The reason Leon Kennedy works so well is because he is equal parts gentleman and deeply unwell, which means every sweet gesture comes with the undertone of a man trying very hard to hold himself together.
Like, because he's polite: he opens doors for you, walks on the outside of the sidewalk, remembers how you like your coffee
But because he's unwell: he checks every exit constantly, he needs to hear your voice after nightmares, little things become huge things with him
And that's the thing. The romance isn't that he would die for you. Lots of characters would die for you. The romance is that he's trying, every day, to live for you. And some days that is clearly the harder thing.
For example: you mention offhand that your car has been making a weird noise. Three days later he hands you the keys back and says, "Should be good now." You find out he spent his only free afternoon under the car teaching himself how to fix it from a repair manual because the thought of you breaking down alone on the side of the road made him physically ill. He never tells you that part. He just asks you to text him when you get home. Immediately. Every time. Forever.
A/N: love me an acts of service husband. Speaking of, today is my second wedding anniversary and I FORGOT hahahaha. I'm gonna be in trouble later. Guess he gets the oldest gift around *ties up hair in a scrunchie*
warnings: MDNI, steve transforms into a literal wolf, NO a/b/o dynamics, PTSD, mentions of grief, minor character death (off-page), reader is a little stupid, minor injury, slowburn, forced proximity, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, grumpy x sunshine dynamic, use of a petname (bunny), semi-public nudity, unprotected sex, rough sex, p in v, biting/marking, hair pulling, dacryphilia if you squint, BDE steve
author's note: this was going to be set in the same world as belong to you but i changed my mind. đ also i was live laugh loving this when i wrote the outline but now i lowkey hate it! 𼰠i don't even know what happened but one second i thought i was onto something, and the next, i found that i had lost the plot. but at least now it's out of my head! #mybad. @superbassbuck mrs. werewolf herself, this is for you.
The Pacific Northwest was known for its lush forests. It was what Steve Rogers had been banking on when heâd moved there abruptly. It was what heâd hoped for when heâd set about the lumber yard a couple towns over from where heâd decided to set up. No one had asked him too many questions. Heâd just taken what heâd needed and gone. Anything else heâd acquired had been found at estate sales or made on his own. He had no one to rely on but himself, after all.
Heâd grown used to the distant rush of water that cut through the forest, the whistle of wind through the trees. The chirping of the birds that went silent when a storm was about to pass through. The woods had infinite sounds for him to listen to, his hearing much better than it had used to be. It was a complex orchestra, one that couldnât be accurately repeated. Each day there was a slightly different melody.
Perhaps if the forest didnât play music, Steve would feel the walls of solitude pressing in on him more forcefully. But when the window was open late on a warm night, and all he could hear were noisy crickets and hooting owls, he could almost forget about the lack of another human body beside him, like there used to be. Almost.
The loneliness was penance for what heâd done, and heâd serve his sentence willingly. He didnât deserve forgiveness. Steve Rogers might have been a good man, once, but he believed that good man had died when she had. There just hadnât been a body. Only a lonely ghost, destined to haunt a tiny cabin in a far-off spot in a forest people didnât venture into all too often. But it was better that way.
Steve felt that the forest responded to him in a way it might not if he had been a regular man. But there was nothing regular about him, not anymore. The leaves seemed to sigh when he walked under them, the moss seemed to curl tighter to logs and trunks. The tiniest animals didnât skitter through the underbrush quite so much as they did when he wasnât hunting as a creature. The forest had folded him into its great, green embrace, and welcomed him.
He was lucky that people didnât tend to travel so deeply that they came upon him. It happened sometimesâsome hikers just believed that they had a natural compass as an extra senseâand he'd reluctantly help them back to a path that would take them far away again. Three years in the woods had worn away at his social skills, yes, but Steve had been more than ready to adopt a more standoffish persona. He couldnât take care to be too friendly lest people thought it an invitation to wind their way back to his home, to poke their noses in where they didnât belong.
He remained blunt, to the point. Heâd turn away, broad shoulders brushing tree branches, without so much as a goodbye. His rifle would bump against his back as he walked. His general appearance, rugged in every sense of the word from the flannel shirts to the dirty boots, the hair heâd grown out to match the beard, along with his hulking height and stature, was another helpful deterrent.
Despite his coldness to humans, he wasnât an outright savage. Heâd take the time to free animals from the gruesome traps some hunters would set up, saving them from the rusty snap of metal jaws. And Steve was also a very, very good shot. If an animal was beyond saving, he wouldnât miss, and heâd make their suffering end as cleanly as he could. Inhumane traps like that would be taken apart and disposed of. They had no place in what heâd come to know as his forest.
The smaller creatures, mice and birds, might not have feared him, but the larger ones certainly did. Whether he liked it or not, Steve was king of the forest, a mantle that weighed on his shoulders like cement blocks. So, heâd spend his time in his cabin whittling figurines or reading one of the same four paperbacks that had survived the journey, so yellowed and worn that they looked decades old. Heâd hunt and fish and lay in the dark, swim in the lake in the summer months. But always, he was alone, with nothing but his own cruel memory as company.
You very much loved your job. Being a freelance photographer had always been your dream, your work just good enough to pay your bills. You were still coming into your own. Engagements and gender reveals were your biggest money makers, but you thought you liked street photography the best. You even had a decent following on social media, with people inquiring about booking your services enough that you got to travel over to the neighbouring states pretty frequently.
But your portfolio was starting to look a little bare, a little boring, of late. Street photography was more difficult when you kept venturing into small towns without so much as a city square. Big cities just werenât in your budget right now, especially not when youâd just signed a six month lease on an apartment that really shouldnât have cost as much as it did, but the string of business you had on the docket was all in the same area, and youâd figuredâwhy not?
You hadnât been in town very long, but youâd already surmised that people much preferred outdoor activities here rather than cheese and wine tastings, upscale clubs, and hot yoga. No, it was much more down-to-earth here. There were three separate tackle and bait shops, multiple sporting goods stores, and grills and lawn mowers lined the outside of the hardware store like trophies.
It wasnât necessarily your vibeâyouâd never been the type of girl to enjoy hiking, let alone runningâbut it was interesting, that was for sure. On your first day there, youâd seen four separate men wearing the same exact plaid shirt. Your online following was a larger total than the townâs census. But in a town this small, it wasnât too long before you heard something that piqued your interest, just a little bit.
Youâd been in the townâs most popular coffee shop, snuggled into the blue and orange booth in the corner. The amenities might have been basic, but they still knew how to foam up a latte, so you werenât complaining. Editing photos was a more tedious task, but it was something you enjoyed the rhythm of. Usually you had headphones with you, but youâd forgotten to charge them, so you listened to the idle chatter around you, instead.
âJacoby swore it was the size of a brown bear. Said it looked him right in the eye, too. But it took him back to the path like it knew he was lost.â
âHuh, surprised it didnât take a chunk out of him first.â
âI donât know, Iâve heard about this wolf before. Seems sort of friendly, even though itâs always alone. Not the first time Iâve heard of a hiker being brought back to the trail like that.â
You dialled into the conversation when you heard about this wolf. Your finger slowed on your trackpad as you listened to the men at the table across from yours.
âLeave it to Jacoby to get himself lost like that. Ainât his dad a hunter? He should know directions by now.â
You grimaced at your screen. Youâd much rather hear of this benevolent creature than how much of an idiot this Jacoby guy was. One of the men laughed. âYeah, well, you could hand Jacoby a map and a compass and he still wouldnât know how to find his own ass.â
It looked like that was the end of the story. You sipped the dregs of your latte, the stoneware mug still warm in your hand. This set of photos needed to be complete to send to the client by tomorrow, and you werenât going to get any of it done by listening to small town gossip. But thenâŚ
âAnyway, I thought there were no wolves around here. Foxes and coyotes, yeah, but not wolves.â
âWell, like I said, every time Iâve heard about it, hikers have said itâs by itself. Must not have a pack or something.â A pause, and then a chuckle. âHey, maybe itâs just the big, bad, wolf.â
Suddenly the perfect shot seared itself in your mind with a clarity you couldnât even hope to capture with the perfect focus on your lens. A beautiful wolf, maybe pure black or white, staring directly into the camera. Maybe it would be standing on a big boulder, looking regal. Sunlight would dapple its fur, and moss and ivy would be crawling up the trees around itâŚ
Youâd certainly never taken a photo like that before. But wouldnât it be stunning in your portfolio? You didnât even think about it that long, your mind already made up. That would be the photograph of a lifetime, and you were going to be the artist.
You almost shut your laptop in your excitement, wanting to get up at that exact moment and go venturing out into the woods. But your equipment was at home, and you really did need to finish editing.
Youâd mostly tuned the men out, an exhilarating hum in your bones as you kept working on your edits. You werenât really listening when they continued on to say, âDâyou think that guy who lives out thereâs ever encountered it?â
âNah, probably not. He wouldâve shot it by now, don't you think?â
âEh, I guess. My uncle met him once. Scary son of a bitch. Maybe the wolf hasnât crossed him âcause it knows it would get stuffed and put on display. That dudeâs probably into taxidermy and all that shit.â
All you really paid attention to was that there was a man living in the woods, and heâd probably be the perfect person to ask about this wolf. It sounded like a brilliant plan. And if he did turn out to be some sort of creep, you had pepper spray somewhere in an old purse. Youâd be just fine. Besides, all artists had to take risks at least once in their careers, right?
A more practical person might have stopped at one of the many sporting goods stores and gotten some things to prepare, like appropriate shoes, perhaps a backpack and compass, a sturdy water bottle, and pants with enough pockets to keep essential items like a flashlight or satellite phone on hand.
Yes, a more practical person just might do that.
You, however, were much more of a âfly-by-the-seat-of-your-pantsâ type of girl. You didnât know where this man in the woods was located, nor the wolf, but you figured that youâd just go with whoever you found first. Surely it wouldnât be that hard to find the man, at least. Couldnât you just look to the sky and find smoke curling from a chimney or something? It was a bit muggy out for late spring, so you selected your favourite white dress from the closet. You braided your hair to keep it out of your face. Then you gathered up your car keys, your camera bag, and your hopes and dreams, and headed out.
Your cellphone dictated the directions to you. It was a decent drive outside town limits, halfway up a hill, but eventually your tires crunched over the gravel of a very small parking area. A sign that really needed to be repainted was tacked to one of the trees. âSilverlake Woods Hiking Trail Aâ was inscribed on the board in faded white paint. You supposed there must be hiking trails B and C somewhere too, but A sounded like a good first step.
The sun was still high in the sky as your shoes scuffed stray gravel onto the path. You were absolutely sure, as you navigated the dips and curves of the trail, listening to the cheerful birdsong, that youâd find some sort of success. At the very least, youâd be able to practice taking nature shots.
Steve was very used to the familiar sounds of the forest. He might not have known what day of the week it was, but he could tell the time of day based on the sounds. There was a rabbit snuffling around the undergrowth a little ways away. He could hear its body moving, slow hops as it searched for something to eat. He could tell without seeing it. As it was, Steve was laying on his back in the minuscule kitchenette trying to fix the sink. Water had been smacking him in the forehead in a slow drip for the last ten minutes. Living in seclusion like this, heâd gotten pretty good at fixing problems when they came up. He only ventured into town for things once or twice a year, under strict emergency.
The wrench clicked every time he twisted it, the sound blending in with all the others he could hearâthe birds, the rabbit, the leaves brushing together in the breeze. The snap of a twigâŚ
He smelled you at the same moment he heard the twig. Floral, but manufactured, not natural. Perfume. Under it, something clean and powdery. Deodorant, maybe. His whole body went stiff. The water was dripping more sluggishly now, and he didnât even flinch at the next bead of it that landed and slid sideways down his temple and into his hair.
The scent of you underneath the products you used was softer, sweeter, but not too much. Not in an overwhelming way. More like the flavour of strawberry cream. He could taste it in the back of his throat.
As alarming as it was to Steve that someone was getting close to his territory, he was more concerned that you seemed to be alone. He couldnât smell anyone else. Sure, there were plenty of women in town that were seasoned hikers. But usually heâd smell bug spray, along with rations carried along in a backpack. Heâd hear the buzz of a walkie talkie or the murmur of a partner. Surely you werenât just ambling along without the proper preparations. You were still on one of the paths, Steve thought, since his cabin was a decent way off from any of them. Realistically, you should pass right by him. But still, he was tense as he listened to your distant footsteps, and the occasional click of something he couldnât quite name.
You were finding yourself to be quite delighted by the forest. Maybe sandals hadnât been the right footwearâthere were a surprising number of fallen logs and broken branches aboutâbut the paths were pretty easy to navigate in broad daylight. Well, maybe that was a bit of a stretch, because the sun wasnât as strong as it could have been. The trees were all thick with leaves, blocking out the sun for the most part unless you happened upon a clearing. The lack of light made the forest cooler than youâd imagined as well, the trees acting as a never-ending awning.
Your camera bumped against your sternum as you moved. Youâd gotten some nice shots already, wild berry bushes and pretty birds that youâd passed by on your walk. Still no sign of the wolf or the man, but you werenât worried. You hummed a little tune as you continued on. A flash of brown and white in your periphery had you turning your head to the side, squinting through a thicket of bushes.
