moved, thumbs caressing your folds once before he pushed the dripping mess back into you. Body giving out in exhaustion at this point as you collapsed back down onto the pillow, letting him do whatever his hyper acute mind demanded of him. Even if it meant lazily finger fucking his cum back into you.
Poindexter delivered a heavy, velvet-lined case to your kitchen island the next afternoon. Still motivated by the absolute high that came with being with you, his gaze was a fond sentiment as he waited for you to approach. Inside rested a custom, matte-black semi-automatic firearm, its weight perfectly balanced for you. Engraved into the reinforced steel of the handle, rendered in a brilliant, metallic pink that perfectly matched your sewing spools, were two distinct words: My Woman.
You took the weapon into your hands, feeling the cold, lethal weight of his protection settling permanently into your palm. You liked the feeling infinitely more than you were ever willing to admit. Smiling up at him as you got on your tip toes to shyly press a kiss over his scarred cheek.
That evening, the apartment was quiet once again, save for the rhythmic, comforting click of your ancient sewing machine. Dex sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, his broad shoulders relaxed, one large hand resting flat on his knee as he watched you work. The other however, was outstretched and playing with your hair, lazily twirling a strand around his finger. Since yesterday, a new habit of his began to form, embedding itself deep in his bones, flooding him with the need to constantly be touching you. You were not so different as you found yourself craving for his touch since the very first second you woke up this morning.
You stopped your machine for a brief moment, your eyes drifting over to the vanity where the matte-black firearm rested directly beside your pastel spools of thread. You looked at the weapon, then turned your head to meet the unblinking, intensely possessive depth of Dex's gaze.
"Thank you, Dex," you murmured softly.
"Anything for you" he replied, his voice a low, steady register that filled every corner of your empire.
You smiled, turning back to your fabric, completely filled with a profound, unyielding sense of safety. Gleaming that you had found a beautiful, eccentric savior, a man who simply loved you enough to build a fortress around your dreams. You sat in the warm, golden light of your home, entirely unaware of the psychological reality of the danger beginning to form between you. Because Bullseye had found himself his twin moon, no longer a north star galaxies away, but rather a beautiful equal that orbited together. You didn't know that he didn't view your love as a choice, but as a permanent assignment. And that gun was the first promise of many, the first test as he knew instantly that you liked it, unaware of what you could become.
You didn't know that he had already cataloged every exit of your building, or that his mind had already mapped out the exact tragedies required to execute anyone that ever dared to come near you. You were his sanctuary, his absolute identity, and as Dex watched your nimble hands guide the thread through the needle, his dark smile widened in the shadows. You were completely free, entirely safe with him, and he was never, ever going to let you go.
AN: This was a long one! If you made it to the end I appreciate you! Please let me know what you think! I promise in the next story reader won't be a seamstress lol, but I can't help myself I just loved sewing so much.
Pairing: Boyfriend!Dex x Eccentric!Girlfriend!Reader
Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI, No use of Y/N, Reader wears glasses 24/7, established relationship (boyfriend and girlfriend), mentions of prior stalking (duh, it's Dex), there is many fish in this home, Dex has a fish son because yes. Dex is a clingy man when sick and slightly loopy, fluff, caring for Dex without medications, i love this man so much, he may be a little ooc but I feel like he would just be so... out of it with his personality with an eccentric reader. NOT PROOF READ!!
Summary: Dex came down with a sickness he swears he may not come back from. But his eccentric girlfriend is here to rescue him.
Word Count: 1639 A/N: This is so fucking self-indulgent... I'm so sorry. And this is also probably shit, so I apologise for that too.
When he first 'met' you, he noticed one blaring thing about you. Nothing about you was... Simple. Clean is perhaps a better word. Not in the way you were dirty, no no. Dex never thought that, and it would've also been a lie. You were just always... A stick out amongst the rest. Bright colours, multiple necklaces along with bracelets and an anklet. Odd socks just for the hell of it. He's not sure how he got hooked onto you this much. All you did when you accidentally bumped into each other, was apologising profusely. But maybe it was your eyes, or the way your glasses charms clinked along with your anklet and bracelets. Maybe it was your pretty dark blue nails. Matched his suit. That's nice. Or maybe it was the way you smelt heavily of lavender, peppermint and something he couldn't put his finger on. He'll figure it out. He always does eventually.
But that meeting was now a year ago. And after many late nights sitting on your fire escape balcony surrounded by your plants, he watched your apartment... Become it's own living thing. And now he was apart of that environment, permanently. He now knew what your system of organisation was throughout your entire living space, how much food the fish actually needed and when their tank needed cleaning. Your cat, Reid, was always fed on time, right on the dot, since how could he let the poor fur baby starve? You'd be heartbroken.
But apart from him, your fish and Reid, there was plenty of other things he needed to be mindful of since he was now living here. Your indoor plants, your many rugs, the candles set up on one specific table, your cabinet filled with oils and other oddities. Everything here had a place, and Dex made sure he had one that was above all the others. Perhaps that's why he is laying in your the bed with a pounding headache and stomach ache.
Dex rarely ever got sick. Especially this bad. He swear he's sweating up a new type of tropical storm, his face feels like it's melting. And are stomachs meant to move like that?
"Do not get up baby. You need to rest." Your hand laid flat onto his chest when he tried to sit up. He kept saying he was fine. But even he knew this was pushing it now. "Just... rest. I'll get some things to make you feel better, okay?"
He didn't try to move as you left a gentle, loving smooch onto his cheek before you got up from the edge and padded your way out to the kitchen. He listened to your anklet jingle as your left foot hit the ground each time. He listened for the bead curtains to rattle as you walked through them to the spare room, then he heard the kettle start. Why weren't you just getting him some medications? They are simpler.
He lifted his head up ever so slightly as you came back into the room. Those stupid shorts... If he wasn't so sick they'd be hidden under the bed from being thrown by now...
"Taking too many medications is bad for you. Now obviously for your spine I will completely allow the usage. But this is for your head and stomach." You then proceeded to place all the things you'd gathered from your adventure out into the other rooms of the apartment. One of the many lavender oil bottles, a steaming mug of peppermint and spearmint tea and finally, chicken broth. "Plenty of garlic in the broth. It's good for you."
"How do you know...?" His voice sounded... Horrific. Maybe that wasn't even a good enough word for it. "Could get me sicker."
"Are you all of a sudden not trusting me Poindexter?" He quickly shook his head. "That's what I thought. Now sit up... Let's get you better."
He sat up (with your help) and sighed like that was the most exhausting thing ever. This is probably the most... Normal he has felt ever. Because being sick in a room filled with paper lanterns and stars, plants, crystals, paintings of places he's never seen in his life... This must be living. It has to be.
"You're a fairy..." You glanced up at him from over the rim of your glasses, a finger to the oil bottle and a slightly raised eyebrow.
"What?"
"You. Are. A. Fairy. My fairy but... A fairy anyways." If you knew he was this, well, loopy when sick, you might've enjoyed this more than you should be. But the way he looked worried you, so sickly pale and almost dead eyes.
"Whatever you say Dex... Now, don't move." His eyes immediately shut as your fingertips rubbed lavender oil on either side of his temple. The smell filling his nose. "This will help with your headache. The tea will help with your stomach and body pains and then the broth is to clear up your sinuses and help your throat. I'll make you a juice for tonight as well that will help your throat and chest even more. Cucumber, ginger, lemon, apple and pear. It does help, trust me."
It took him about 35 minutes to finish the tea and broth before he all of a sudden felt very sleepy. His brain panicked for a moment, immediately jumping to you had drugged him. But when you gave him a worried look, that melted away instantly.
"Woah woah, easy honey. You'll hit your head." You helped him lay back down and practically tucked him in under your large multitude of blankets. He needed to sweat it out.
"Don't leave me... Please..." You almost cooed at how adorable he looked. His bottom lip slightly puckered out, his hazy, droopy eyes.
"Oh sweetheart, I won't be leaving you. Never ever." You then got onto your side of the bed, kneeling next to his arm side. "Now, get some sleep. I'll be right here."
Your hand caressed his cheek which made his eyes close. And after two more of the actions, he was out cold.
You sat there for 5 more minutes before you slowly got up and started to get stuff prepared for the rest of the night. You made the juice from earlier, cooked up dinner to then put it into the fridge before you finally went back into the bedroom and curled up next to your sweet, sickly boyfriend.
When Dex finally woke up, it was already pitch black outside. The only light filtering through the bead and lace curtains was the streetlights and billboards from a distance. You were still fast asleep against his side, the side of your face squished against his chest that he couldn't help but print into his brain for later.
His eyes then went to the open door of the bedroom, the light of the large fish tank beaming around the next room. The fish were circling, chasing each other or going into their little structures, their world inside the tank far different from the outside world of the living room covered in beads, fairy lights and plants. A perfect cluttered life. Usually lots of things overwhelm Dex. But everything big and small was a part of you and your existence. And either way, everything was actually much cleaner than most people would realise.
"Weird fish..." Reason he said that? Because that bloody group of barbs was just floating at the side of the fish tank watching their room. Like the group stalkers he raised them to be.
"Huh?" Shit, he woke you up.
"Nothing baby... Just the fish watching us again." His voice still sounded crackly and dry. Making you sit up a little more to look down at him with slight worry.
"Ah... How about we go eat dinner, yeah? You need to eat, makes you feel better." He groaned in despair at the idea of getting up. Grabbing your waist by wrapping his large arms around you, he pulled you back down for cuddling.
"5 more minutes." However he had to let go of you with one arm to cover his mouth to let out a horrendous cough which then turned into a 45 second coughing fit before he finally laid his head back down. Letting out a sigh that felt like his final breath.
"Dex—"
"No. We're going to stay in bed."
It took 2 days before Dex could actually get out of bed without tripping over or getting dizzy spells. Though he was still coughing quite a bit, and having a runny nose. That was a simple fix though, tissues, juice and cough lollies.
But he was back to sitting in his favourite arm chair of the apartment, his view being the large window showing the apartments and store fronts across the road, and also the second fish tank hidden amongst some plants that holds his pet betta fish. You always called him Dex Jr. as the fish was blue and also quite aggressive to everyone but you and him. He loved him very much.
"Here you go." You gently placed a steaming mug of tea onto the coffee table next to him. Your multiple rings and bracelets glimmering from the sunlight coming through. "You feelin' a little better?"
"Getting there. Throat is still hurting though."
"I'm sure it'll get better soon. I'll make sure of it." You quickly bent down and gave him a quick kiss before you then situate yourself onto his lap.
For the rest of the day, you both sat in the comfortable glow of the sun and the sounds of fish tanks, the hum of the fan and the street below. But Dex knows something weird or crazy will happen sometime this week.
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summary// you ended up realizing that making clark your lab rat would simultaneously be the best and worst decision of your relationship.
content warning// conditioning, mating press, doggy style, nasty filthy sex, creampie, clark is feral, clark has an alien dick, clark swears, improper use of x-ray vision, kryptonian breeding kink, squirting, clark is pathetic
2k words whew
with clark kent fucking you like that, you don’t think you’re making it out alive.
well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.
.
on monday, on the evening, you decided that you could begin your sick little experiment of conditioning on clark. after reading an article about it online, you wanted your alien boyfriend to be your lab-rat for it, and saw no apparent downsides to the experiment, so you went on with it.
starting with the trigger, you decided for it to be a duck emoji. weird enough for clark to be confused, not too weird for it to have him worrying like the sweetheart he is. ten minutes before you arrived home after work, you had sent him a singular duck emoji with no context or follow-up to it, which, as expected, had your poor clarkie as confused as ever. you smiled when he immediately texted back with ‘???’—success. as soon as you arrived home, you barely let him finish his questioning before pouncing on him, interrupting his sentence with a kiss he welcomed with open arms.
that night, you rode the man to the moon and back—gave him such mind-numbing pleasure that he couldn’t even bother to remember his previous confusion about the duck emoji.
and so, with the first day being a success, you repeated the process.
every day following that one, you would do the same thing—no texts or news all day, a duck emoji ten minutes before coming home, mind-blowing sex.
after a few days of repeating the process, you began to space out these encounters, opting to send the duck emoji every two to three days—a great way to keep the man on his toes, anticipating, waiting for the next time you'd send him that emoji.
then came the most awaited experiment—your greatest mistake.
it was on a friday night that you had decided tonight was the night. you had sent clark the usual duck emoji, smirking as he had immediately seen the text. however, when you arrived home, it wasn't like usual. usually, upon sending the emoji, you'd pounce on him and drag him to the bedroom. tonight, however? radio silence. well, not quite, but that's it felt to clark. you didn't give him those bedroom eyes you usually did on nights you were feeling particularly needy, you insisted on taking a shower all by yourself (he almost crumbled at that) and after dinner, you lounged on the couch to watch a tv show without even asking him to follow you! you just did!
the thing about clark kent is, he's a gentleman through and through. his ma had raised him to be one, and for christ's sake, he was superman! how could he not be a gentleman? but, he sympathizes with himself, you can't spell gentlemna without man, and clark was a man before he was anything else. a very aroused and hopelssly in love man, at that.
he stands awkwardly in the doorway of the living room, staring at you. you noticed, of course, but this wasn't unusual. clark has always had sort of weird quirks—you had always found them endearing. "is something the matter, honey?" your sirupy voice cut through his stream of thought, and suddenly his eyes focus again, gaze meeting yours.
clark has his phone in hand, and he brings it up to look back at the duck emoji you had sent. duck meant sex. you wanted this. he can indulge. you want this.
he knows you do. you sent the text, and he feels like he can almost smell your arousal and it's driving him fucking insane because he just wants to dive in it and taste it and fuck you everywhere so the entire place smells like you and-
in the blink of an eye, his phone is abandonned and he's on you, lips smashed against yours. you barely have the time to react but you do, arms now hanging around his thick neck. his hand latches itself onto your cheeks, fingers pressing into both of them, urging you to open your mouth. as soon as you do, his tongue, which was inhumanely long, snaked into your cavern, exploring its depths. he moaned at the taste of your saliva, almost melting into you as if the flavor of you was his ultimate salvation.
noticing the lack of air filling your lungs, he pulled away, his eyes softening at the sight of you catching your breath. "c-clark... what's... whta's gotten into you?" you licked your lips, face flushed. he looks at you like a puppy begging for its treat. "the emoji... you sent the emoji but you didn't... i thought..." his mind is a rush, moving at a thousand miles per hour as his entire body is begging him to rip your clothes off and take you.
he gives up, his head falling into the crook of your neck. "i just... i really need to fuck you, sweetheart." and as he's confessing this, his hand is gliding towards the waistband of your bottoms, sliding swiftly underneath it.
you think you could ascend.
you bite your lip, rendered mute at the sheer tension of the moment. "i know you want it, baby..." he scoffs, eyes closed. "can smell it."
curse him for being such a dangerously hot and multi-abled alien.
his hand makes its way underneath your panties, finger running through your slit, collecting the slick you've been trying to keep to yourself for the past hour. "ah..." you let out a low sound, almost imperceptible but clark was so hyper-focused on you that the little moan made him shudder.
he uses his forearm to push himself upwards, his hand escaping your bottoms to rush up to his mouth, and when you look at him, you gasp, feeling your walls clench.
because clark has never looked this feral.
his eyes were half-lidded and impossibly dark, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows your juices, eyes nearly rolling back at the taste. he moans, his cock twitching and growing inside his sweatpants.
"you're gonna give it t'me, right sweetie?" he asks in that low, sultry voice that he only allows himself to use when he'd rather die than not touch you.
the eager nod you gave him marked the moment you knew you were done for.
.
how long has it been? you don't know. you don't know anything, actually. your brain is fogged with how clark was pounding you into the fuzzy carpet, your eyes crossing when the buds running along his dick grazed against the ridges of your walls, the added sensation making you spasm. "f-ffuck-! clark- oh my god, ohmygod—" you can barely form a sentence, let alone link two words together when he knocks at your cervix, your tits bouncing in rhythm with every thrust.
and clark isn't even listening to you, his eyes laser-focused on the sight of his cock splitting you open repeatedly, a vein bulging on his forehead at his intense use of his x-ray vision. "look at that, b-baby... look..." and you don't even bother, too lost in the ecstasy. he sees it all though, the strings of your arousal clinging to his tip every time he pulls away, the ridged of your pussy hooking onto his buds, the contractions of your muscles.
he finally manages to pull his eyes away from the sight, only to be met with the even prettier, albeit messier sight of your fucked out face. tears and drool glossed your skin, your eyes rolled back nearly to the back of your skull, throwing your head back when clark's hips stutter against yours, a white-hot wave washing over him over the sight.
he stilled when his buds hardened and hooked onto your walls, pulling him impossibly deep as he shoots buckets worth of cum deep into your womb. "a-ah! holy sh- hmm, fffuck, baby- i- fuck!" he sobs, jerking down towards you and you moan at the feeling of him filling you up once more, droplets of his sweat dripping onto your buzzing skin.
despite his orgasm, he doesn't stop, "n-need m-moree- needa fill you up-! ah, fuck!" his voice jumps up an octave when his buds finally relax again, allowing him to keep pistoning into you. "d-don't stop, clark! please dont- oh-!" he suddenly grabs your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders before beeending down, succesfully folding you in half. his face is now slotted right in front of yours, and the eye contact is so intense you almost feel shy under his gaze.