A deer nibbled daintily on a leaf, its ears twitching as it kept a constant scan for danger. Quietly, you adjusted the lens of your camera and zoomed in as much as you could without sacrificing clarity. The click of the shutter made the deer glance your way, but it didnât deem you as a threat. You looked at the photo and frowned. It was a little too far to be a great shot.
Carefully, you stepped off the path and onto the wild grass. It tickled your ankles as you navigated around the bushes. You just wanted to get a bit closer. The deer kept eating its lunch, unperturbed. You kept stopping every few feet to take more photos. You wondered if you could get close enough to let it sniff you. Maybe you could get a shot of its glossy eyes, its soft snout. Maybe it would even let you feed it.
It felt like a scene from a fairytale. The deer would go still every time your steps were too loud, but it hadnât decided to run from your approaching figure, not yet. You hunched your shoulders inwards, trying to appear smaller, less scary. You were close enough now to extend a hand.
But this wasnât a fairytale. Fairytales wouldnât have your foot catching on a tree root as you took another step, wrenching your ankle and sending you down to the forest floor, hard.
The shriek of pain was distinctively human, not animal. âFuck,â Steve muttered under his breath. He laid under the sink for a second longer. He hadnât even seen you yet, but heâd already decided youâd be possibly the stupidest hiker heâd ever have the displeasure of meeting.
He could still hear you rustling about in the underbrush, but he let your scent guide him as he ambled out of the cabinâs safety. You were far enough that you wouldnât have seen the cabin, but he knew youâd stepped off the trail.
He saw the white of your dress first and almost choked on his breath. He hadnât seen a woman in a sundress in⌠Well, it had been a long time. But he couldnât appreciate the sight of you, because what idiot thought that was appropriate to wear out in the wilderness?
You were sitting with your knees close to your chest, your hands fluttering around one of your ankles. Steve did a double take at your choice of footwear. Sandals with so many straps, they might as well have been made solely of string. Something glinted in the grass beside you. Your scent was a little more cloying nowâwell, the perfume wasâbut he was close enough to pick up other things, too. The faintest hint of coffee, something more chemically like air freshener. You were quite a pitiful thing.
He crossed his arms over his chest, stopping a few feet from you. Alright, it was time to get your sorry ass up and out of here before night fell. The walk back would take you at least an hour. âAre you okay?â He asked, voice gruff after days of silence.
When you turned your head to look up at him, only just noticing that heâd arrived, Steve felt a jolt down his spine. You might have been the dumbest person around, but GodâŚ
You were beautiful.
It had been years since heâd been around people socially, but even still, he didnât think heâd ever seen a girl as pretty as you. Except⌠Well, he didnât want to dwell on her right now. He should focus on getting you out of here, not the shape of your eyes or the way loose strands of your hair fell in wisps around your face.
âI donât knowâŚâ You said, looking down and extending your foot a little, wincing as you did. âI fell and twisted my ankle pretty bad.â
If you were afraid, you didnât show it. He couldnât detect any traces of fear from you, not the acrid tang of it at the back of his throat, nor the sound of an elevated heartbeat. âCan you stand?â He made no move to help you.
Your fingers tangled in the grass before you pushed yourself upwards, wobbling when you did. You took one limping step forward, towards himânot what he wantedâbefore you let out a hiss of pain. âI donât think I can walk on it. It hurts too much.â
Already, Steve could see that it was beginning to swell. He bit his tongue. Even if he helped you back to the main road, supporting your weight, you probably wouldnât be able to drive. And it was going to get dark soon, at least here in the forest. The trees blocked out so much light that it would seem like nighttime before long. He had a decision to make, and he wasnât pleased about it, not one bit.
It was time to see how stupid you actually were.
âI can wrap it for you, if you let me help you back to my cabin.â Even though he was offering help, his tone was short, more of a bark than a sincere offer.
But you only smiled at him, expression sunny enough to make up for the fading light. âOh, would you? That would be great, thanks. Oh, could you just grab my camera for me? I dropped it when I fell, but I think itâs okay.â You pointed at the grass. That must have been the glinting object heâd seen.
He stepped closer to you to pick up the camera, and you took it from him gratefully, slipping the strap over your neck. You really werenât afraid at all. It was like you had no sense for danger. He could be a murderer for all you knew, bringing you back to a cabin fitted with a dungeon to keep you in. But here you were, optimistic as anything. You made him think of a dumb bunny, one who would be so focused on a delicious patch of foliage that it wouldnât notice the predator standing right behind it with its teeth bared. But there was nothing Steve could do about it now, as he slipped an arm around your waist to help you walk. He did his best to ignore how thin and flimsy the fabric of your dress was as you limped alongside him. It would have been easier to just hoist you up in his armsâyou were tiny, compared to himâbut that was a line he refused to cross.
There might have been no path to Steveâs cabin, but he knew the way so well, he could remember exactly when to sidestep hidden holes dug by animals or tricky thickets that could have caught on your dress. âSo, you must be the guy that lives here, right? Whatâs your name?â You asked, staring up at him quizzically.
He avoided your gaze. He didnât want to be friendly with you. He wanted to send you on your way, as soon as possible. He didnât answer, hoping youâd drop it. But you poked at his side with nimble fingers, as if he was a good friend. âIâll tell you mine first,â you added, taking his silence as him playing coy.
He was about to refute it, to tell you that he didnât care what your name was, because heâd never see you again once he sent you packing, but you said it anyway, and it stuck to his brain like wet paper. Like your name was important. It didnât matter, he thought, trying to dismiss it. But still, it echoed like a sweet song in his ears. âSo, yours?â That time he did make the mistake of looking down at you, catching you batting your lashes and flashing him a toothy grin.
âItâs Steve,â he said, teeth gritted.
âSteve,â you repeated. âItâs nice to meet you.â
He held back a snort of disbelief. You might have told him your name, but you were still very much a dumb bunny to him. You let out a soft gasp then, looking forward. The cabin was in view.
It was nothing special, Steve thought. It was made from trees heâd cut himself, which he thought was evident. The roof was uneven, the shingles varying shades of brown. The door had a gap at the bottom, which let in bugs in the summer, and bits of snow in the winter. The water tank was tucked away at the back. The chimney jutted out like an unseemly splinter. But it was home, as dishevelled as it was.
The wind whistled, blowing your hair across your face and rattling the trees. Steve could taste it then, the impending storm. And when it stormed, the paths in and around the forest tended to flood. His arm around you tightened in frustration. You were now probably going to be stuck here for the next twenty-four hours.
âWait, stopâŚâ You halted as you said it, letting go of Steve and grabbing at your camera. âThe lightingâs not great, but⌠I can fix it in post. I need to capture this.â
You held your camera up, adjusting the settings, before snapping a few photos. He watched you with a slight grimace. He didnât particularly like that you were capturing his private space on camera, but he doubted youâd share them around. Youâd probably look at them later and decide that it was an ugly little house not worth remembering. When you were satisfied, you let the camera hang against your chest again and snaked your arm back around Steve, allowing him to lead you to the door.
It swung open with ease, and you were already in the matchbox living room. The ceilings were a little low. Steve maybe had six inches between him and the light fixture, a yellow tinted shade that did nothing to brighten up the room and everything to sallow it. The couch was really a futon of checkered red and cream. The side table was little more than a slant of wood fitted over an empty barrel. There was no television, just a hand crank radio. Puzzles that had never been completed were in their boxes, shoved onto the first two shelves of the scratched bookcase. The rug was an old throw blanket. Steve didnât even have a table and chairs, the space was so small.
He deposited you on the futon and took the three steps down the tiniest hallway in the world, to the bathroom that resembled the size of one youâd find in an airplane. The first aid kit was a battered green tin that heâd hung on the door, which he grabbed now in one big hand. Its contents clattered together as he walked back to you. Youâd scooted yourself to one corner of the futon and swung both of your legs up onto the other end.
âThose shoes look like deathtraps.â He muttered, flicking open the tinâs clasps and settling it on the side table.
âBut theyâre cute.â You said, admiring your impractical footwear.
âThe wildlife doesnât really give a crap about âcuteâ. Take it off.â
You did as ordered, reaching to start undoing what seemed to be a very complicated series of twists and loops. Once the sorry excuse for a shoe was gone from your foot, Steveâs hands hovered over your ankle. âMay I?â
You nodded. âGo ahead.â
He was gentle as he assessed the damage. It was probably a sprain. Definitely swollen, but it wasnât the worst injury heâd seen. Still, it would probably do you well to keep the pressure off. It wasnât long before he was wrapping your ankle, his movements methodical and practiced. He was no stranger to injury. It had taken him quite awhile to adjust to living out here, and he still suffered the forestâs bite on occasion. When he finished with you, he closed the tin. âFeel alright?â
You wiggled your toes in answer. âBetter, I think. Thanks.â
Upon standing, Steve chanced a glance outside. It was already much darker, but the storm clouds over head had certainly hastened the dayâs end. He was sure heâd hear rain falling in the next hour. âLook, uh,â he turned to face you, scratching at the back of his neck, âyouâre probably going to be stuck here overnight. Storms like this tend to wash out the paths.â
And then, because he couldnât resist: âDo you not check the weather before journeying out into the wild? Well, no, I guess not⌠Not if youâd also wear such ridiculous clothes to come out here.â
It was mean, but heâd been meaner to other hikers. And it didnât seem to have any effect on you, anyway. âIt was sunny when I left,â you said brightly. You seemed to be totally at peace with staying in a strangerâs home overnight. He wondered if youâd also hit your head when youâd fallen.
âIâm going to make something to eat,â he said begrudgingly. It was a bit early, but he needed to be away from you for a minute. Even if âbeing awayâ meant standing ten feet to the left, in the kitchen. âItâs not gonna be anything fancy though.â He warned, eyeing you.
You only smiled. âThatâs okay. Iâve had my fair share of gas station hot dogs. Canât be worse than that!â And then you became wildly interested in your camera, going through the photos youâd taken.
Steve could only shake his head at your delusional nature and duck through the archway and into the kitchen.
It really was nothing fancy. Chicken soup, the kind that came from a can. Steve had stocked up the last time heâd been anywhere close to a store. Heating it on the stove had taken less time than heâd hoped for, and then he was sitting beside you on the futon. It was almost comical, really. You, a tiny bird of a girl, sitting primly next to him, a bear of a man. His bowl looked more like a cup in his hands.
Youâd both sat in silence for the first few minutes, but it wasnât long before you started babbling away. He had a feeling that you were something of a talker. âYou must know these woods like that back of your hand, right?â
He glanced at you sidelong. âYes.â
You wriggled in your seat like you were an excited puppy. If you werenât careful, you were going to be wearing your dinner on your dress. âOkay, so tell me this: I keep hearing about this lone wolf that lives around here. Have you ever seen it? Is it true?â
Steveâs spoon tapped against the side of the bowl when his hand jerked in surprise. He felt his shoulders go stiff as soon as youâd said wolf. âIâve never seen it,â he said carefully. It was technically true.
âHmm,â you hummed, food forgotten. âYouâve never seen it, but youâve heard of it?â
He was irritated that you seemed so enthralled. âNot really. Donât interact with people much.â
âOh, really?â Your eyes were wide, dumbfounded. âWell, Iâve heard that its sort of become like a symbol of safety for the hikers in town. Apparently whenever someone gets lost here, the wolf finds them and leads them back to the trails. Isnât that cool?â
The wolf wasnât a hero. It was a killer. He was a killer. âYou know that wolves are dangerous wild animals, not cute puppies, right?â
You shrugged, an easy smile on your face. âI know. But this wolf canât be all bad. Otherwise, it would have taken a few chunks out of the hikers, donât you think? I wonder why it doesnât have a pack. Itâs sort of sad.â You tapped your spoon against your mouth in thought. âAnyway, thatâs why I came out here. I wanted to find it and take its photo. Iâve never done wildlife photography before.â
At this, Steve couldnât help the incredulous look he gave you. âSo, you just decided to come out here with no preparations, no knowledge of the forest, and full intentions to come face to face with an animal that could and would kill you if given the chance? Did you even tell anyone you were doing this?â
You shook your head with a frown. âWell, no. Iâm new to town. Who would I tell?â
âAre you stupid? If that wasnât bad enough, youâre sitting next to a total stranger. I could murder you, you know, and youâre acting like you donât even care. Do you have a death wish?â
ââŚI have pepper spray.â You patted around at your hip and pulled a spray can shorter than your spoon out of your pocket.
Oh my God, Steve thought. Iâve officially seen it all. He put his empty bowl on the side table and grabbed yours from you in one swift movement. Then he grabbed both of your wrists together in one big hand. He shook you, anger sparking in his eyes. âYour self-preservation skills are shit. Look how easy it would be for me to hurt you.â He plucked the spray can from your grasp and let it roll across the rug. He was waiting for fear to enter the equation, but you continued to look at him openly.
âIf you were going to do that, you would have by now.â You sounded disgustingly earnest. He let go of your wrists like heâd been burned, and you gestured to your bandaged ankle. âI mean, look. Iâm in a vulnerable state and I donât know my way around, but you brought me here, wrapped my foot, and made me dinner. Why would I be scared?â
âUnbelievable.â Steve stood from the couch, rubbing a hand over his beard.
You blinked at him owlishly. âCan I have my bowl back, please? I wasnât finished.â
It took everything he had not to fling it at you before he stalked off to his bedroom, the door rattling on his hinges after he shut it behind him.
You quite liked the cabin. It was tiny, but it was charming. You especially liked the little wooden figurines dotted around the place, no bigger than your hand. Youâd already spotted a bear, a fox, and a deer. You assumed Steve had made them himself. No internet was definitely a choice that you yourself would never make, but you supposed it was probably quite freeing not to fall victim to doom scrolling or silly online dramas. You settled back on the futon once youâd finished eating, looking through your photos again. Some were a little too blurry and out of focus for your taste, but others had great potential. Three birds on a branch, mid-song. Some of the faraway shots of the deer were pretty stunning. Different flowers and berries youâd seen, things you didnât know the name of. You would bet that Steve did. Maybe you could ask him about them in the morning. Maybe you could convince him to tell you the best trails to take to put yourself in the wolf's path.
You tugged the afghan blanket from the back of the couch over your legs, tucking its ends under your thighs as you got more comfortable. your ankle didnât hurt too badly when you were sitting still. You were sure you'd be fine to drive tomorrow. the softest patter of rain started to ping off the roof. The window behind the couch only showed pitch black and your reflection. Your braids had become loose and dishevelled, so you removed the elastics keeping them together and shook out your hair, settling deeper into the checkered cushion.
You didnât remember falling asleep, but you must have, because when you opened your eyes, pale gray light filtered through the window. But it wasnât the window youâd been looking through the night before. This was a different one, because you werenât in the living room anymore. Instead, you were sitting up, your fingers finding a coverlet in dark green over a bed that looked like it had been hand made. The wood was polished and clean, but youâd never seen a headboard with such beautiful carvings. You traced your fingertip over the swirling design. You were in Steveâs room. a heavy jacket hung on the back of the door. The closet was just a pole suspended onto one of the walls, the clothing sparse. Other than that, the room was empty, which was probably for the better, because you were pretty sure that if you leaned to the right a little more, youâd be able to touch the wall. The cabin really was tiny, just big enough to maneuver around but not enough to have more than one person living in it. Steve was taking the bachelor life up to the next level, you thought. He must have carried you in here sometime last night.
You stretched your arms over your head and yawned before carefully rotating your ankle, assessing the pain. It still hurt, but it didnât feel nearly as bad as it had when youâd first fallen. Your dress was rumpled when you stood. Your walk was less of a hop this morning as you gingerly put your weight on your foot. Your steps were quiet enough that you were able to make it to the living room without disturbing Steve.
He looked uncomfortable there on the futon, curled up. He was far too big to sleep there, and you thought the angle at which heâd stuffed himself onto it would probably give him a sore neck at the very least. Even in sleep, he wore a perpetual frown, his brows drawn close, but it was more lax than youâd seen during his waking hours. After heâd stomped off to his room, you hadnât seen him for the rest of the night. But now, you looked at his unruly mop of hair, his scruffy beard. His shoulders stretched the dark gray cotton of his t-shirt. He might have looked a little more like a beast than a man, but you thought he was handsome anyway. His lashes were long, longer than yours. His eyes were closed now, but their stormy blue shade when heâd been glaring at you yesterday reminded you of a tumultuous sea.
A floorboard creaked under your next step, and those stormy eyes fluttered open, his frown deepening. He focused on you immediately, heaving himself to sitting. âHowâs the ankle?â His voice was rough with sleep as he rubbed at his neck.
ââSâokay,â you held it up for emphasis, balancing on your good foot. âI think Iâll be fine.â You looked around the small space. âDid you really sleep out here?â
He stared at the floor. ââŚYeah.â
âI could have stayed out here. Iâm smaller than you. Probably would have been more comfortable in your own bed.â
He shrugged, discomfort passing across his face. âNot right to take the bed when a womanâs got nowhere else to sleep.â
You were surprised by his old-fashioned chivalry. Contrary to what heâd said, you werenât stupid. You knew you were a stray interloper in his home, and that heâd already done much more than he needed to. It was one thing to patch you up, but to feed you and let you sleep in his bed, too?
âWell, thanks. That was sweet of you.â
He grunted noncommittally before standing. You swore you heard his joints pop when he stretched. âIt stopped raining a little after one in the morning. If youâre lucky, the bigger paths shouldn't be too bad.â He picked up your sandals by their long laces and held them out to you.
You were a little taken aback by his haste to get going, but you laced up your shoes anyway. âYou donât happen to have a dirt bike stashed away or something, do you?â It would certainly make the trek back faster, at least.
âNo.â he said, voice dry.
Steve turned for the door and pulled it open without a second glance, and you scooped your camera up from the side table before following. You emerged into the weak sunlight, the grass wet on your toes as you trailed behind him. âWatch for branches and roots,â he tossed the warning over his shoulder. âAnd holes in the ground.â
You did your best to put your feet where he did. His boots left impressions on the grass. You couldnât move all that fast lest you upset your ankle, but eventually, you made it back onto the path. It was a bit muddy from the rain, but you guessed the narrower ones were worse. âIâll walk you about halfway, but then youâre on your own. Just because I know some of the forks in the path could be blocked off by fallen trees.â
It had taken everything in Steve to not just pick you up and carry you to your car. His strides were twice as long as yours, and you kept getting distracted, wanting to take pictures of fat dew drops on the leaves, or moss that looked âmuch greener than it did yesterdayâ. It was infuriating.
But finally, he got you to where he felt confident you could make it back. Heâd been assessing your movements the entire time, and while you were still limping a little bit, it had turned out to be a less severe strain than heâd thought. When heâd stopped, letting you walk ahead, it had taken you a minute to notice he wasnât following along anymore. Youâd stopped short and turned back to look at him curiously. âOh, are we halfway?â
âYes,â heâd said gruffly. âdonât get distracted. Go back to your car and drive home. Got it?â He didnât care if he was being bossyâhe still thought youâd been out of your mind to come out here dressed like that in the first place.
Youâd given him a half-smile and a thumbs up. âOkay.â
He stayed right there on the path and watched you until you were almost out of sight, but thenâŚ
âHey!â Steve barked your name. You froze where youâd crouched down to snap a quick photo of something, caught. âGo back to your damned car!â
Another, more sheepish smile was directed his way before you stood and walked on. The white of your dress disappeared into the trees and Steve shook his head. Silly little bunny of a girl. At least he wasnât likely to see you again.
He saw you again.
Steve was actually astounded that youâd remembered how to get to his cabin. When heâd smelled you that time, heâd just stepped out of the shower. His bathroom window had been open to let out the steam, a dark towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets spilling from his hair. He thought heâd imagined your scent. He stopped in front of his fogged up mirror and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to confirm that he was wrong, that all he could smell was the forest.
But no, it was your sweet scent wafting through the air.
He all but forgot about the state he was in when he stalked through the cabin to the front door, wrenching it open. And there you were in shorts and a flowy tank top, your camera looped around your neck like the last time. You waved as you picked your way though the grass, and he caught sight of what looked to be platform sneakers on your feet. âWhat are you doing here?â
âI told you, Iâm looking for that wolf. But I thought Iâd come and say hello first.â
You didnât bat an eye as you raked your gaze up and down his form and Steve was suddenly very aware of his lack of clothing. âGo home.â He bit out.
âNo way! I was just stopping by for a quick visit. Then Iâll go check out one of the other trails and see what I can find. I know thereâs supposed to be a waterfall and an outlook somewhere around here. If I canât find the wolf, Iâll settle for those today. Can I come in? Iâm a little thirsty.â You had the audacity to give him a hopeful look.
âI donât want you here.â He couldnât keep tiptoeing around his rule. It wasnât safe for humans to be around him, and certainly not one that lacked self-preservation skills in a way heâd never seen before.
âPlease? I forgot my water bottle in the car.â You folded you hands together like you were praying.
Didnât you get it? He didnât mean he wasn't feeling social today. He meant he didnât want to see you ever. âNo. Get lost.â
âBut Iââ
âListen, because Iâm only gonna say it once: Iâm not looking for and I donât need a friend. So, stop coming by here, donât ask me to come in or for a tour or to look for this damned wolf. Am I clear?â
âWell, someone clearly got up on the wrong side of the bed today. Fine, Iâll leave you alone. I was gonna show you some of the shots I took, but I guess it can wait.â
I guess it can wait. Steve was incensed. There would be no waiting. He had just told you never to come back. âYou dumb bunny. Iâm a great show with my crossbow. I donât think you want to find yourself in my crosshairs. Do you get it now? Stay off my damned property and go back to your car and drive your ass back to town.â
You put your hands up in a defensive gesture, though your expression didnât seem to beget any true understanding of his threat. âOkay, I hear you.â
But did you, though?
You finally turned and walked a few steps. He knew you were going to do exactly what you said and go trekking around a forest that you didnât know and obviously werenât capable of navigating well, but Steve didnât want to put himself in your proximity anymore than he had to. He needed you to take the hint and go. But⌠âHold on.â
You stopped, looking over your shoulder with what could only be described as a devious smile. He disappeared into the cabin for a second before returning to the door. âTake this. I donât want to see you here again.â
He tossed a bottle of water in your direction, and you caught it, just barely. âThank you, Steve. Have a good day! Oh, and your towel is slipping.â
Youâd already turned away started walking back into the forest when he clutched at his towel, feeling his face heat with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. He supposed he should feel lucky that heâd been able to scent you, because he had a feeling that you would have just invited yourself in, otherwise. He probably shouldnât have helped you, that first time.
Like an unwelcome stray, you kept coming back. Any hope Steve had had that you would grow bored of your quest and go back to town, keep doing whatever sort of photography you tended to specialize in, dwindled upon his third encounter with you. Your attire was still as ridiculous as always: plaid shorts and a thin tank top, but at least youâd had the common sense to bring your own water this time. And he could smell sunscreen on your skin, for once. But youâd ambled up to the cabin yet again, this time while heâd been clearing some creepers from around the door.
When heâd paused, shears squeaking in protest, and looked at you over his shoulder, youâd grinned and said, âSo, no wolf yet, but I think Iâm getting the hang of the paths now! I only fell in a blackberry bush once this time.â That explained the purplish smudges on your shirt and your legs.
âAs opposed toâŚ?â
Your smile turned sheepish. âI may or may not have become quite familiar with the types of berries that grow around here last time. Anyway, do you want to see the photos I took this time around? I got the cutest shots of a mother fox and her babies.â
Steve straightened, wiping his brow with the back of his hand and pushing his hair back from his damp temples. âThink I told you before, bunny, that Iâm not interested in what youâre here for and I donât care to look.â
You shrugged, unbothered. âOh, Iâll win you over soon enough, Steve. I donât know how you havenât gone crazy out here all by yourself yet.â
He shifted on his feet. âThe silence can be nice.â
âWell yes, it can be, sometimes. But all the time? I think I would have given all the trees names and personalities by now, if I was you.â
And from then on, he kept seeing you against his will, a couple of times a week. You always had a cheery disposition, even if you were scratched to hell and dusty from crawling through bushes. Even if you had twigs in your hair and cuts on your palms. Even if youâd upset a hornetâs nest and ran like hell, banging frantically on the cabinâs door to be let in.
Steve had continued to try and get you to leave him alone, trying for mean, threatening, and even downright douchey, but every single attempt had been futile. Eventually, as heâd disinfected one of the stings on your arm, heâd just muttered, âIf youâre gonna keep coming around here, can you at least dress for it? No more of whatever this is,â he gestured to your skirt, which seemed to be entirely made of lace and frills, and your boots which were definitely more fashion than fortitude.
You made a face. âBut all the hiking gear is so ugly.â
âSo youâd rather be fashionable and dead than safe and alive?â
You let out an exaggerated sigh. âUgh, fine. Iâll go to the store and get the same things that literally everyone in town has.â
And you did. That was really the surprising partâthat for once, youâd listened. Anything else Steve had to say had fallen on deaf ears. Sure, a lot of what you showed up in was pink, as if the colour would make it less ugly somehow, and youâd replaced the laces of your new boots with literal lace, but at least you were wearing pants that covered your bare legs and youâd picked up a bag, albeit small, and put some honest to god equipment in it.
It was a strange thing, to realize that he was getting used to you. Though Steve still never greeted you in a way that screamed âfriendlyâ, he had come to expect your scent in the air, the first sign that you were coming, and then your steps, still clumsy, through the underbrush. You had still been unsuccessful in your quest, and Steve planned to keep it that way. As far as he was concerned, youâd never get a photo of the wolf. But you hadnât let it deter you. He was beginning to realize that despite your ditzy, lackadaisical nature, you were also quite resilient. He had absolutely no idea how heâd be able to convince you to stop trampling through the forest during the colder months. He had no desire to fish you out of the frozen lake or pull you from a snowdrift.
But despite you pushing your way into his life, interrupting his solitary confinement, Steve did begin to enjoy your visits. Heâd never make it known lest you try to bridge the perilous gap of friendship even more ferociously, but it wasnât the worst thing in the world when you announced yourself. Especially when you brought food.