a mating press. clark kent had you in a fucking mating press.
you get lost in his ocean blue eyes, barely able to keep the eye conatct when he fucks you almost like he hated you, digging in your pussy. "you're... you're so beautiful, honey... so fucking pretty- all f'me, yeah? all f'me?" you nod, hands pressing against the back of his head to bring him impossiby closer to you, "all for you, clarkie," you confirmed being hastily pressing his against you, imprisoning him in a feverish kiss. clark moans into your mouth, eyes closing. you jolt slightly when you feel a tear drip down on your cheek, peeling your eyes open to see clark crying.
he pulls away, gasping for air as his throat restricts. "i l-love you, love you s'much— need you so, ngh, so bad... wanna breed ya'..." he sobs, whimpering for you. seeing clark become such a slave to his love for you had an inescapable effect on you, and your orgasm was almost immediate. you came with a gasp, the pleasure being so heavy that your eyes had given up on their function, unfocusing and leaving you with the blurry image of clark's flushed expression. your back arched as cream dribbled out of your hole, creating a white ring around clark's base.
in the midst of your orgasm, he pulls out, making you whine for the few seconds your face isn't smushed against the carpet because in a matter of moments, your world tilted before you found yourself face down ass up for your boyfriend. he pressed a hand on your back, urging a deeper arch. "m'sorry baby, m'so sorry..." he apologizes for the his unceremonial behavior but his apologies fall on deaf ears as you couldn't be happier.
your hands clutch the fluff of the carpet when he slams back into you, kneading the flesh of your ass. "just... just need this. s'your fault for making me wait... so long.. to have you- ngh, gosh..." he's hypnotized by the rippling of your ass, and the way your back bends impossibly for a second each time he rams back inside you, pressing you further into the carpet.
with clark kent fucking you like that, you really don’t think you’re making it out alive.
well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.
your moans are rhythmic, matching the pace of his hips. leaning in, he wraps an arm around you to squeeze your tits, massaging them and rubbing your hardened nipples. "so obedient..." his comment makes your walls flutter around his fat cock. he begins to roll his hips, not quite thrusting. he presses against you, making you drool. "nghhh... fffuuuck... love you... so much.. c-clark-!" you slurred, going crazy at the sensation of his buds hardening slowly again, hooking onto your insides.
"w-want your cum-! want you to b-breed me!" you egged him on, "yeah? y'want it, baby? oh gosh, i'm cumming, m'cummingm'cumming-" he gritted, spilling into you once more. "oh my god! oh god, sweetheart!" he whined, your name escaping him as his hips bucked again, releasing rope upon rope inside you. his orgasm triggered yours, drops of your release trickled down onto the carpet before his hand snaked down to your clit, rubbing furiously and suddenly an intense stream released itself onto the now soaked carpet, the intensity of both of your orgasms making the two of you collaspe in a heap.
he layed on top of you, both of you catching your breaths. "i feel so... sticky." he remarked, "shit... i ruined the carpet." you groaned, knitting your eyebrows together.
a silence settled in, before you broke it. "i'm glad my experiment worked." a beat passes before he reacts, "experiment?"
"i tried conditioning you into associating sex with the duck emoji. it worked."
clarks hums, choosing not to react any further.
a few days later, minutes after the end of your shift, you receive a text from clark.
Summary: This is a comprehensive chronicle of the hidden life of Mrs. Y/N Todd, from the quiet halls of Gotham Academy to the chaotic dinner tables of Wayne Manor.
At Gotham Academy, Damian Wayne was an island. He was brilliant, lethal, and possessed a social grace that could best be described as "blunt force trauma." Teachers feared him. Students avoided him. Except for you.
As his Homeroom teacher, you were the only person in the building who didn't flinch when he clicked his tongue in annoyance. You were gentle, steadfast, and held a quiet authority that even a son of Ra’s al Ghul couldn't dismantle. You kept your professional life strictly separated from your home life, teaching under your maiden name, Y/L/N.
The secret held for a year. It might have held longer if Jason hadn't decided to be a "doting husband."
The school lunch break had just started. Damian was packing his bag, ignoring a group of snickering classmates, when the door to the classroom swung open. Jason Todd didn't do "subtle." He leaned against the doorframe in a leather jacket, holding a brown paper bag that smelled heavenly.
"Hey, Y/N," Jason called out, his voice a low rumble. "You left your lunch on the counter this morning. I figured you’d be starving by now."
The classroom went silent. Damian froze, a pen halfway into his bag.
You smiled, walking over to him. "Thank you, Jay. I was just about to head to the vending machine."
Jason didn't care about the audience. He leaned down, catching the corner of your lips in a quick, lingering peck. "Don't work too late. I’m making that pasta you like for dinner."
He did not notice Damian—who looked like he had been struck by lightning—and sauntered out.
Damian’s jaw was literally ajar. The "Damian.exe" program had encountered a critical error and shut down.
"Is there a problem, Damian?" you asked, tucking the lunch bag away.
"You..." Damian stammered, his usual eloquence failing him. "Todd? You are with that... that uncouth hooligan?"
"He’s my husband, Damian," you said softly, your eyes twinkling. "And he’s actually quite a good cook. You should come over for dinner sometime. I’m sure he’d love to show you his 'uncouth' pasta recipe."
From that day on, Damian Wayne became a permanent fixture in your 3.5-room apartment. He claimed the second guest room as his own, filling it with sketches and books, finding a strange solace in the "soft and fluffy" world Jason had built with you.
~~~~~~~~~
The discovery of your marriage by the rest of the family happened in two very different ways: one through impeccable manners, and the other through sheer humiliation.
It was a Tuesday evening. Jason was in the shower, and Damian was at the dining table, grumbling over a complex chemistry assignment. When the phone rang, you picked it up without checking the ID.
"Hello?"
There was a brief, elegant silence on the other end. "Oh, good evening, Miss. Would Master Jason be available?"
"Good evening to you, sir," you replied, recognizing the refined British lilt immediately. "I’m sorry, he’s in the shower right now. What might I help you with?"
"I was calling to inquire about Master Damian’s whereabouts. He has not returned to the Manor."
"Oh, Dami is here, no worries," you said, glancing at the boy who was currently stabbing an eraser with a pencil. "He’s doing his homework right now and already had dinner. I made sure he ate his vegetables."
"I see," the voice said, sounding remarkably pleased. "Thank you, Miss...?"
"It’s Y/N. Y/N Todd. And am I right to assume that you would be Alfred, sir?"
"Ah, why yes, dear," Alfred chuckled. "Thank you. A pleasant evening to you."
"No need, Alfred. A pleasant evening to you too."
While your relationship with Alfred blossomed into weekly phone calls about the best way to get bloodstains out of Kevlar and how to handle "the stubborn Wayne men," Tim Drake took a more... invasive approach.
Tim had tracked Damian’s suspicious absences to your address. Thinking Jason was hiding something dangerous, he broke in while you were home alone.
You were in the kitchen when you heard a muffled "Gah!" and a thud from the bedroom. You walked in to find Tim Drake, the world’s third-best detective, standing over your open dresser drawer. He was holding a pair of your lacy underwear, looking like he’d just touched a live wire. He dropped them as if they had bitten him, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled Jason’s old helmet.
"Checking for contraband?" you asked, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk.
Tim screamed. It wasn't a hero's scream; it was a startled teenager's yelp.
An hour later, Tim was wrapped in a blanket on your home-office couch, clutching a mug of chamomile tea and eating a plate of homemade cookies. The "scary" investigation had ended with him falling into a sugar-induced coma. You tucked him in, sent a quick text to Alfred ("I have a stray bird here. He’s safe and fed. Letting him sleep it off."), and went back to grading papers.
~~~~~~~
The final domino to fall was Dick Grayson, and it fell hard. Dick had been "dropping off" Damian at school for weeks, using every opportunity to flirt with the "pretty teacher." You had been polite, but Jason was seething every time he saw the "Discowing" charm being deployed on his wife.
The truth came out when a sleep-deprived, injured Tim was drugged up on painkillers in the Med-bay.
"I want Y/N," Tim mumbled as Bruce stitched a gash on his arm. "She makes the pain go away... and the cookies... the cookies are so good."
Bruce paused. "Who is Y/N, Tim?"
"Jay-bird’s wifey," Tim giggled, his head lolling. "She’s so nice. She tamed the Demon. Hehehe... Mrs. Todd... so stupid... Dickie doesn't know..."
The silence in the Batcave was deafening.
A week later, a "friendly" invitation was issued. Jason was forced to bring you to Sunday dinner at the Manor.
The scene was a masterpiece of awkwardness.
Damian immediately walked up to you and gave you a rare, stiff hug.
Tim hid behind his bangs, feeling guilty for being the "tattle-tale," only for you to give him a warm head-pat.