The thing was, Steve was very used to his diet by now. Heâd stock up on canned food once or twice a year from the general store furthest from town, but the rest of his food stores consisted of things heâd hunted and prepped himself. Like heâd told you, he was very good with his crossbow. And it helped to know what plants were edible around here. You likely hadnât noticed the very meager garden around backâyouâd never been able to explore around his cabin too much, because he knew you were there. You hadnât seen the tiny cross with his late wifeâs name staked into the ground, either.
But there you were one of those times, standing in a patch of sunlight and holding a pale purple box in your hands. He could smell its contents even before you opened it. âThereâs this bakery that just opened up in town called Furiously Good Eats and their specialty item today was cherry pie.â You looked Steve up and down. âProbably been a while since youâve had one of those, huh?â
âIf you think food is gonna get me to like youâŚâ but he stepped aside anyway, and you flounced right in, beelining for the kitchen and its single butcherâs block counter, where you placed the box with flourish.
You scoffed as you popped open the lid. âPlease, you already like me. Iâm very loveable, you know.â
âUh-huh,â He pulled out two plates.
âItâs true. Voted âMost Loveableâ in my senior year of high school.â The knife you chose to use was really for cutting meat, but Steve found himself lacking any sorts of dainty pastry utensils.
Cherry filling oozed out onto the plate when you handed it to him, and you sucked your finger into your mouth thoughtfully. âDonât suppose you have any ice cream, do you?â
At his blank look, you turned back to the pie and cut off your own slice. You both stayed standing in the kitchen, balancing your plates in one hand and forks in the other. The first bite flooded Steveâs tastebuds like nothing heâd experienced in recent years.
It was, in no uncertain terms, the perfect pie. The crust was flaky and light, the filling tart and sweet at the same time. But you were rightâvanilla ice cream probably would have been a great pairing. Still, Steve wolfed down the rest of his piece in three bites and then looked hungrily at yours as you took more dainty, slow ones. Wordlessly, you slid the box closer to him. âThe rest is yours,â you said, covering your mouth with a hand as you chewed. âIâm just sampling the goods.â
He was already cutting a second slice before youâd finished speaking.
The bakery deliveries, as delicious as they were, were something of a bittersweet phenomenon to Steve. All the things youâd brought so far happened to be exactly the types of desserts he liked, and he had no idea how youâd figured him out so easily without him having to say anything. But they also all reminded him of his wife. He could picture her in their first apartment together, though the memory seemed to have a fuzzy vignette over it now. He remembered her nimble fingers rolling out dough, or dusting cake with powdered sugar. He remembered how sheâd laugh and slap his hand away when he tried to sneak a cookie from a cooling batch. It was hard not to associate all the things youâd bring him with her. He just couldnât override those memories with ones of you. Not even when youâd brought eclairs and eaten yours so messily that youâd smeared cream on your nose and a little bit in your hair. As much as it was a nice gesture, it made Steve want to shut you out again. He hadnât yet, and he couldnât figure out why. There was no future here, not for you. Youâd get tired of the woods eventually. Youâd make friends in town at some point. There really wouldnât be a reason to keep visiting himâhe certainly hadnât gone out of his way to be hospitable to you. Heâd tried to drive you out.
But the fact of the matter was, he had come out here, uprooted his life and moved into the wilderness, because he didnât think he deserved companionship. Not anymore, not after what happened, what he did. And he would probably do it again. He didnât trust himself to get close to anybody, lest he put them directly in harmâs way. In his way. But heâd been allowing himself this small, selfish act, to let you into his cabin and into his life like you were one single flower, blooming in the sun amidst dead, blackened weeds. And now he wasnât sure if he could pluck you from your bed of grass and tear your petals away without hurting himself in the process. Maybe that was part of his penance, to take a good thing and sully it. To not get to enjoy things for too long. Why should he enjoy something when his wife couldnât luxuriate in anything? No sun on her skin, no taste of cherry pie.
And though all those thoughts kept churning through his head like a choppy river, every time you skipped through the grass to the cabin, youâd smile at him and chatter away, and heâd let you stay a little longer, and heâd begrudgingly ask you questions that would keep you talking endlessly. And for a single second, heâd almost forget.
The wolf was very elusive, you thought. You wondered if it was more nocturnal than youâd originally imagined. Youâd believed that it must come out during the day, must have built a home somewhere near one of the paths, because how else would it lead so many hikers back when theyâd lost their way? But now youâd exhausted every single one. It had been weeks of searching in between your regular photography sessions with clients, and youâd still seen no sign of it.
You didnât mind that much, not one to let frustrations get the better of you. And really, you thought it would have been worse to see it right away and come back with a crappy shot. Instead, youâd used the time to practice your wildlife photography, figure out the best way to edit and enhance each one to bring out the best parts of the picture. And youâd taken plenty of photos of other animals, in the meantime.
But your favourite animal to photograph was Steve. He didnât know, you were sure. He never wanted to look at your photos anyway. But your camera was now full of candid shots of him, as well. The ones youâd take before announcing yourself were good. You had one of him in profile, looking up at the sky. Another of him chopping wood. Another where the leaves had made different shadows across his brow, but the sun had still picked out the precise blue of his eyes. You had one of him standing in his kitchen with his back to you, and youâd traced the shape of his shoulders with your finger afterward, when youâd uploaded it to your computer. Yes, you had many, many photos of him that youâd taken somewhat in secret. Youâd taken pictures of his wooden figurines too, random things in his cabin, to disguise the obvious sounds of your cameraâs shutter going off, and heâd become so used to the sound and your idle photography that heâd stopped looking at you sharply every time he heard it. It was what made it so easy to sneakily take pictures of him.
You remembered what youâd thought the first day. Steve really was handsome. You assumed that he had to know that fact, but youâd shied away from saying it, in case he took it badly. You were usually free with compliments, something youâd learned to get comfortable with after having many clients that were insecure in front of the camera. It would take nothing at all for you to tell him, but you knew that youâd already pushed his boundaries a lot since coming to know him. So instead, youâd just admire his broad frame, his strong hands, and a mouth that seemed allergic to smiling.
You still neglected to check the weather. That was something you only did when you had an outdoor shoot planned with paying clients. You had to ensure that conditions were good for those meetings, but otherwise, you tended to just look out the window upon waking up and then see where the rest of the day took you. You didnât mind a little rain every now and then. The only person consistently annoyed by your lack of planning ahead was Steve. Youâd had to stay twice more in his cabin overnight since the first time. The summer storms were ramping up, but they never seemed to come when all the weather warnings predicted, in your defence. You thought it was fun, actually. Youâd mentioned as much to Steve, had told him it felt like camping. Youâd asked him if he could build a fire outside for the full experience, but heâd declined with a look of annoyance. It was no bother, because the next time, you bugged him until he set up his fireplace, and then pulled a bag of marshmallows and some skewers out of your bag and had a delightful time playacting what you believed a real camping experience to be.
You still enjoyed the comforts of your apartment, of course. You couldnât imagine roughing it every single day like Steve did, nor did you want to try it. You liked waking up and making coffee with your fancy coffee maker. You liked flopping back into the white, puffy comforter on your bed and turning on a movie, the projector on your ceiling painting the wall with rom-coms. You liked standing in front of your stove and poking at an omelette with your spatula, music playing from your phone. You wondered if Steve had ever liked those sorts of things too, or if the great outdoors had always held the appeal over how most of the modern world liked to live. You could sort of picture it, if you tried. Him standing in your kitchen, which was small, but looked huge compared to his. Heâd be able to sleep on your leather couch with much more space than his own futon. You thought about how a picture would look if he stood in front of the windows in your living room, the floor to ceiling view of the town below. One of your espresso cups would look absolutely ridiculous in his big hands.
You didnât think heâd agree if you invited him back with you. Youâd thought about it a few times, considered asking him in a teasing, lighthearted way to come back to town with you and help you pick out more practical hiking things like heâd wanted you to get. You would sweeten the deal with cannolis from the bakery. But you had a feeling heâd say no. You were friends, despite his protests, but you didnât want to push in a way that made him shut down. It had already been a bit of a journey to get to the point you were at now. You didnât want to do anything to ruin it. You knew that your positive attitude could only get you so far. But maybe one day, youâd be able to offer, and youâd feel confident that he would say yes, and lock up his cabin, and fold himself into your little car. And then youâd get that picture of him at your window. Yes, you thought. One day, you would.
So far, your visits, by the grace of some higher force, hadnât coincided with Steveâs transformations. Theyâd been close, a couple of days before at most, and Steve knew he was acting much moodier and more combative on those days than usual, but you still took it in stride, visited for a little while, and then left.
The moonâs cycle acted like an hourglass. Steve could see the grains of sand slipping through like blinking stars every single night. He felt the most like his old self on a new moon, the beguiling white eye in the sky hidden from view. But as that eye began to slowly open from a crescent to a half circle, closer to a full, round ball of light, Steve would feel the need to change wanting to burst through his skin. He had a little bit of control over it, just barely, but it was easier to throw himself to the moonâs mercy and get it over with when she demanded it, rather than try to plan ahead.
The primal need to hunt, to rip and tear and shred, to run until he couldnât anymore, was what he tried to bury the most. Especially when you were around. He knew what it could look like if someone got too close. He knew it disturbingly well. And heâd woken up countless nights since meeting you, his skin dripping with sweat, his lungs feeling like theyâd burst, the image of you torn to pieces dissolving in his head like sugar in water, but theyâd be there all the same. Peggy had morphed into you some time ago. Instead of a horrible memory, it was a potential future, one heâd been trying to prevent. It was the reason he had been so adamant at keeping you away, at first. He didnât believe he was able to be rehabilitated. And he didnât want to risk your life trying to figure it out. But heâd been convincing himself that it was fine to let you get close when the moon was at rest. Heâd already thought of an easy lie to tell if you came by when his transformation was nearâheâd tell you he was going to go hunting deeper in the forest for a few days, that he wouldnât be home. He would convince you that you would not enjoy tagging along. But he hadnât had to spin that lie yet, and heâd let you drift closer and closer as the summer drew to a close.
He was not expecting to see you when the moon next cast its weary gaze on him. Your visits were usually every three or four days, spaced apart between your work and appointments. Youâd never visited back-to-back before. Steve had let his guard down, awaiting the change with a patience that felt alien, the relief that you wouldnât be returning until well after in the back of his mind.
The panic that kickstarted his pulse when he scented you could have sent him into cardiac arrest. Heâd only seen you two days agoâhe should have been safe for another two, heâd predicted. The comedown wasnât as bad as it used to be, especially when he offered himself to the moon right when it was full, rather than trying to put it off. He knew without a doubt that his transformation would be that night. Heâd been scenting the air all day, tasting rain. He knew the forest would go silent with the first clap of thunder that night, and heâd be free to weave through the trees with no obstacles.
But there was your scent, as clear as if it was a visible thing in the air. And he could smell chocolate, too. With frustration, he felt his body quiver. Of course, being ravenous for the hunt was not the only thing he felt hungry for, most times. And a beautiful human woman being in his proximity would serve no purpose other than to make him hungrier.
His backpack was half-assembled by the door, leaning against the panelling. He usually packed light and stowed the bag somewhere safe for him to circle back to near the transformationâs end. He tried to rein in his panic as you got closer. He had no idea what his face was doing when he opened the door and stared at you from the threshold. He was trying for his usual irritation, but he didnât think he was quite achieving it. âWhat are you doing here? I saw you the day before last.â
You smiled, holding up what heâd come to know as one of the bakeryâs trademark lilac pastry boxes. âI know, but I passed by their window on the way home from an appointment today and I just couldnât resist. Chocolate and strawberry filled croissants.â
You were wearing jeans and a t-shirt and surprisingly sensible shoes today. He was silently thankful, because he wasnât sure if he could have handled you in one of your strappy sundresses today of all days. The forest had already gone quiet with the promise of an impending storm. You were close enough now that your scent was almost overpowering. It made him want to sink his teeth into your skin. What was worse was that he didnât know if he wanted to inflict pleasure or pain. âIts going to storm.â He said.
It was both a reprimand to you, and a bleak reminder to him. A storm, like all others, meant the paths would flood. And that meant you were staying. Tonight of all nights, that was more or less a death sentence. But you, none the wiser, stopped in front of him and pried the box open, holding the lid up so that he could take a croissant. âThatâs okay. The futon and I are becoming pretty good friends.â
With another stab of panic, Steve wished he could send you away. But like mother nature herself could feel his rising anguish, the sky opened up and the downpour hit in the blink of an eye, and you snapped the box closed and scurried past him into the cabin like a mouse going back to its hole in the wall.
âYou should be proud of meâI started packing pajamas in my bag for moments like this.â You said, letting your backpack slide to the floor next to his. âOh, are you going somewhere?â
Through gritted teeth, he bit out, âI was planning to go hunting. And you wouldnât need to pack pajamas if you would just check the damn weather report.â
But like always, you only shrugged and sat down on the futon, before patting the space beside you. âDo you want a croissant or not, because I didnât eat lunch and I have no qualms about having yours too.â
Sitting next to you would be too much temptation right now, so instead he just leaned over the back of the couch and snatched his from the box, his forearm brushing the sleeve of your shirt. He shuddered at the contact, as small as it was, and retreated to the kitchen. He ate over the sink, crumbs falling into the basin, staring stormily out the window at the pelting rain.
If you were going to be here tonight, he needed to go out as soon as possible without you catching on.
There was no way around it: Steve was on edge. There was no telling if tonight would be the night that heâd lose what little control he had and add another life to his ledger. He just had to hold on long enough to get far away from you. His plan was to turn in early, to convince you to do the same, and then sneak out when you were asleep. Ridiculous to have to sneak out of his own home, but it was all he could think to do.
Heâd been fighting the urge to pace between the kitchen and living space, too aware of your presence, too aware that you might ask questions about why he was more tense than usual. But so far, youâd just been playing around with your camera. âOh, I brought my laptop with me this time, too. I know you donât have wi-fi but at least I can edit some of my stuff tonight.â You reached over the back of the couch and dug around in your bag for a moment before pulling out a slim silver laptop, most of its surface covered in stickers. You looked over at him as it booted up. âDo you ever miss it?â
âMiss what?â he sounded brisk, distracted.
âThe internet. And cable. That sort of stuff.â
âI have my radio.â
You made a face, one he saw out of the corner of his eye. âYeah, but Iâve heard the one station you tend to pick up around here, and I think Iâd rather sit in total silence than listen to that.â You paused then, and he heard the stroke of your fingers on your keyboard as you typed in your password. âOr have you been an outdoorsy type since you were a little kid?â
âI used to be a movie critic, actually,â Steve said absently, frowning at the weather outside. He wanted it to get dark already.
âWhat, really?â
The surprise in your voice was what made him realize what heâd just revealed about himself. Shit. Heâd been pretty good at redirecting conversation to have you focused on mostly talking about yourself. He hadnât given you that many details on his adult life. Almost all of his memories had been tied to her. âYes.â He didnât say anything else, hoping youâd drop the subject.
âWhat was your favourite?â
âMy favourite what?â
âYour favourite movie, silly. I assume that you had to start somewhere, right?â
He paused for a long moment, debating on if he should make you drop it or not. He was already agitated as it was. But he decided on a scrubbed down version of the truth. âStar Wars.â
He saw a look of excitement and disbelief pass over your face. It might have been the wrong thing to say. âA New Hope, specifically. None of the current crap.â
âItâs not crap!â you said, indignant, but he had the sinking feeling that you were more thrilled than upset. âThe Force Awakens was awesome.â Then you were babbling on in defence of it.
It was almost enough to settle Steveâs nerves. Almost. But then you waved an arm and it wafted your scent into his orbit again, and he had to hold his breath and close his eyes until the need to overwhelm your space had passed. He tuned back in to you saying, âNext time Iâll download some of them and we can watch together. Bet itâs been a long time since youâve seen any of them.â
It had been a long time. Not since before heâd become what he now was. Heâd seen them enough times growing up that he could recall the story backwards and forwards. He could remember every little detail, could play it on the backs of his eyelids at night when he couldnât sleep. Could remember the exact cadences of some line deliveries. But theyâd always been movies heâd watched alone, never with anyone else, never with Peggy either. As he was feeling right now, it spelled a recipe for disaster. Heâd just want to bury his head against your neck and leave marks there instead of pay attention to a plot that had kept his attention for years, upon every rewatch.
He looked outside again. The barest edges of the sky that he could see above the treeline were just beginning to darken. All he had to do was try and wait it out. He really hoped that he could. He didnât want to know the exact shade of your blood.
If Steve had waited just a little bit longer, he might have managed it. As soon as it had been reasonable, heâd feigned sleepiness and gone straight to his bedroom, even though the urge to transform felt like an itch under his skin. Heâd also lied about a headache to keep you from asking him too many questions. Even with the door closed, your scent burned his lungs like you were laying right beside him. He wanted to rip into you so very badly that heâd torn at his comforter with how tightly heâd been gripping it.
Steve had laid there in agony while heâd waited for you to fall asleep. Heâd heard you power down your laptop, tiptoe into the bathroom to change, and then softly step back to the futon. Heâd heard the rustle of your clothes and the afghan and the creak of the wooden frame as youâd gotten comfortable. He had listened for your breathing, heard it deepen eventually, each puff of air getting slower and more even.
He should have waited longer, made sure. But instead, heâd crossed through the cabin and grabbed the strap of his backpack. He had made sure to be as quiet as he could, but something must have been just loud enough to rouse you.
It would be something heâd wonder about later. But he heard a mumbled, sleep-thickened, âSteve? Where are you going?â
His shoulders went tight under his t-shirt. The room was dark, but he could still see you sitting up, your hair already a mess from snuggling down into the cushion, as you looked at him from over the back of the couch. âJust⌠out.â
âOut where?â Oh, no. You were waking up too quickly, too aware of him. âDid it stop raining?â
It had, a while ago. So much for this big storm heâd expected. He definitely could have turned you away earlier. But it was too late for that now. He felt the change coming in a ripple under his skin, like a rising tide.
He bit down hard on his lip before saying, âI forgot to check a trap earlier. Iâm going now.â
It was another lie, but it was all he could think of.
Usually, you went with whatever he said, but something had alerted to you, made you realize it was different this time. âAre you okay?â
âFine.â
âAre you sure? Maybe I should come with you.â
At that, he stood straight up, almost crushing the doorknob in his hand. âNo. you donât need to do that. And you donât know your way around. Youâd only hinder me.â
But you were pushing yourself to stand. He caught the long outline of your bare legs, the afghan huddled around your shoulders. He needed to go, now. âOkay, maybe I donât know the way perfectly yet, but I donât know, I just⌠I donât think you should go out in the dark, alone. What if you get hurt or something? Shouldnât I come with you so I can get help if that happens?â
âItâs fine, bunny. Iâve been alone long before you and Iâll be alone again.â
You rounded the side of the futon and stopped in front of him. âBut you donât have to be alone. Iâm right here.â
âDrop it.â
You tilted your head, chin up, defiant. Heâd never seen you wear that expression before. It was a terrible time for you to trot it out. âNo.â
He was just going to have to leave you here, then. He could outrun you. It wouldnât be hard. It was just a matter of how far he could get before it happened.
Steve turned away from you, swinging his bag onto his shoulders, and wrenched open the door. Your fingers were gentle on his arm when you touched him, but you may as well have stabbed at him with a hot poker, with the way he whirled on you, teeth bared, and roared in your face, âLeave it!â
He could feel it in his spine firstâhe always did. Opening the door had let in a spill of moonlight, and he was standing right in it. He was bounding off in a dead sprint immediately. He just had to go. He had to go, he had to go, he had to go.
You knew that Steve was in great shape, but you were still caught off guard by how swift he was.
Heâd been acting erratic ever since youâd shown up today. Heâd always been a little cold towards you, even on the best days, but it was something you liked about him. Despite his coldness, you always felt warm when you were with him. It was why you kept coming back. And when youâd passed by the bakery, youâd thought of him. It was hard not to. Heâd never told you if he enjoyed any of the things you brought for him to try, but you knew that he did. The speed at which he scarfed food down was always impressive. And if Steve really didnât like your company, you were sure he could have made good on his threat and met you at the door with his crossbow, but he never had. Despite what he might think, you and he were friends, and if he thought that screaming in your face would change it, he was wrong. Instead, youâd had the steadily rising feeling that something was wrong. You just didnât know what. When heâd gone to bed early, talking about a headache, youâd thought that maybe that was all it had been. Youâd had a migraine or two before, and it had always sucked immensely, especially without any over the counter medicine, of which he had none. But deep down, youâd had a feeling that it was something more. He hadnât gotten near you the entire time youâd been there. And sure, Steve was the kind of guy who kept a healthy distance between you, but not so much that he wouldnât even sit on the same couch as you.
The way heâd just torn out of the cabin confirmed that yes, something was definitely wrong. As much as you annoyed him sometimes, Steve had never gotten in your face like that. Thereâd been some sort of animalistic fear in his eyes, something youâd never seen from him before, and then heâd twisted from your light touch like heâd been burned.
He was already a blur in the moonlight by the time youâd started to follow. It wasnât even something youâd consciously decided on, but before you knew it, the slick grass was tickling your bare feet. The air was clean and cold in your lungs as you raced after him. It was pure luck that you didnât trip over any stray tree roots, though wet leaves caressed you as you blew past. You were lucky that he came to a stop fairly quickly, or you would have lost him. Youâd only been chasing after him for a couple of minutes before he flung his backpack against a tree with a solid thwack! and fell to his hands and knees.
With the way his body was heaving, you thought he was going to throw up. You stayed about ten feet away, wanting to comfort him but keeping your distance, just in case. If youâd had the presence of mind to grab your own bag, you would have been able to use your satellite phone to call for help.
What happened next was something you didnât think youâd ever be able to believe if you hadnât seen it yourself.
With a great shudder, right under the moonâs spotlight, the back of Steveâs shirt ripped in a jagged line down the back. His muscles rippled with effort. And then right before your very eyes, he stopped being Steve.
He became a wolf, instead.
Dark fur sprouted so quickly, it seemed to happen in a blink. A strangled cry from his throat became a guttural, tortured howl. The sound of it seemed to echo through the entire forest. A flock of birds erupted into the sky in fear. When you looked away from them and back to the forest floor, your eyes met that of a snarling beastâs.
He bared his teeth at you, canines glinting. He was a study in shades of black, as dark as it was. The moon might have provided some light, but he was awash in night. So, this was why youâd never been able to stumble upon the wolf. Youâd been sharing pastries with him the whole time, instead.
A growl started low in his throat. You saw his tailâhe had a tail!âswish once, agitated. He hadnât come any closer yet. You got the feeling he was trying to scare you off. He was going to be disappointed.
You sank to the ground, ignoring the wet seeping through your pajamas. You held both hands out. âItâs okay. Iâm not afraid. Itâs okay.â
He tossed his head, snapped at the air. You stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it. You had a feeling he was displeased. But still, you stared each other down. Slowly, you noticed the fur that had been standing on end around his shoulders had started to go flat. He dug the claws of his front paws into the earth with a whine, tossing his head again, and then he prowled forward. He kept his head bowed, ears flattened against his skull. He stopped in front of you a little ways away, but close enough that you could just about feel his breath, warm compared to the chill in the air.
You werenât running away. Stupid bunny, stupid girl. He wanted you to be afraid, to finally realize what heâd been telling you all along: that he was dangerous, a wild animal. That he had the capacity to hurt, to maim, to kill. But the insatiable urge to tear you limb from limb, confusingly, wasnât there. He thought that getting closer to you might make you come to your senses. But when he stopped in front of you, tail tucked, a whimper escaping his jaws, you only lifted a steady hand and touched his fur, right at the side of his neck.
Tonight was the first time someone had touched him in years.
Youâd done it before, when youâd tried to stop him from leaving. And you were doing it again now, ignoring the fact that he was no longer a human, only an animal.
Heâd touched you, the first time heâd met you. When heâd wrapped your ankle, carried you to bed. But heâd refrained after that. And it had all been above board, had been born out of necessity, not want. But now, you stared at him, unblinking, and softly stroked at his fur like it was the most natural thing in the world. It made him want to weep.
He leaned into the touch, another quiet whine escaping his throat as your fingers moved. But you couldnât stay out here all night. And he needed to run, to hunt, to satisfy the bloodthirsty urge that had usually surfaced by now. He stood, shaking your hand off, and walked past you, flicking you with his tail, before looking over his shoulder to see if you were coming. But you stayed put. Another flick didnât do anything to spur you forward. Were you really not getting the memo? He padded back to you and nosed at your ribs, but it only served to make you giggle.
With an exasperated huff, he walked to the edge of the small clearing you were in and looked back again, letting out another whine.
Youâd brought your knees up to your chest, your arms encircling them. âIâm not going back to the cabin without you. And I have a feeling youâll leave me there as soon as I get to the door. Iâm staying.â
Of course youâd say that. He shouldnât have been that surprised, since you hadnât run screaming bloody murder upon seeing his transformation. He had half a mind to grab your shirt between his teeth and pull, forcing you to move unless you wanted it to rip, but he had a feeling that youâd just let it happen. It seemed you were at an impasse. He could already imagine the headache heâd have tomorrow when he was human again, the number of questions youâd lob his way. He also had a feeling that heâd never get rid of you, now. You were too curious to learn this about him and simply move on.
He could have left you there and gone about his usual routine, but he couldnât bear the thought of you stumbling through the dark on your own back to the cabin. Worse, you might try to follow him. So instead, he came back to you and sat by your side, and you stroked his fur again, in the shared silence of the woods.
It didnât take very long for your eyelids to grow heavy. The grass was still damp, but you curled up on it anyway. You fell asleep right there on the forest floor. He curled around you, unable to stand the idea of you shivering and cold, pressing his body against your back.
He hadnât smelled any fear on you before, not when heâd yelled in your face, not when heâd ran away, and not when heâd become a wolf right in front of you. He couldnât smell it now. You just settled more, and he let himself breathe in your scent. It hadnât triggered him to tear you apart, not like heâd been so sure it would. Not like his first night as a wolf. It was a strange thing. He didnât want to think about it, to imagine that his fears had all been in his head. They couldnât be, or he would still have a wife. He wouldnât be here with you. But all he felt at that precise moment was the need to protect you, to keep you in his sight. To keep you warm and safe under the open night sky.