Alfred greeted you like an old friend, discussing the sourdough starter you’d mentioned on the phone.
Dick looked like he wanted to dissolve into the floorboards. Every time he looked at you, Jason—standing like a vengeful titan behind you with a tray of dessert—gave him a look that promised a slow death.
Dinner was a trial. Dick avoided your gaze entirely, while Damian took every opportunity to mock him. "Perhaps if you were less 'extra,' Richard, you would have noticed the wedding ring she wears on a chain around her neck."
Bruce sat at the head of the table, his "Batman" eyes scanning you. He asked a few pointed questions about your background, but your steadfast, gentle nature seemed to disarm even him.
~~~~~~~
After dinner, the family settled into the living room. The fireplace crackled, and for the first time in years, the Wayne Manor felt like a home rather than a headquarters. Bruce and Alfred watched from the armchairs as the boys—including a begrudging Jason—played a high-stakes game of Uno.
Suddenly, the smell of the woodsmoke and the rich chocolate from the dessert hit you all at once. A wave of nausea rolled over you. You went pale, swaying slightly.
Jason was at your side in a heartbeat. He didn't even look at his cards as he dropped them. He rubbed your back with one hand and pulled a small, scented pouch from his pocket with the other—something he’d started carrying just for you.
"Deep breaths, honey," he whispered.
The room went silent. The game stopped. Bruce leaned forward, his eyes narrowed.
After a few moments, the nausea receded. You looked up at Jason, your eyes searching his. "Jay? What now?"
You were giving him the choice. He wasn't one for sharing his heart with this family, but looking around at his brothers and his father, he saw the genuine worry in their eyes.
Jason took a deep breath, his hand finding yours and squeezing tight. He straightened his shoulders, looking Bruce dead in the eye.
"Y/N’s not just 'Mrs. Todd,'" Jason said, his voice thick with pride and a hint of defiance. "She’s going to be Mama Todd soon. She’s pregnant."
The reaction was instantaneous.
Alfred beamed, already mentally planning a nursery.
Damian crossed his arms, a small smirk playing on his lips. "I shall assist in the training of the infant. It will be the most formidable toddler in Gotham."
Tim cheered, finally feeling like he wasn't the "baby" of the family anymore.
Dick finally broke his silence, jumping up to engulf Jason (and almost you) in a hug, his previous embarrassment forgotten in the face of being an uncle.
Bruce stood up slowly. He walked over to Jason and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Congratulations, Jason. Y/N." He looked at you with a rare, genuine smile. "Welcome to the family. Properly."
matt murdock x reader / daredevil x black cat!reader
summary: in your teens, you and matt were a couple. years after you broke up, you meet again, but not in the way either of you expected.
you needed a lawyer, but you were involved in the situation in a way that reminded matt how much your youthful attitude put him in a moral dilemma.
warnings: 18+. rough sex on a rooftop (yes), unprotected sex. a little bit of submissive matt (just for a few moments). mention of blood, murder, and robbery. swearing. blasphemy.
content: a plot that then leads to rough sex on the rooftop with matt.
word count: 7781
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
Before Elektra, before Daredevil, there was you.
You were unlike any girl he'd ever met. At sixteen, almost seventeen, Matt had never encountered anyone like you who could shake his world so profoundly.
He lived in the orphanage where the sisters had raised him since his father's death. There, he found refuge, a set of rules to guide his tumultuous life, a faith to look to, and a role model to try to emulate. At his young age, Matt had lived through more than many people much older than him, which was unfair because he was still a teenager, so he tried—he really tried—to maintain a routine that wouldn't cause further chaos in his life.
Meeting you made him realize that you were the jolt of adrenaline he craved. You were the first hint of what was to come with Elektra. You were the first, the one who saw beneath his facade and knew that he needed some fire to feel alive.
You exuded a carefree attitude that he secretly envied. You smelled of danger, of someone who crossed the line and slipped back into it without a second thought. From the moment you started circling each other at such a young age, Matt knew you were trouble—which was precisely why he couldn't stay away from you.
You oozed confidence, you were so bold, and you never apologized for your actions. You were the kind of girl the nuns warned against getting too close to because you were a bad influence; the kind other students whispered about, whether it was something good or bad. It was unfair how easily you attracted attention, how easily you stole everything from him.
Being with you was like sitting on the edge of a cliff; it was dangerous because you challenged all of Matt's beliefs, the entire framework he'd established to stay within the lines. He didn't want to cross boundaries; he wanted to remain grateful to the orphanage and follow God's word.
It was easy, too easy, to start dating you. It was a teenage romance, one where both seemed to be slowly testing out this new sensation of feelings that neither of them controlled. He had his first time with you, and you with him; you both surrendered to an intimacy that only the two of you understood.
You laughed a lot that afternoon when you shared the intimacy of your first time—not just his, but both of yours, at how silly you both were. When you hugged him, and all that time you remained half-dressed, Matt felt safe in a place where he had no expectations. You didn't ask for anything in return, you didn't expect him to behave a certain way, nor did you expect him to control his every word. You loved him completely, even the darkness that lay within him. Perhaps because you yourself moved effortlessly from light to darkness, like a nocturnal cat that leaps between rooftops and then returns home without a second thought.
Matt felt whole with you, whole in your arms, in your loud laughter, and in those eyes he couldn't see, but knew held a danger that stirred everything inside him. Deep down, though, beneath that persona that liked to blur boundaries, Matt knew that you, too, felt safe with him. You allowed yourself to be vulnerable with Matt, to tell him about your problems with your mother, the debts your father left behind; he knew more about you than anyone else, and he even managed to wipe away your tears when you let your guard down.
You even showed him your love for cats, like sometimes saving up money to buy food for a stray kitten. You were kind, he knew it; you only had claws for those outside your life.
Matt loved you. Despite everyone saying that teenage love was just that—just emotions mixed with hormones—he loved you. He knew you loved him too; he could see it, he could feel it with every second he spent with you.
Unfortunately, for you it always had an expiration date; you never hid that what you and he had would be ephemeral.
The flame that ignited the gunpowder was a gift you gave him.
You had arrived very happy, you went straight to look for him at lunch and you pulled him to take him to the small courtyard of the institute. You took a small, carefully wrapped package—just for him—from your pocket and placed it in his hands, then kissed his lips briefly so no nun would see. You didn't care if you two got in trouble, but sometimes you held back because you knew Matt didn't like to misbehave in front of the women who had raised him since he was a child.
Matt carefully tore open the paper, revealing a velvet case; it was easy to guess it was a glasses case.
“They are red glasses,” you had said.
Matt wasn't as skilled at reading people as he is now, but he knew the sound of your heart, the warmth your emotions radiated, and the subtle sound your facial muscles made when you smiled. You weren't like everyone else; he paid extra attention to you.
“I think red looks great on you,” you said, as he opened the case and gently ran his fingers along the rim of the glasses. “That’s why I made sure they had lenses of that color; it suits you.”
The glasses were square with rounded edges; the frame surrounding the lenses was hard, yet incredibly smooth to the touch, as if these glasses had been crafted with the utmost care for the wearer's senses.
For someone like Matt, who lived with all his senses except sight, feeling such a meticulously crafted product beneath his fingertips brought a warmth to his soul, but also a touch of guilt.
“How…?” Matt whispered, running his index finger along the smooth metal of the glasses. “This feels really expensive,” he said your name, swallowing hard. “How did you do this? You shouldn’t have done this for me, this is too much.”
You huffed, he could almost feel you rolling your eyes. “Why the hell does that matter? It’s a gift for you,” you said, downplaying it.
But Matt couldn't let the matter drop. There was a certain weight to this gift that neither of them could ignore.
You didn't have money, not enough to buy something like this. Your mother barely had enough for your lunch, if she even remembered you were supposed to eat, so a gift of this magnitude didn't make sense; there was no way you could get it… at least, not in a good way.
“How did you pay for this?” Matt pressed.
The background noise—students eating and laughing during their free time, a nun scolding someone, blackboards being cleaned, a broom caressing the floor—faded away. Everything focused on you. Everything in Matt focused on you; your heart rate increased, revealing a nervousness that wasn't usually like you.
“It doesn’t matter…” you said, crossing your arms. “You don’t like the gift? You didn’t even try them on, Matty!”
Matt said your name firmly. “Did you steal them?”
He tilted his head slightly, just enough to hear your heart race involuntarily. Right there.
“I didn’t steal the glasses,” you defended yourself, just as firmly as he did.
You weren't lying, not entirely. It was a half truth.
“And the money?” he pressed, not noticing that his hands were trembling slightly.
Matt could feel your gaze on him, the weight of your eyes analyzing his every move, searching for any part of you still willing to confront his moral compass.
Your smile wasn't something Matt had truly expected, but there you were: smiling.
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t steal the money from anyone who needed it,” you said simply, shrugging dismissively. “Trust me, that man didn’t even notice he was missing a few dollars.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” Matt said, in a tone he’d never used with you before.
Without forgetting that his control had to be maintained physically, he carefully closed the case—it was still something too expensive—and closed his hands around it, inhaling and exhaling several times so as not to get even angrier.
“It doesn’t matter if you stole from someone with money, this isn’t right,” he said, finally dropping your name in a curt tone. “Especially not giving me something with dirty money.”
That made you angry. “Dirty money?” you exclaimed, this time louder, not caring if you were drawing attention. “Listen, you little saint, all money is dirty, okay? Especially money that comes from someone who has tons of it,” you spat out with a venom Matt had never seen before.
The way you said those words surprised Matt. He had some idea of your hatred for rich people, but this level of resentment wasn't something he expected, not from you.
“You’re going to return the glasses,” Matt ordered, grabbing your wrist, but you quickly broke free with a speed that surprised even him.
You never ceased to amaze him.
“Give it back?” you said, laughing. “Yeah, right,” you scoffed, with clear sarcasm. “Why can’t you accept something nice, huh? It’s for you, a gift from your girlfriend. I don’t understand what’s bothering you.”
“I’m serious,” Matt said, taking a step toward you; he wasn’t trying to intimidate you, but rather appeal to a part of you he didn’t want to see grow any larger—he would follow you, if you fell into a bottomless pit, Matt would follow you, perhaps because he was intense or because, at almost seventeen, you were the most precious thing he had: “We’ll go together, you and me. It doesn’t matter if we don’t find the person you stole from, we can… we can use this money to do something good,” he whispered to you.
He didn't care about the sudden closeness between you two, or if other students saw you and told the nuns later. He just wanted to be sure he could help you, that you could both follow the same path. Matt was afraid your behavior would escalate, or that you'd make a mistake and lose your life because of it. The idea terrified him.
But you pulled away, you pushed him back, creating a distance he never thought existed.
“Fuck off, Murdock,” you said, forcing a toughness that masked a certain pain inside you. “I did something good… for you,” you whispered. “But do whatever you want, you’re still the nuns’ little saint, I don’t care.”
Perhaps it was age, the fact that they were still dramatic teenagers, but that was the rift between them. They were never the same again, and you didn't take long to break up with him.
Months later, you disappeared. Matt searched for you, using everything he knew to exploit his senses, his schedule, even disregarding the nuns' orders to find you, but he had no luck. It was as if the earth had swallowed you whole.
Several times he went to the usual places where the cats you fed were, but there was no trace of you. Your scent of wild herbs mixed with cat fur had faded for him.
For years, in college and even after, Matt still wondered what had become of you. Perhaps, if the two of you had lasted a little longer, he might have discovered that the darkness inside him could be used for something good.
Perhaps he wouldn't have been with Elektra, but he would have been with you, and together you could have blurred the lines between moral and immoral. You would even have supported him with Daredevil; he was sure of it.
Anyway, Matt would never be sure. He never heard from you again.
Of course, that was until Foggy told him that Brett had called to tell him about a new case for both of them. A bribe for Brett's mother. Cigarettes were Foggy's thing, and although Matt didn't agree with giving cigarettes to an older woman, he couldn't deny that when he heard your name while Foggy was reading the case, his heart started racing.
You were alive, you were in Hell's Kitchen, and you needed a lawyer.
Months ago, you returned to Hell's Kitchen after several years away. You'd always stayed in New York; it was your place. But you'd stayed away from your hometown until a friend called you because she needed your help. You're a good friend, so you went without hesitation. You could help; you weren't the teenage girl you used to be. You were an adult with more resources than anyone could imagine.
Things went wrong. You were only supposed to be taking a walk around the apartment, familiarizing yourself with the area, both inside and out.
There shouldn't have been any dead bodies, but unfortunately, a corpse became part of your promise to help; a bald idiot with too much money but very little self-preservation.
You knew he had a target on his back, and that's what made him perfect, but the dark reality of Hell's Kitchen had ensnared you again. It was a trap, not for you, but for your friend. Yet, you were the one who went to the apartment where a dead man lay, a man whose death was now being blamed on you.
Now you find yourself sitting in an interrogation room, your wrists cuffed to the table, surrounded by two police officers who clearly wanted to frame you, even though you weren't the one they were trying to arrest.
You didn't expect two men claiming to be your lawyers to walk through the door, much less one who, despite the years, you easily recognized as your ex-boyfriend.
Red-tinted glasses rest on his face, obscuring his handsome brown eyes. You suppress the urge to smile at the sight.
You couldn't smile; you had to pretend to be a damsel in distress being wrongly accused—and in part, it was true; you hadn't killed anyone. And it genuinely frightened you, despite your reluctance to admit it, to be involved in something that had a dead body as its welcoming symbol, but it was amusing to see that Matt had followed your advice after all these years.
Shortly after, your wrists were freed thanks to Foggy Nelson, the other lawyer, the one who wasn't your ex-boyfriend.
As they take the opportunity to sit across from you, you rub your wrists while trying not to look at your teenage crush.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” your voice comes out a little shaky. It wasn’t on purpose, but you can’t help feeling them.
Even though you're someone who generally tries to be in control of your feelings, the fact that someone had died and that it involved you was something that turned your stomach. This went beyond your usual comfort zone.
“When I entered the apartment, he was already dead,” you murmur, swallowing hard as your eyes search for Foggy’s.
“Miss…” Matt says; he uses your full name to get your attention, and you give it to him.
He's handsome, he always has been. You could perfectly remember the first time you saw him in the school hallways; a nun was talking to him, smiling slightly as he took her arm and they walked. He caught your eye the moment you saw him. You couldn't tell if it was his defined yet youthful face, his seemingly silky, warm brown hair, or the affected air he carried. You knew something about him wasn't what it seemed.
You needed to know what it was. He wasn't just a blind boy facing life (even though that was partly true). There was something more to Matt Murdock, so you made it your mission to find him as many times as necessary until he started looking for you himself.
You still remembered the warmth of his lips when you first kissed. How flushed he looked because you two weren't supposed to be kissing there; or how scandalized he was when you hungrily kissed him in his room at the orphanage where he lived.
That time, it didn't take much for Matt to get permission for you to go to his humble room at the orphanage. He was a model student, and it was supposed to be just for studying. That wasn't your plan, but Matt made it clear that you could only kiss once more, and that was it.
Nonsense, of course. You kissed him as many times as you wanted, even if he was quietly apologizing to God for disrespecting Him and the nuns.
Matt's voice interrupts your small stream of thoughts and you return to the present.
“Oh, yes, excuse me,” you say, licking your lips. “What did you say?” you ask Matt directly.
Your eyes scan his face; his jawline is defined, there's a stubble that accentuates the inner features of his face, and his always-pink lips look more appealing to you.
Oh, how you loved to bite his lower lip and make him whimper in embarrassment…
“As we understand it, the victim was found with a knife lodged in his back,” Matt says.
You know he isn't looking at you—he can't—but you've known him long enough to recognize that deceptively relaxed posture. He's studying you. You don't know how, but every movement, every shift in your breathing, has his attention.
“And when you arrived at the scene, you were wearing a pair of gloves,” he continues evenly. “Those gloves were later collected as evidence after investigators found traces of the victim's blood on them.”
Bingo.
“I… yes,” you blurt out after a shaky breath. “I… I went in and I-I saw him on the floor…” You use your genuine nerves with your deceptive skills to begin your act. “He… there was a lot of blood and I just wanted to help…”
That was true. The moment you saw the bald man on the floor, your first instincts were to try to help, to try to apply pressure to the wound around the murder weapon. That was your mistake. The first thing you should have done was disappear from the scene, but something inside you stopped you.
And the gloves? You wore them on purpose. You didn't want to leave fingerprints when you investigated the area and the apartment, but luckily they helped your case because your fingerprints weren't on the knife.
As you spoke, you started moving your right leg up and down; a well-known sign of anxiety, and in these situations, it suited you to appear as someone who wasn't in control of certain parts of their body.
“I know I shouldn’t have been there…” you say, swallowing hard, tears welling in your eyes. “But my friend, Stacy, asked me to pick something up for her… she didn’t want to see Kevin again,” you say, referring to the dead man. “So I did… but I… I didn’t…” you break down, easily. “I didn’t kill him.”
Mixing truth and lies was easy. You didn't kill anyone, and it was true that you were doing a friend a favor, although Stacy wasn't her name and you weren't a completely innocent damsel in distress; your intentions weren't entirely so.
“I know what it looks like,” you whisper, sniffing. “But I didn’t kill him… and I have no way to pay you back, but… but I need help.” You look at Matt. “Please… I didn’t kill anyone, Matt,” you say, in that pleading tone you always did so well.