It was only you, him, and the clear white moon. It was foreign to have no anxieties on a night like this, and they hadnât left him, not completely. But he rested his head on his paws, keeping his eyes open and his ears alert, and let himself believe, just for a little while, that things might work out.
When you woke up, it was to sunlight streaming across your face, and birdsong. Eyes still closed, you frowned, your nose wrinkling. You shifted your arm and felt grass coming away with it. Lifting your head a little, you opened your eyes and took in the hundreds of shades of green surrounding you. Youâd slept outside.
Youâd slept outside, becauseâŚ
You remembered at the same time that you became aware of warmth at your back and over your waist. You glanced down your body and saw the corded muscle of Steveâs arm, loose over your hip, his palm spanning your stomach. The warmth you felt was him, pressed to your spine. He stirred when you shifted.
He was human again, already? You looked up at the sky. Well, the moon was gone, so you supposed it made sense. But what did you know about wolves? Or werewolves, for that matter? You started to turn to face him but stopped short at the first glimpse of his legs, never mind his torso. Right. He was completely naked.
He seemed to realize it at the same time as you, his arm disappearing from you. âThereâs extra clothes in my backpack, if you go get them,â he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
You crawled away on your hands and knees to the bag, still where it had landed when heâd thrown it, and pulled out pants and a shirt before closing your eyes and blindly shoving them in his direction. You listened to the rustle of fabrics and the zip of his fly before he said, âIâm decent.â
Peeling your eyes open, you gave him a once over. He was still the same Steve that youâd gotten used to. Still tall and broad, hair dishevelled and longâthough yours probably didnât look much betterâa familiar worried frown on his face. He held out a hand to you, which you took, and he pulled you up. âI think itâs time we had a conversation.â He stooped to pick up his bag before turning and striding away, not waiting for you.
Who would have thought heâd be more chivalrous as a wolf?
At least you followed this time, picking your way through the grass. He kept an eye on you in case you slipped. It was a wonder that you didnât have any cuts across the soles of your feet. For once, you were staying quiet. He wondered if you were marvelling at the sequence of events, too, or if you were just thinking up questions to bombard him with. Knowing you, it was probably the latter.
With the cabin in sight, he ushered you in ahead of him. âWhy donât you go take a shower?â he offered, closing the door behind him. âWater takes a bit to heat up, but you slept on the ground all night.â
âOkay. That sounds like a good idea.â You shuffled off after grabbing your bag and disappeared into the bathroom.
Steve let out a long sigh at your departure. He stood in the kitchen, hands resting heavily on the counter, and let his head hang down as he gathered his thoughts. What exactly could he tell you? The basics, he supposed. But then also, maybe to finally scare you straight, heâd tell you what had happened the first time. Explain to you why he lived out here in the first place. Tell you that while you might have survived last night, that didnât mean there was any guarantee to survive future transformations. He could still rip you to shreds.
He must have been standing there awhile, lost in his own head, because it felt like it had only been a few minutes before he heard the bathroom door creak open, followed by your footsteps on the wood. The aroma you brought with you was a dizzying blend of your own and his. You had used his soap. Your scent would be all over his towel, too. You were dressed now in what youâd worn yesterday, but he just wanted to pull you close and nuzzle against the hollow of your throat, breathe you in, lick your skin. Instead, he cleared his throat and leaned against the counter. You mirrored him, pressing your back against his old fridge. It was only a little bit taller than you were.
âSo⌠youâre the wolf Iâve been hearing so much about,â you finally said, your arms crossed. You tilted your head as you looked him up and down. âAnd you let me go on a wild goose chase trying to find you.â
You werenât upset. Rather, your eyes were alight with interest.
He ran a hand through his hair. âWell, I couldnât exactly just tell you, could I?â
âI guess not,â you shrugged, âbut maybe you could have pretended to lay some bait out or something. You didnât have to tell me it was you.â
âWell, if I had my way, you never would have found out. I was waiting for you to get bored and give up. I didnât think Iâd ever have to tell you.â
âWhy is that?â
He waited for you to answer your own question with the obvious: it was dangerous. But instead, you only gazed at him, waiting for his answer.
So, he gave it to you.
Steve didnât want to go into too much detail, but he thought he still managed to paint a pretty vivid picture. The truth was that yes, he had always been an outdoorsy type. Heâd grown up hunting and fishing and hiking. He was familiar with the forests near where heâd used to live. Heâd go on weekends alone or with friends. Peggy would never come. It just wasnât her thing. She was more of a night in type of girl, and Steve had respected that. They both had their own hobbies that they could do alone.
Only one of his solo trips had gone badly. He still didnât know exactly what had transpired, the events still muddied in his mind. Heâd set up a tent like always. Slept for a bit. Been woken up by a noise. He didnât usually camp in spots that other campers did. He preferred going off the beaten path. That had proven to be a mistake.
An animal attack. He had thought at first it was a bear, smelling the food heâd brought along. But it hadnât been a bear. Heâd never gotten a clear look, but heâd lost a lot of blood and been disoriented as hell when heâd come to. Heâd dragged himself to a rangerâs hut and been taken to the hospital. Even the doctors hadnât been sure. Heâd been tested for rabies, amongst other things, and everything had come back clean. He was out in a couple of days.
Steve hadnât even noticed anything was particularly wrong, at first. But the following month, when heâd decided to brave the outdoors again, Peggy had insisted on coming too. She was afraid of him going alone, after last time.
And so, theyâd gone together, and Steve had ignored the itch of agitation in his gut, in his bones. Heâd ignored the pull of going even deeper into the forest.
The transformation had taken him by so much surprise, heâd lost sight of what happened until the next morning, when he was human again.
Heâd awoken with dried blood crusted on his skin and in his hair. Blood that wasnât his. Blood that was Peggyâs.
She hadnât been so lucky to survive such a vicious attack. And Steve had been so in denial, so confused, that heâd held her long after her body had gone cold. It had taken him a very long time to realize that heâd been her attacker.
He didnât even remember spinning the lie, stammering it out to the rangers, then the officers, then the coroner. That heâd left her there to go hunting, come back to her dead. It was some sort of self-preservation instinct, he thought. And he couldnât very well say that he had turned into a wild animal and done it himself. He would have been sent to a psychiatric facility. And then what would have happened if he transformed again? And again, and again, and again?
Instead, heâd very quietly packed up his life, moved a few states over, cutting off any friends and family, and built his own prison far away from people, where he couldnât hurt them. And it had worked.
You listened to his explanation with a hand against your throat, taking it all in. He waited for your eyes to shutter, for you to make your way past him and out the door, to tell him you were going to report him for murder.
But you didnât seem to grasp that he was giving you a very good reason to run away. When he finished talking, you stayed quiet, like you were mulling it over. Then, slowly, you unfolded your arms from yourself and leaned across the small space between you. Your hands came to rest on his arms. âThank you for telling me, because I know it wasnât easy.â Heâd never heard you sound so hushed, so serious before.
Here it was, he thought, youâd tell him you understood and that you would stay away. But instead of that, you said, âBut you didnât hurt me. Things might have changed, Steve. Youâve been here by yourself for three years. Thatâs dozens of transformations. I know your first one was traumatic, but you didnât know what was happening to you. You do now.â
âThat was a fluke,â he said stubbornly. He wished you wouldnât look at him so empathetically. âI donât know what happened last night. Itâs the first time I havenât gone hunting as a wolf. I just couldnât⌠I couldnât leave you there on your own.â
âYou could have,â you argued, though you were still completely calm. âYou could have left me there. But you stayed and you didnât hurt me. Iâve trusted you from day one, Steve. Youâre not going to hurt me. I can stay away from you if you really want me to during full moons, but I think it would be better for you to get used to being around someone when the time comes.â
âBunny, itâs not that simple. We canât predict that itâs all gonna be fine from now on. Iâm not willing to risk it.â
You sighed, leaning closer. For a horrible moment, he thought you were going to hug him. âI get why you chose to live this way. Itâs noble. But I donât believe that youâre a danger. At least not like you were your first time. I Â think youâve had the time out here alone to learn who you are now, and how to handle it.â You were careful, considering, when you added, âHow do you know without a doubt that you were the one that hurt Peggy? What if youâd been defending her? Isnât that a possibility?â
He didnât have an answer for you, even though you seemed very sure. It made him ache, your unwavering faith. If he hadnât scared you off last night, hadnât scared you off now, he didnât think that anything would. Not until it was too late.
And even though he wanted you to be safe, he couldnât control what you did. If you wanted to keep showing up after all heâd said, there wasnât anything he could do to stop you. Heâd just have to hope that eventually, you woke up and realized what you were risking by putting yourself in his path.
You started looking at the weather after that. But probably not in the way Steve had wanted. Rather, you were steering yourself toward him in ways that he couldnât easily prevent. That meant showing up for every bad storm and staying the night and being there, refusing to leave when the full moon was going to be on display. Youâd stuck with him for two more transformations. Youâd let him leave when heâd wanted to, curling up in his bed with the curtain open to let the moonlight in, and trusted that he wouldnât come back and tear you limb from limb. And heâd shuffle home in the morning, surprised to see you untouched under his comforter, editing your photos on your laptop. Because falling in love meant sticking by someone even when the odds were stacked against them, even if it was foolish.
Steveâs cabin really wasnât meant for two people. Some days, it wasnât even meant for someone of Steveâs size. But youâd started to add your own touches with each visit. Jars of wildflowers. On the nightstand, one of the windowsills, the side table. A shoddy wreath made of twigs, which youâd put on the door. It hung crookedly. The place had long since started to smell like you, as well. And as much as he hated to admit it to himself, Steve had started to miss you quite desperately when you werenât there, despite the danger. A bit of his old self had come back, by letting you in. He wasnât so blunt. Wasnât irritated when you dropped in. Heâd started keeping things there for you at your request, like tea blends and a change of clothes.
Youâd also grown very comfortable touching him. It was the only reason, selfish as it was, that he hadnât pushed harder to make you leave. If he didnât greet you at the door, if he was instead sitting on the futon carving a figurine, youâd lean over the back of it, resting your chin on his shoulder to watch for a minute before moving on to deposit whatever youâd brought with you. If he was at the stove, your fingers would clutch at the back of his shirt while you peered around him to see what he was making. Youâd put your feet in his lap if you sat together, push at his arm when you laughed, trail your fingers over him if you were walking past. It was intoxicating. Little by little, heâd started to rely on you, to expect you to show up. Heâd started to make space for you. It had become a vastly slippery slope, and Steve no longer had any footholds to stop himself from plummeting. He had also begun to find that he didnât want to. Maybe it was time to bask in the free fall, instead.
Fall had arrived by now, but there were still a few days in mid-September that reached high temperatures by the afternoon. One such day had you floating through the door along with a sweet, warm breeze, and a sparkle in your eye that could only mean trouble.
âSteve, how do you feel about swimming?â you asked, but in an air that was much too casual to really be casual.
He glanced at you sidelong. âI could take it or leave it. WhyâŚ?â
âWell, itâs just that itâs going to get too cold to swim soon, and that great big lake isnât too far from here⌠I know how to get there from the trails now. Do you wanna come with me?â You picked at invisible lint on your dress. Your trail-inappropriate attire made sense now. The red sundress screamed summertime.
âBunny, I donât have anything to swim in.â Steve said honestly, spreading his hands in apology. It was true. A swimsuit had been the absolute last thing on his mind when heâd been fleeing his old life. And any times in the past that had had him braving the lake had been when there was no one around to see him in other only other one he had: that of the birthday suit.
âThatâs okay. You donât need one.â
And now the gleam in your eyes made sense. âIf youâre suggesting skinny dippingâŚâ he began with a shake of his head. There was no way on godâs green earth that he would be able to handle you naked. Even less so if he was also naked.
You laughed then. âAw, Steve, youâre so cute. No, you can wear shorts or your underwear or something. Câmon, please? Itâll be just us. I havenât gone swimming in so long.â
Your pout should have been illegal. He may have been a literal dog once a month, but you put any semblance of puppy eyes he might have been capable of to shame. âOkay, fine.â
You clapped your hands together, bouncing up and down. âIâll even leave my camera here, if youâre feeling shy. Wouldnât want to make you blush,â you said with an exaggerated wink.
It was a fifteen minute walk from the cabin to the far side of the lake. The other side was far enough away that the small set of lake houses wouldnât be able to spot you. It didnât really matter, anyway. No one seemed to be on the water today.
You wasted no time at all unzipping your knee-high boots and pulling your dress up over your head, revealing a red and white bikini. Maybe Steve should have said no. Heâd seen a lot of you on display before, in your other outfits, but he suddenly felt like he was being lecherous when he stared at you too long. He snapped his jaw shut, glad that you hadnât seen his open mouth. He could have caught flies, the way heâd been gaping at you. You stared at him expectantly until he kicked off his own shoes and tugged at his shirt, before turning your back to him and tiptoeing your way down to the waterâs edge.