You noticed something change in Matt's posture; it was momentary, barely a second, but that was enough for you to notice. It was on purpose; of course, saying his name in that tone was deliberate.
“Don’t worry, we’ll help you,” Matt says, not letting Foggy intervene.
You ignored Foggy's expression and, inwardly, couldn't help but smile at the thought that your little saint was still as good as he had been in the past.
Your two beloved saviors managed to get you released after you spent a night at the police station. You had no criminal record, and it wasn't as if any of the officers had filed charges, so your temporary freedom was guaranteed.
You and Matt didn't speak more than necessary, just a normal greeting with a comment that hinted at nostalgia. He let you go back to your apartment to rest, and you didn't want to talk to him too much either; you would see each other again because the case wasn't over, and part of you wanted to pull on that small thread that existed between you.
But now wasn't the time; you still had something to take care of. For your friend, you promised to help her.
The alleyways, rooftops, and guttering of Hell's Kitchen became your playground with ease. The night was your friend, helping you jump, slip, and run without a trace. You didn't consider yourself a hero; you helped others now and then, specifically the most vulnerable women—perhaps because they reminded you of your mother, your younger self. But you weren't a vigilante, you weren't a hero, and you never would be.
It was easy to move in now that you had the right gear, your suit and the hood that gave you a certain sense of personal security. When they caught you, you were overconfident; you weren't even wearing your suit at the time. You weren't planning to steal anything then, just to scout the place, study the placement of the furniture, the windows. It was stupid, but now you knew you couldn't push your luck again.
You found what you were looking for where your friend had told you it would be; whoever had wanted to kill Kevin (the bald idiot, according to your friend) hadn't found the pretty ring that now lay in your grasp.
It was heavy, the gleam of the gold could blind, but it didn't draw everyone's attention thanks to the precious gem at its center: a diamond, a blood diamond, no less. How many innocent people had died for such a trifle? It wasn't your concern, but it gave you satisfaction to know that someone like you could take it so easily from someone like Kevin.
You put the ring in the inside pocket of your suit, on your chest, so you wouldn't lose it amidst all the jumping, and you left without looking back.
You didn't want to spend another moment in that apartment. The carpet still had a large bloodstain, and there was something heavy in the air, something that made you uneasy. Usually, you were in control of yourself whenever you entered a place like this, but perhaps the murder that occurred changed things.
Jump after jump, you slipped through the bustling night of Hell's Kitchen with what you needed to keep your promise of help.
A feeling of unease lingered even after you landed safely on the rooftop of the apartment building where you lived. You knew soon enough, perhaps through some sixth sense that had developed over the years, that you weren't alone.
“I didn’t know you were a fan of mine now,” you say.
You turn around with a lopsided smile.
The heels of your boots clicked against the concrete roof of the building. They weren't high heels; you weren't stupid. But they were high enough to help you if you were in the middle of a fight (digging your heel in always surprised a thug), and because you liked the extra height they gave you.
“Mr. Devil, isn’t that you?” you say, knowing full well that he’s there. There’s no one else who could be so silent and agile as to follow you and you only noticed it now. “Sorry, Daredevil. Mr. Daredevil,” you correct.
You watch him descend gracefully from the water tank atop the building. His suit is red, perfectly outlining the body beneath.
Just like in the photos circulating online, the only visible part of his body is his mouth and that sharp jawline that evokes familiar feelings, but ones you wouldn't associate with the image of Daredevil.
It wasn't the first time you'd crossed paths with Daredevil, but your encounters were always brief. You never allowed yourself to linger longer than necessary because you knew your place and didn't want to provoke the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
Yes, perhaps you once or twice gave him a little help—a tranquilizer dart to some thug or leaving a door open somewhere he wanted to go—but that didn't mean you were partners.
Several times you managed to escape him the moment he realized you weren't just a vigilante.
You were a thief above all else.
No, you didn't steal from ordinary people, you weren't that kind of person. But rich people? Oh, that was a different story.
“You’re going to tell me what you went to do at Kevin Smith’s apartment,” he says. No, orders.
You smile briefly, then let out a fake sigh of tiredness. "Oh, come on, I don't think the man cares, does he?"
You shouldn't have said that. You didn't even expect such a silly comment to ignite his fury, but it did.
Quickly, before you could react, your body slams against the wall behind you. A gasp escapes your lips at the sudden impact, and your arms are trapped beneath the devil's strong hands.
“There’s a dead man,” Daredevil says, his fingers digging hard into your arms. “And you think you can joke about this? I thought you were smarter.”
You swallow, laughing a little nervously, but laughing nonetheless. “Yes, he’s dead, but I have nothing to do with it, darling, and nobody’s going to care what’s missing in that department. Believe me, it’s got plenty of luxury.”
Daredevil remains silent for a few seconds, you see him tilt his head to the side; that gesture, that tiny gesture, is incredibly familiar. You've seen it before, but years ago, in memories that now only fill you with youthful nostalgia at dusk.
His grip loosened, not enough for you to break free, but enough for you to notice. It's strange, you know it is, and you can't stop your eyes from drifting down to his lips, to his jaw. The stubble that adorns the only skin he reveals, those pink lips…
“Matt?” you whisper before you can change your mind.
He tenses up instantly and that's confirmation enough for you—plus, those seconds of uncertainty that attacked him serve you perfectly.
You drive your knee into his groin, fast and sharp. The strike doesn't do much damage—his suit takes most of it—but it disrupts his footing. It's all the opening you need. Tucking your legs beneath you, you throw your weight forward and manage to take him down with you.
You hit the ground on top of him and immediately pin him there, settling one knee between his legs and pressing down just enough to make your point.
“So the little saint was just a facade, huh?” you say, running your index fingernail along his jaw, or rather, you run a claw over him.
The nail lightly scrapes his skin. You use claws that help you both climb and tear enough to hurt someone.
“You surprise me, Matty,” you murmur, now in a lower tone and gripping his jaw tightly.
Matt's breathing is uneven beneath you, and you could almost swear you can hear the rapid beat of his heart—the same heartbeat you used to send into a frenzy when you were teenagers. The thought alone draws a smile to your lips.
“Bad, Matty, bad,” you whisper and press your knee against his crotch, against the hard fabric covering his balls.
You hear him choke slightly and that only makes your smile bigger.
“It’s wrong to follow someone at night, didn’t your dear nuns teach you that?” you say in a sugary murmur. He grunts at the comment, and you press your knee even harder, a whimper escaping him. Oh, he likes that. It hurts, but he likes it. “Tsk. Who would look at you now, Matty. Dressed like a devil and getting hard on a rooftop. Nuh-uh, bad, bad, very bad.”
You squeeze harder, enjoying watching his lips part slightly and a trembling gasp escape him; part of the protection in his suit prevents you from actually hurting him, but you're using force to elicit this kind of reaction. He can feel the pressure, he can feel your knee pressing against his balls.
At the same time, you dig your nails into the skin of his face so as not to miss a single expression, no matter how small.
You squeeze harder, enjoying watching his lips part slightly and a trembling gasp escape him; part of the protection in his suit prevents you from actually hurting him, but you're using force to elicit this kind of reaction. He can feel the pressure, he can feel your knee pressing against his balls.
You dig your nails into the skin of his face, not wanting to miss a single expression, no matter how small it was.
“I’m sure your dear God is watching us now and wondering: What happened to my dear Matt?” you whispered, your tone feigning prayer. “Oh, look at you now, Matty…” a soft laugh escapes your lips and you push your knee down harder, earning another groan from him. “You’re a bad boy, you disappoint me,” you whisper against his lips.
Your hair falls around his face, caressing the exposed part, and Matt could swear a shiver ran down his spine. Your scent is infused with an expensive perfume, a blend of cedar and something else, something more yours—wild herbs with a hint of cat fur, of course. It was you, it was always you.
The first few times he encountered Black Cat—you—Matt had smelled the strong perfume that clung to your body. It threw him off balance quite a bit, but now he knew it was just a disguise to hide your true scent—intentional or not—; you managed to slip away from him, to conceal who you really were.
If only you hadn't worn that strong perfume, maybe the first time Matt saw you he would have guessed it was you, but you were always the best at slipping through his fingers.
Now here you were, fearlessly squeezing his balls with your knee, causing him pain in his lower spine and a dark, aroused feeling. He liked it, the pain and the way you were practically on top of him, whispering how bad he was; scratching his face and hurting his balls. It was pathetic, truly pathetic.
The moment you moved your face a little closer, probably ready to mock him once more, Matt decided not to hold back: he pressed his lips directly to yours.
Lips against lips, teeth against teeth.
The swift union of his mouth with yours takes you by surprise, just enough to stop the pressure in his balls and allow Matt to seize the winning hand. It was easy for him to change positions: now you lie trapped beneath him, you're the one under Matt now.
“You really always liked pushing my buttons, didn't you?” He grunts and brings one of his hands to your hair, tugging and earning a moan from you. “You always thought you were so clever with your smart-ass comments…”
You smiled despite everything. In your youth, it was hard to break Matt's saintly facade, but now? Now you were facing the devil that had always lived inside him.
“Well, I'm a very smart person, so clearly my comments will be too…” you say and moan as you feel him pull your hair.
“Shut your mouth before I put it to better use,” he orders, and you almost managed to reply.
Almost because he smashed his lips against yours again, in the same way, with the same desperation and search for control that neither of you had anymore, especially him.
His tongue licks your palate as your sharp nails dig into the fabric of his suit, reaching his face again. You lightly scratch the skin there, and he groans into your mouth; he quickly returns the favor, biting your lower lip hard, sending a tingling sensation through your now-aching pussy.
Not even in your wildest dreams did you imagine meeting Matt again, much less kissing him like this and him kissing you back in the same way.
But there you are, using your nimble fingers to remove Daredevil's helmet so you can get a better look. You want to see his brown eyes, you need to, to see that darkness that was smaller in his adolescence and that Matt now lets out.
Matt settles more comfortably over you, straddling your legs, his on either side of yours, before firmly grasping your wrists and pinning them above your head.
Your heart races, filled with a sense of rebellion, freedom, and detachment from everything that's right in that moment.
Those heartbeats resonated strongly in Matt's ears, mingling with your soft gasps as he traced the skin of your neck with his tongue. His stubble tickled you, a sensation that faded as the moisture of his saliva replaced it, sending shivers down your spine beneath him.
“Fuck,” you moan as Matt decides to bite your neck.
It was a slightly rough bite, one you soon forgot when Matt decided to pull at your suit until the zipper snapped under his strength. Your scent and sweat are delicious to Matt; you were unintentionally sending blood rushing straight to his cock.
“You feel so good,” Matt whispers, running his nose along the skin of your neck and inhaling deeply.
You don't complain when he takes off the rest of your suit, nor when he efficiently sheds his suit enough to do what he wants—what you both want.
He's hard for you, hard because of you. Thanks to every action you took with him, intentional or not.
His movements are methodical; he knows what he's doing and how to guide himself. He's nothing like the boy you lost your virginity to; he used to be tender, shy, and awkward, just like you were back then.
The two people on the rooftop bear no resemblance to the teenage memories they both cherish. Now you're an adult, half-naked, under the watchful, methodical gaze of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
When you reach out to touch him, Matt firmly pushes your hand away and spreads your legs, settling between them. His now-ungloved hands roam over your hips, shamelessly tracing the contours of your body, as if memorizing them.
Finally, Matt lifts your legs to his hips, and one of his hands travels to your throat. He doesn't squeeze hard enough to suffocate you, but enough to let you know you're not in control anymore. He's in charge.
“You’re quiet now, kitten,” he mocks, squeezing lightly. “Where did your bravery from a few minutes ago go, huh? You were a different person when you were squeezing my balls without giving a shit,” another squeeze, this time hard, on your throat that easily makes you gag.
With his free hand, he reaches for the fabric of your panties. First, he runs two fingers along the slit where your wetness now hangs, testing the waters; it doesn't take long for him to forcefully tear the fabric, leaving your cunt exposed and your mouth slightly open from a gasp that escaped your lips as you felt him rip the fabric away.
“Those were expensive panties,” you say, panting slightly as you feel Matt begin to rub his cock against your wet folds.
You want to watch, you want to see how the pre-cum-covered tip of his cock slides through your folds, mingling with you, but the hand on your throat prevents you from taking your eyes off him, of his face.
“I hope you bought them and didn’t steal them,” he replies, and you see a lopsided smile appear on his face.
Before you can answer, Matt steals your breath again and plunges his cock completely inside you. Without warning, without any more foreplay, he simply decides to smash his cock deep inside you.
“Is this what you wanted, hm?” he says, licking his lips. “You wanted to be fucked stupid?” Matt murmurs, keeping your body pinned against him and the rooftop floor. “Come on, say something bratty now, bitch, huh. I dare you,” he says in a tone that almost makes you gasp. “Or should I say kitten?”
You arch your back at the sudden sting of being stretched without preparation, but it's not unpleasant; it's a vivid sensation, teetering on the line between pain and pleasure. A line between darkness and light, one you've always enjoyed crossing.
Matt lets out a whimper as he feels the heat of your body mold around his cock. He can hear your ragged breathing, the sound of your pulse hammering against his palms like a trapped bird. Tonight, there was no such thing as a saint; the week's exhaustion and the exasperating perfection of your demeanor had pushed him to the limit. He had truly believed you were innocent, and he knew that, in part, you were.
But you were still you, and you needed to play with life's morality.
Matt wants to drown your cheeky wit with something far more primal. This is revenge for you leaving him years ago, for disappearing like so many others in his life without a word. He needed to delve deep inside you to quell the raging demon within.
As he thrusts into you, the friction is electric, a searing sensation that clouds his senses, leaving only you and his hunger to possess you.
You can't stop the gasps and moans escaping your lips, your breath ragged, and the weight of his hand around your throat keeps you captive to his control, to his movements, to the deep plunge of his cock forcing its way into your now-filled cunt.
“Look at you…” Matt says, growling slightly. “You’re a liar, aren’t you? You love to lie, to lie to me…” He gives you a hard, deliberate thrust.
You arch your hips to find his; what he gives you isn't enough. You want some control, some movement that comes from you, not just him. Your hands roam over his arms until they both rest on the hand that holds your throat. Your fingers dig into the skin there, scratching, tearing, so he can feel the burning and the pleasure at the same time, just like you.
You can't help but let out a breathless laugh. “Little saint, who would have thought you could fuck like this under the watchful eye of your God, huh?” you mock, despite the way your voice trembles, you manage to do it.
Your eyes sparkle with a certain mischievousness characteristic of you, and you throw your head back as Matt thrusts his hips forcefully; a strong thrust, one that you felt deep inside you.
“I always knew there was a brute hidden inside you,” you manage to say between gasps, as your legs tighten around his hips. You pull him deeper, even deeper, your nails digging into his hand and forearm.
Matt's jaw tenses, a mocking smile appears at the corner of his lips.
“A brute? Seriously?” He leans in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice becoming a dangerous, husky whisper. “Then let’s see how much of this brute you can take before you start begging God for mercy.”
It doesn't surprise you when Matt increases the pace of his thrusts: stronger, more rhythmic, and brutal. Each one steals your breath, and you can't help but become a bundle of whimpers beneath the hand that tightens around your throat.
The sensation is wonderful, the way his hips slam against yours, the slap of his balls against your skin that makes your toes curl.
Matt shifts position and grabs your wrists, pressing them against the cold rooftop floor. His brown eyes are darker than usual, and you could almost swear they were fixed on you; you knew he was incapable of seeing you, but you remembered enough to know that Matt was looking at you in his own way. Everything about him was focused on you, everything.
And Matt desperately wants to feel the moment your courage finally crumbles, when you stop making shitty comments and surrender completely to the pleasure only he can give you.
So he brings your wrists together, holding them with one hand, and with his free hand, he cups your face the same way you had before, but without digging his nails into your lovely skin. Instead, Matt places his thumb on your lips and forces you to suck on it, the same thumb that, now wet, traces its way down the valley of your breasts, your abdomen, the curls of your pussy, all the way to your clit.
“Matt!” you moan this time without restraint, without smart-ass comments.
The sudden pressure on your clitoris makes you tighten your legs around him and makes your moans more frequent.
“That’s it… let me hear you,” Matt groans, his voice hoarse and authoritative.
The bastard knows he has you right where he wants you. He can feel every fluctuation in your heartbeat, every shiver, every tightening of your body. Matt is reveling in the way your vaginal walls grip his cock tighter and tighter.
He's basking in how your bravado melts into soft moans, uninvited whimpers, and steady gasps.
Matt feels the wetness of your arousal envelop him completely, making it easier for him to thrust. He knows that if he keeps this up, he'll come inside you, and that's not what he wants—he wants to finish inside you, but he doesn't want to do it before you. That would be a sacrilege he couldn't bear.
He fucks you harder, deeper, feeling the rhythmic contractions of your walls tightening more and more. “That’s it… give it to me, beautiful,” he moans into your ear, while his hips have a lethal rhythm and his thumb rubs and pinches your clitoris with the help of his index finger without any problems.
“Fuck…” you whisper between moans, now more needy. “Matt… please…” you beg. You beg for him.