His hands paused on the waistband of his shorts while he watched you wade in, until you looked back at him cheekily. âHurry up!â
And hurry up, he did. He tugged his shorts down as quick as he could, then all but ran into the water. He didnât want you to see he was beginning to sport a hard-on just from looking at you.
As soon as he was waist deep, you grinned and splashed a big wave of water at him with the back of your hand. âOkay, now come and get me,â you laughed, bobbing away through the water. You werenât quite deep enough to start swimming yet.
âYou want me to chase you?â
âMhm. You might be faster on land but are you really faster on water?â The mischievous twinkle in your eye was back, and all Steve could do was allow himself to be snared in your web.
He let you take the lead for a little while. You seemed to take great satisfaction in letting him get almost close enough, his fingers skimming your arm, before youâd kick away and cut through the water with a shriek of laughter. It was a sound he still wasnât quite used to hearing. Even less so, his own laugh, booming across the open space.
When he grew tired of chasing though, he surged forward with a strong push. It was very, very easy to scoop you into his arms while you giggled, your hands on his shoulders as you half-heartedly squirmed away, but he held you fast. His arms locked around your waist, holding you to him. You were slippery, but not so much that he couldnât keep a firm grasp on you. You relented by tangling your fingers together at the nape of his neck. If he wasnât careful, he was going to get an eyeful of your chest. Not that he minded much.
âDonât tell me you were going easy on me that whole time,â You were smiling when you complained.
âOkay. I wasnât going easy on you the whole time.â He repeated it with a grin of his own.
It made you smile impossibly wider. He startled as you ran one of your hands over the back of his head, fingers through his hair. âOh, I just knew that you were hiding a movie star smile. Very swoon worthy. And youâve been keeping it a secret under all this facial hair.â
Your other hand came to his face, turning his jaw this way and that, and he let you. âYou want me to shave it off?â
âNo!â you said too quickly. âMaybe tidy it up a little, but no. donât get rid of it. I like the rugged look.â
Steve raised his eyebrows at you. You were being honestâhe could tell by the look on your face. It was strange to hear such a compliment. Before heâd been changed, heâd always kept to a more clean-cut sort of look. âAnd your hair, too. Keep it like this. You look very handsome.â Your fingers combed through the strands again.
Steve was suddenly very aware of your body being pressed against his. He shifted his arms, so that one of his hands covered the expanse of your back, your skin hot beneath his fingers. It took no effort for him to hold you like this, your feet nowhere near the sandy bottom of the lake. Heâd always been strong, but his transformation had made him even stronger. âSteve?â
âMmm?â Heâd been looking at your mouth already when youâd said his name, saw your tongue move for the st, your teeth graze your lower lip for the v.
He wanted to kiss you. So badly it hurt like a bullet ricocheting between each of his ribs. He didnât get to do that. He didnât deserve you. You were too good, too pure, to full of joy to be sullied by his history. He could love you and not do anything about it, he thought. He could love you and continue to see you live. Your fingers brushed the nape of his neck. âSteve?â you said his name again, and his eyes finally flickered up to yours. âDid you hear what I said?â
Youâd said something other than his name? Now he was lost in your eyes. You seemed to see right through him. He might have called you stupid in the past, might have been callous and tried and push you away, but he knew you were more emotionally sensitive than you let on. You might not have done a very good job being concerned for your own well being, but you were pretty great about caring about his. âSorry, what did you say?â
âItâs my turn to try to catch you now.â But the way you said it made him wonder if youâd actually asked him something else.
It was just as well, he thought. He should put distance between you. He needed to, before he did something that both of you might regret.
The next full moon was coming. It was bringing cold weather right alongside it. Steve knew that snow wouldnât be far behind, and he also knew that it would get to a point where it really would be impossible for you to get out here, no matter how badly you wanted to. Heâd have to make his one and only trip to the general store soon to stock up. He kept a running list throughout the year, and heâd learned from previous years up here what he would need more of, and what he could do without. Heâd explained a little bit of his system to you already, when youâd sweetly asked if there was anything you could get for him that wasnât available at the store that might be easier to find in town.
It was going to be hard to lose out on seeing you. He found himself entertaining your idea of getting him a satellite phone, too.
The day before he was due to shift, you came by like you had been. You had a jacket on for once. Hell must have frozen over already for you to be wearing one. But as much as Steve was happy to see you, some internal part of him lighting up like a sparkler, he thought that this was really a moon cycle you should have missed out on.
Heâd already felt more agitated this time than he had the last few. He didnât know if it was residual feelings over the upcoming loss of your regular presence, or something else. But he could feel it making the tendons in his hands and jaw jump. He felt it with the way the hair on his arms stood up at the faintest touch of your skin against his. âI donât think itâs a good idea for you to stick around for this one, bunny.â
You looked at him, puzzled. Youâd just started to untie your shoes after following him in. Wind battered against the door. âWhy? Is something different this time?â
âI donât know.â He was fidgeting in the kitchenâs archway. âYes, something is.â
âWell, all the more reason to stay. I want to help you figure it out.â You put a hand on his arm.
The contact burned. He stepped back from you instantly. You didnât miss the reaction, and it made your frown deepen. âTell me whatâs going on.â
Steve touched his fingertips to his temples. âIâm worried Iâm gonna hurt you. I feel really⌠wound up. I canât explain it. Like anything could set me off. You should go, seriously.â He said the last part more firmly.
âIâm not going.â You said, equally firm.
âBunny. Iâm telling you that itâs not a good idea. You said youâd go if I asked. Iâm asking.â
âNo. Youâre scared because youâre confused. Thatâs not a good reason. Iâm here to help you, Steve.â
âStop coming so close.â He bit out. Youâd been taking very miniscule steps towards him, and heâd been matching them by moving backward. But he was about to run out of space. You werenât even particularly close at the moment, but your scent was catching in the back of his throat like honey.
The realization came over him like a lightbulb turning on.
Lust. That was what was making him act out of order. He wanted to be all over you, which meant you had to go. Steve wanted to be on you, around you, inside you on a regular basisâhe was sure that one of the things heâd gained after being bitten was an insane sex driveâbut heâd always made do with his hand and a fantasy. Now, the fantasy was standing in front of him in a flimsy shirt and jeans that detailed every curve.
You held a hand up like you were trying to get close to a cornered, frightened animal, which in a way, you were. âSteve, itâs gonna be fine.â
âNo, itâs not. You need to go. Would you just listen to me for once?â
âCan you just think rationally for a second? Youâve been completely fine the last few times.â
âGod, youâre not listening.â He raked a hand through his hair, wanting to pace, to move, to go to you, to make you leave, to pull you close. âYouâre driving me fuckinâ crazy, bunny.â He growled, exasperated.
You took another step. Your smell was all around him now. In his bones, in his skin. His lungs, his heart, his brain. It was too much. Especially with the way you looked at him, all soft eyes and compassion.
âGod damn you.â he muttered, before any semblance of holding back withered away. He could no longer help himself when he closed the distance with one step of his long legs, pulling you into a kiss so fierce, it could have had teeth and claws of itâs own.
A tiny part of him felt guilty when he put his hands on your face, tilting your head up to his. In a perfect world, he would have asked your permission. Steve expected you to try and pull away at any second, to smack him and run away. But he also clung to you more tightly, pushing his tongue between your lips, eager to taste you, eager to claim.
It was the shock of his life to realize that you were eager, not repulsed. You jumpedâliterallyâto meet him, your legs fitting around his waist like youâd been formed with him in mind. His hands slid from your face to the backs of your thighs.
He groaned into your mouth as your fingers scrabbled at the collar of his shirt, pulling so hard that he felt the back of it cutting into his neck. This was what he had wanted since before you knew the truth about him. It was a tiny, self-sacrificing reason as to why heâd wanted to push you away. Because you were a storm cloud he knew he wouldnât mind chasing, if given the chance, in search of rain. And he didnât think he was allowed rain.
You were intent on proving him wrong. Between scattered kisses, your mouth a bruise on his, you murmured, âTake me to your room now.â
He obeyed, walking blindly through the kitchen and down the tiny hall, careful not to bump your head on the ceiling. Heâd had to pause right before the door, unwilling to let go of your for even a second to open it. It was even more difficult with you trailing kisses down one side of his neck, raking your nails across the other side. he hadnât taken you for a biter, but he was pretty sure heâd find marks on his skin later.
The only reason he didnât throw you down on the bed was because he didnât want to break it, or you. But as soon as your back hit the dark green comforter, his hands were roaming across every inch of you. Your shirt was gone in a flurry of fabric. You actually ripped his collar in your haste to pull it over his head. Steveâs scalp stung from you tugging at his hair. Every time he nipped at your collarbone, laving his tongue over the bite afterwards, youâd pull on the strands and sigh. âMore.â you moaned, tipping your head back as much as you could.
You neednât have asked. For every bite youâd given him, Steve marked you with two. Your throat was already beginning to bloom with darker marks, like a haphazard necklace in the shape of his teeth. Even though Steve had fantasized about you many times, heâd never pictured taking you like this. His fingers pushed your bra strap off one shoulder. âCan IâŚâ his lips brushed the curve of your breast.
âWhy are you even asking? The answer is yes.â And before he could even do anything about it, you were reaching back behind you and unclasping it, flinging it away from your body like it was contaminated.
You were suddenly half-bare before him, and Steve couldnât even stop to admire you. Later, he promised. Later, Iâll take my time. Right now, he couldnât. Right now, he just had to feel every inch of you until he forget everything in the world except your taste and touch and scent.
Your sharp squeal changed to a whimper when he bit down gently on one of your nipples before smoothing his tongue over it and sucking, massaging your other breast with one of his large hands. âOh, god,â you breathed. Your fingers had a vicelike grip on his hair, and he didnât care.
Your other hand patted at his chest before travelling down his abdomen. It made him shiver. Heâd never put on a belt, so you went straight to work on the button of his jeans. He did the same for you, peeling yours down by their belt loops. One popped loose from its stitching in his haste, before he was kicking is own off.
Your panties were soaked through at the center. The baby pink fabric did nothing to hide it at all, especially not when you parted your legs, biting your lip as you looked at him.
âAre youââ
You cut him off by pulling at the waistband of his boxers. âDonât even think about asking me if Iâm sure. Iâve been waiting for you to make a move for months.â
You werenât shy at all about sticking your hand down the front and squeezing the base of his cock. âDo me now. Donât make me wait anymore.â
âJesus Christ, bunny.â
He almost saw nirvana just from the feeling of your hand around him. âSteve.â
âFuck, okay.â
It seemed his shirt wasnât the only thing that had finished being useful, because your panties met the same fate. He quite literally tore them from your hips. You both heard the soft rip of the fabric. You squeezed your hand around him again and he took a shuddering breath before cupping your pussy. His thumb rolled a lazy circle around your clit, just so he could see you squirm. Your legs jumped when you whined. âNow. Now, now, now. Please.â
His boxers were gone a second later, and he replaced your hand with his own, rubbing some of your slick over his cock. You only watched, your bottom lip red and plump between your teeth. âAre you really sure?â He askedâhe couldnât help it, even as he rubbed the head of his cock over your folds.
You sat up on your elbows then. âDo I need to be on top?â You said it like it was a threat, but really it sounded like a gift.
âMaybe next time.â
You had likely had some sort of retort on the tip of your tongue, but it dissolved into one loud, long groan, your eyes squeezing shut, as he pushed in. Heâd only done the tip and already you were pulsing around him in a way that had him white-knuckling the bedspread next to your hip. âNot there yet,â He grunted, pushing deeper.
âOh god, oh god, oh god,â You were chanting with your head thrown back, like you really were praying to a higher being.
Bottoming out was bliss like Steve had never felt before in his life. You were squeezing around him like you planned to keep him there for good. He pulled out nice and slow, relishing in the easy slide, before slamming back in so forcefully you jolted up the bed a little.
And then you were off to the races. His hips snapped against yours while his teeth landed on your neck. Your nails were ten tiny brands in his shoulders. He just wanted more of you, all of you. More of your noises, more of your reactions, your legs tight on his waist. He wanted to sear himself into your skin and it seemed like you were trying to do the same. You couldnât stop touching him. Your hands kept moving from his shoulders to his ribs to his neck, like you couldnât decide where to hold on, like youâd lost the ability to form an opinion.
But still, Steve wanted more.
He slowed down enough to pry your legs from him. He glanced up only to see confusion overtaking ecstasy. He supposed he was about to see how flexible you were.
He pulled out with a wet pop!, his cock smacking against his stomach. Your wetness was dripping off him and onto the bed. You whined out his name with a petulant look. âWhy did youââ
âTrying something.â
He pulled your legs up to your chest before having you put your hands under your knees to keep them up, to keep you open. His dick twitched at the sight of you spread apart for him. He wanted to devour you. But he wanted to be inside you more. âHold on for me, bunny. Atta girl.â Your eyes filled with tears when he entered you a second time. âFeels good?â He was panting, breath fanning across your mouth.