You hear Matt gasp as he feels you getting closer, the wet heat of your pussy contracting in perfect sync with his thrusts. You can hear the wet, rhythmic sound of your bodies colliding; the friction sends shivers down your spine.
Matt doesn't hold back, and you're grateful, because all you want in this moment is to reach orgasm around him.
His cock plunged deep inside you, burying itself against the back of your cunt as he sought to fill every inch of your available space. The scent of your fluids mingling with his rose, an intoxicating cocktail of sweat and musk that fueled the desperate hunger of the man fucking you like there was no tomorrow.
Your breathing became increasingly uncontrolled, your now-free hands going to his arms for support; you didn't care about digging your nails in there, there was no time to analyze anything, you just wanted to pull him closer.
“Matt…” you moan once more, your voice tense and sensual, making his blood boil.
Matt's hands grip your hips as he tries to anchor himself to you, keeping your body exactly where he needs it to be so he can keep fucking your pussy the way you both discovered you liked. He feels the wetness of your clit brushing against him with each thrust, the friction creating unbearable tension.
One of his hands slides down your abdomen to your breasts, his thumb grazing a hardened nipple as he thrusts into you with relentless force.
“I’ve got you,” Matt moans, letting his head fall onto your shoulder, his lips brushing your ear. It’s a delight to be able to hear every gasp, every moan and whimper he lets out just for you.
You felt your muscles tense, the unmistakable sign of the climax you were about to reach, and you knew he was aware of it too. Matt increased the speed of his thrusts, the friction between you creating a hot, sweltering heat.
“Let it go, give it to me, sweetheart,” Matt whispers, panting against your ear. “I know you have it, just for me, right? You’ll stop being a disobedient bitch and give it to me, won’t you?”
That same tone makes you a wreck beneath him, completely letting go of the reins and coming all over Matt's cock.
As you orgasm, Matt lets out a muffled whimper, his own body tensing and trembling. He penetrated you so deeply one last time, his cock throbbing inside your wet heat as his semen spills inside you, filling you with a hot, thick torrent.
Silence doesn't reign between you because your short breaths are the only sounds you hear. Or at least, that's what you hear, because Matt can hear every tiny sound involving you: the rapid beating of your heart, the throbbing of your satisfied cunt, and the squelching sounds of the mingled fluids inside you and around him.
Your legs tremble, and Matt's hands, once rougher, caress your thighs from top to bottom as you loosen your grip around his hips.
You don't make a smart-ass comment like you usually would; you just let your body relax beneath his.
Matt is warm, his body hot against yours, whether from the sex you just had or because, unlike you, he's wearing more of his suit.
That leaves you even more breathless. The intensity of the sex was so intense that you couldn't even process that Daredevil had just fucked you, still partially in his costume, on the rooftop of your apartment building. It was surreal.
You swallow hard as you close your eyes for a moment, just long enough for Matt to cup your jaw in his hand, forcing you to pay attention.
“I know you didn’t kill him,” Matt whispers, his voice still husky. “But you’re still… you, aren’t you? You can’t help getting into trouble, crossing the line. Was it all because of that ring?” he says against your ear. It sends shivers down your spine again, but it’s impossible not to; you’ve got him soft and buried deep inside you.
For a moment you had forgotten the ring, you had forgotten the whole affair that brought you both here, that brought you back to Hell's Kitchen, but soon Matt's voice draws you back to him.
“You disappeared, you left me…” You feel him smile against your ear. “It won’t happen again.”
It's a warning. Matt is letting you know he won't let you slip through his fingers again. And perhaps, this time, you wouldn't try to escape.
notes: here we are! the truth is, this ended up being longer than i expected, but that's because i couldn't figure out how to do the ending right, and… well, i kept going over the same thing. this is a one-shot, not a series, so I decided to stop dwelling on it.
i still have my doubts about writing sex scenes, but i hope at least someone enjoys it.
if anyone reads this, i hope you liked it and enjoyed reading it! i appreciate comments and reblogs. <3
You should’ve known that when you traded in your job as a bartender for a cushy office gig with benefits—health insurance, paid time off, all that grown-up bullshit—you’d end up paying for it with your peace of mind.
Corporate assholes were a completely different ecosystem than drunk assholes, and you were still learning how to navigate it. At least drunk people were honest about being terrible. These people smiled while dumping all the time-consuming, brain-numbing tasks on you because you were new. Menial work, endless emails, pointless meetings that could’ve been a single sentence long. By the end of it, you felt like you might actually pick your brain out with a sharpened pencil if someone asked you to “circle back” one more time.
You could’ve called your boyfriend. Jason would’ve come—no hesitation, no complaints—but you didn’t want to seem needy. You’d only been dating a little over three months. Still new enough that you caught yourself overthinking things like that.
Besides, Jason usually turned in early. His phone was on Do Not Disturb most nights, and you didn’t want to be the reason he broke routine.
So instead, you found yourself trekking through Gotham at eleven o’clock at night, feet aching, eyelids heavy enough that you only caught every other step. Your keys were threaded between your fingers out of habit, metal biting lightly into your skin.
Really, you shouldn’t have been surprised.
It was beginner’s luck that had lulled you into a false sense of security—those first few nights where nothing happened, where you made it home without so much as a sideways glance. To be fair, you had been comfortable because more than once you’d spotted Red Hood lingering nearby. And everyone knew that where Red Hood was, petty criminals tended to suddenly remember they had somewhere else to be. Especially when it came to women.
So when someone jumped out of the alleyway, you jumped right out of your skin.
“Gimme your damn money!”
Jason saw it happen from the rooftop and felt something ugly lodge itself in his throat.
The way you startled—sharp, instinctive, exhausted—made his chest tighten painfully. He was stupid. Completely, catastrophically stupid for putting this conversation off for so long. He’d known for over a week that you were getting out late. He’d watched you walk these streets alone night after night, telling himself it was fine because he was there.
Because Red Hood was there.
Arrogance. That’s what it was. Thinking no one would be dumb enough to try something if they sensed him nearby. Either this guy didn’t see—or didn’t care.
Jason’s hand slid toward his holster as the mugger shifted, a gun concealed in his jacket pocket, angled toward you.
“Gimme your damn money!”
Jason was already calculating. Warning shot. Disarm. Maybe just put him down. He didn’t like the way the guy’s finger twitched—didn’t like the chance that panic might make him pull the trigger.
And then—
“What am I, Santa Claus?!”
Jason froze.
Your voice cut through the tension, Jersey accent thick and sharp, exhaustion and irritation bleeding into every word. You planted your feet, unimpressed, entirely done.
“You think I’ve just got cash to hand out? In this economy?”
The mugger scoffed, clearly not expecting resistance, “GIVE ME YOUR MONEY, LADY, OR I’M GONNA SHOOT!”
Jason barely had time to inhale—
Before you reached into your purse and pulled out your own gun.
Hot pink.
That you had lovingly dubbed lullaby.
Because she knew how to put grown men to sleep.
The mugger stared down the barrel, face draining of color.
“Try me, motherfucker.”
There was a long, stunned beat.
Then the guy bolted.
Jason didn’t chase him. He just stood there, helmet hiding the grin threatening to split his face in half, chest loosening with something dangerously close to pride.
Yeah.
That was his girl.
By the time you made it home, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving you bone-tired. You were digging for your keys when you noticed the familiar motorcycle parked out front.
Your heart lifted instantly.
Jason was leaning against it, arms crossed, leather jacket hanging open. He looked up the moment he saw you and softened.
“Jason!” You squealed, jogging the last few steps.
He caught you easily, laughing as you practically launched yourself into his arms. His hands settled on the small of your back, solid and warm, anchoring you there as he kissed you—slow, unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be.
“Hey, doll.” He murmured.
“What’re you doing here?” You asked, smiling up at him, “So late, too?”
“Just wanted to see my favorite girl.” His thumb brushed over your hip absentmindedly, “Real question is—what’re you doing getting home this late?”
You shrugged, “Work ran long. New job, remember?”
He walked you to your door, refusing to let go of your hand the entire time. Once inside, he kicked his boots off and immediately tugged you back into his chest, like now that the danger was over he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.
“You okay?” He asked quietly, fingers sliding into your hair.
You smiled, leaning into him, “Yeah. Tired. Hungry."
His arms tightened around you immediately, "Go take a shower, I'll get dinner started."
You yawned, face tucked into his neck, "Oh wow, I feel spoiled. You do this for all the girls?"
He chuckled, pulling you closer, chin resting on the top of your head, “This is strictly limited access.”
“Mmm. Lucky me.”
Jason pressed a kiss into your hair, slower this time. Protective. Gentle. Like he was memorizing the feel of you safe in his arms.
“Next time,” He said softly, “Call me. No matter how late it is.”
You looked up at him, teasing, “What, worried about me?”
He smirked, "Nah, I know you can take care of yourself."
"Damn right."
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