âSâso good, Steve.â
If heâd thought he was deep before, heâd been wrong. Now his cock was kissing your cervix with every thrust, and you couldnât contain any of the noises you were making. You were loud, unashamed, and gorgeous. The tears in your eyes spilled, sliding down your temples, but he caught one on his tongue before it went too far. He couldnât help it. He wanted everything you had to offer. You couldnât hold onto him, folded in half as you were, and he cradled your face with one hand, the other holding him up. You tilted your cheek into his palm, nuzzling like a kitten.
It was that, and that alone, that had him saying, âIâm gonna come.â He had you in a position that exposed you to him completely, but it was the tenderness of your eyes that really did him in.
âTogether?â you breathed.
âMhm, together.â
It was with reluctance that he stopped touching your face to rub furious circles on your clit. You came a split second before he did, clenching down on him for all he was worth, and then he was spilling into you with a force heâd never known. Each squeeze from you sent another wave from him until you were both breathing so heavily, he thought one of you might pass out. He only stopped thumbing at your clit when you dropped one of your legs to weakly bat at his hand, and he settled it across your stomach, pressing down. You let out a small, choked cry. âOh, fuck.â
âYouâre so full.â
âYeahâŚâ There was no longer a thought behind those eyes of yours. âSo full. So good.â
It made Steve smile, to see you so fucked out. Heâd done that. Heâd made you feel so good that you couldnât even think anymore. And to think heâd wanted to turn you away for safetyâs sake. He no longer felt any of the agitation that he had before, even as he looked at the uneven chain of hickeys across your throat. Heâd definitely left impressions of his teeth in a couple of spots.
He kept his hand on your belly for a moment longer before pulling back and out. His cum spilled out of you in a steady drip. At least he finally had a use for his ripped shirt. He was gentle as he wiped you clean, then dropped it over the side of the bed. He could have gone again, he was sure, but you were clearly done for now. Instead, he settled next to you, pulling you close, curling around you like heâd done when heâd been a wolf. You both stared at the ceiling.
Finally, youâd returned to yourself enough that you murmured, âSee? You didnât hurt me. You need to trust yourself. Because I trust you.â Your speech was slurred.
But it was the first time Steve was convinced that maybe you had a point.
It was still hard for Steve to believe that you werenât in any danger around him, but it was easier than heâd thought, too.
You talked about it at length the first couple of days after youâd slept together. You hadnât really wanted to leave, and he hadnât wanted you to. You were amazed that heâd never sought out any others like him. Neither of you believed that the wolf attack had been a normal wolf. There had to be more people suffering from his same problem. You thought that maybe it was time he tried. âI donât even know where to look,â he admitted finally.
It was late at night, the window in the bedroom just slightly cracked open. You were both laying facing each other, his hand a gentle graze up and down your spine. Your fingers drummed against his chest. âIâm not suggesting you go right away, but maybe you need to go back to that forest. The one where you were bitten. Thatâs where it all started. If not there, then one near it. We know for sure that wolves like you were around at one point.â You smoothed your hand over his heart when you looked at him through your lashes. âI know that it might be traumatic for you. And I wonât come if you donât want me to. But I think thatâs the best place to start.â
He settled against his pillow and tucked you closer, your head fitting under his chin. âMaybe in the spring.â
He wasnât ready to face it yet. And the harsh weather was going to be rolling in to stay soon, anyway. But maybe in the spring, heâd have wrestled with the idea for long enough to feel good about it. Your nose brushed against his throat, and you placed a kiss against his skin a moment later. âWhatever you decide, you know Iâm with you every step of the way.â
It took a little persuading from you, but Steve agreed to come to town with you. Not just the edge of it, or the road just off the main one where the general store was. But right into town, where you lived and worked the most frequently. And he wasnât just going for fun, either. It was a date.
Heâd felt nervous like a teenager again. Youâd come to get him, but heâd met you at the lot where you usually parked, not wanting you to venture all the way into the forest. You were wearing a dress heâd never seen before, this one an ocean blue slip of silk, peeking out under a wool coat. The bitter temperatures had already fallen into effect. Your hair fell in loose waves around your face, coming free from its clip. He suddenly felt very underdressed in his plaid button up and jeans, but they were the nicest of his clothes. He only got more nervous as you drove. âShould I have cleaned up more?â He asked, watching you.
Your tongue stuck out of the corner of your mouth as you frowned at the rearview mirrorâyou were trying to execute a somewhat dicey parallel park. But your eyes flicked to him for a brief moment, one of your hands leaving the wheel to touch his leg. âI told you never to shave the beard. I like the rugged look, remember? My wolfman.â That was accompanied with a sweet smile, and he felt a rush of heat not only to his face, but to his groin, too.
Once you were satisfied with your parking job, you turned to him, leaning across the console. Your fingertips danced over his jaw when you kissed him. âYou ready to go in?â
The restaurant you had parked in front of was a study of dim lighting. He could see it through the windowâthe hanging lamps were made of mason jars. It was now or never, he supposed. âYes. Letâs go.â
Steve was surprised it was going so well. Thereâd been a bit of fumbling around with the wine menuâhe hadnât had a drink in yearsâbut the rest of it had been fairly simple, no over the top dishes in sight. And it hadnât been too busy, either. The waiter kept to the shadows, only passing by your table once during the meal. And through the whole thing youâd kept your easy smile, your foot brushing against one of Steveâs ankles. The lighting might have been dim, but it didnât dull the sparkle in your eyes.
As much as Steve was relieved that this outing hadnât been a total disasterâa small part of him had been afraid you only worked together because of the seclusionâhe didnât feel ready to venture into town at will, not yet. He said as much to you when you asked. He wasnât ready to abandon the cabin, either, even though it really was too small for both of you and didnât have half the amenities he knew youâd prefer.
You looked at him over the table, your plate empty, and rested your knife and fork neatly across its surface. âWhy donât we compromise?â
He didnât know what you meant, not right away. But after eating, you took him by the hand and got in the car. You drove him all the way through the townâs center before turning off one of the side roads. You drove for twenty minutes. It was the complete opposite side of town that youâd come from, the side he was most familiar with. The road itself was pretty bumpy, unpaved. But you stopped eventually at a circular driveway.
At first, Steve thought you were just taking him to the edge of town because you thought heâd be more comfortable there. But you got out and rounded the car to his side, until he climbed out to join you. You pulled him a little ways away, to a cluster of trees. âIâm not saying that itâs the perfect solution, butâŚâ
You trailed off. That was when he saw, under the shade of some evergreens, a small stone cottage. It was bigger than his cabin all the way around, with rounded windows. Lavender and ivy had begun to creep up one of its sides. The pathway up to it was made of tiny pebbles. The lawn needed work. But the cottage was big enough for two without being overwhelming. It was far away from people, trees surrounding it. No, it wasnât perfect. But Steve was moved by it all the same.
His stunned silence made you ramble. âIâm not saying this is the one, but I went looking around. Thereâre a few places like this one around here. Some are newer, some need a lot of TLC. But they have what weâd both want in a place.â You pulled your coat tighter around yourself. âItâs just a thought,â you added quickly. âIâm not trying to move too fast.â
He pulled you closer by your hips and kissed your forehead, then your mouth. âYou can move as fast as you like, bunny. Iâm with you.â
Winter had not splintered your relationship like Steve had feared, though it had been a real bitch to try and clear enough snow to let you through the forest and to the cabin. It was what made him finally unearth his rusty blue truck from where heâd hidden it under tarps and dead branches on a different trail. Heâd been surprised it still worked. But it was easier for him to drive down to yours, to brave the town and stay at your apartment with you, than it was for you to come to him. And he found he didnât mind staying in town so much when you were wrapped around him like a blanket. It was infinitely better when youâd come home after a shoot, shaking snow from your hair and your clothes and your boots, and heâd have dinner ready. Something simple, but less so than what heâd ever been able to put together at the cabin. And youâd eat on the couch, then tear his clothes off. Sometimes you didnât even make it to the bed. Once, he was pretty sure the bakery across the street had seen you pressed against the window.
But afterwards, you would cuddle up against him in your bed, and put Star Wars on the projector, and youâd always fall asleep by the time the Millennium Falcon came into play.
By the following fall, youâd said goodbye to that apartment. You were waking up next to him in the countryside in an old farmhouse. It was half an hour from town, with wide open fields on either side, and a forest beyond. It needed a lot of work, but youâd revelled in taking all the before shots of it. The coffee table was blanketed by paint swatches. It was probably going to take a few years to finish. Steve had kept the cabin, though he really only stayed there in the summer months, now. He was still looking for answers about what had happened. But he hadnât had a single accident. None of his transformations had recreated what had happened with Peggy. He was beginning to wonder if your theory was right.
He was just glad to be able to wake up next to you every morning and not have to feel fear and dread that he was going to hurt you. It was still in the back of his mindâit always would be, he suspectedâbut each passing day made him feel less and less afraid.
The part of the farmhouse youâd started on first, after getting the roof fixed, was the living room. The stone fireplace had been a joint effort to repair, but it fit in nicely with the burnt orange shade of the walls, the big leather couch, the cozy rug. The mantel was cut from a poplar tree, shaped by Steve and stained by you. One of his wooden figurines claimed the space on top. And right above it, in a simple black frame, was one of your photographs.
Youâd gotten the picture youâd gone into the forest for. A wolf, your wolf with watchful eyes and a gleaming coat, standing on an overhang overlooking the lake. Youâd decided not to put it in your portfolio.
âŚsummary: everyone loves golden boy Steve Rogers. Everyone but you. It's alright, though, because he hates you back. But love and hate are closer than you both think.âŚ
âŚwarnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, avengers era, no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, pining but they don't know they're pining, idiots in love, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to feral porn, super soldier level smut, (kind of office sex, teasing, dirty talk, dry humping, super soldier stamina, dry orgasms but he's a trooper he keeps going, begging, rough sex, praise and degradation kink, mean!steve, nipple play, manhandling, hyperspermia, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, overstimulation, dacryphilia, dumbification, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smutâŚ
âŚwc: 9.6kâŚ
âŚAuthor's Note: i love enemies to lovers with sweet men it's so important to me. thank you!âŚ
There arenât a lot of rules to being on the Avengers, and the ones that exist are easy to follow. Donât feed Tony after midnight, heâs like a gremlin. Donât laugh at Samâs jokes when theyâre not funny, it encourages him. Always listen to Fury, unless you like being stranded in Utah. Donât touch Natashaâs food. Donât piss off Banner.
Easy. Youâre not a fool, and if you were, you wouldnât deserve to be here.
A lot of people still donât think you deserve to be here, but Nat always reminds you that they just donât know what kind of enemy youâd make. Sheâd rather have you on their side. Everyone warmed up to Wanda eventually, too. The team already likes you, and none of you have a clean letter.
Almost none of you.
Steveâs is cleaner than a freshly waxed and plucked floor. Steveâs letter is perfect. Heâs perfect. Heâs the Golden Boy, designed in a bottle to be likable and confident and collected. Cameraâs flash and his smile is whiter than the moon, and more blinding than the sun. He claps Tony on the back after a slightly mocking joke, clearly unfazed. He places his hand on Natâs lower back in the most gentlemanly way possible, and everyone swoons like heâs some movie star.
He sits next to you on one of these panels youâre not allowed to skipâyou tried to, and Clint dragged you to the helicopter like some misbehaving childâand ignores you all together. A tiny nod and smile for the cameras. Stiff shoulders that square away from you, like if he blocks you out, youâll just vanish in the hazy lights.
Heâd like it, if that happened. Heâd probably throw a fucking party.
Because you donât know why. You donât know what you did. But Steve Rogers hates you, and no one even thought he was capable of that emotion.
It started the first time Nat dragged you in, spitting and weary like a feral cat. Sheâd given Steve and Tony the brief on your powers. Said that you had a good heartâalthough she hadnât done an x-ray, so you have no idea how she was so sureâand asked to keep you.
Asked.
Natasha didnât ask for anything. She said it like a question, and fixed Steve and Tony with the most terrifying glare in the world. Tony had shrugged, and Steve had tried to protest. Nat had crossed her arms and flicked her brows up in a silent challenge. Steve had swallowed, looked at you with a strange gleam in his eyes, and given up. Heâd left the room with a grumble, not sparing you another glance. Tony would tell you laterâafter you annoyed it out of himâthat heâd spent a month trying to talk Nat out of you. Like a toy he didnât want her to be playing with.
You hadnât said a single word. Natasha hadnât told him anything about your past. And he still hadnât wanted you there.
âRogers,â you murmur, smiling at the flashing lights thatâsupposedlyâhave people behind them.
Youâve come to think of them more as vultures. Theyâd like to pick you apart and eat out whatever kind of black, charred thing youâre made of. You never give them the satisfaction.
Steve says your name, low and flat. His attention flits over, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You catch his gaze, and he looks away just as fast.
You roll your eyes and huff, slumping back in your seat. You drum your fingers on the smooth, deep blue cloth of the table. They gave you a water bottle. Maybe if you drink it fast enough, you can just go pee and skip this whole thing-
âSit up.â
Steve speaks so low you almost donât hear him. You frown at his profileâstupid clean jawline and strong featuresâand slump further in your seat. Just to test him. Just to make him twitch.
There arenât a lot of things you find pride in. Being able to get under Steveâs skin is one of them.
He notices immediately, and shoots you a glare. You snort, and his eyes narrow.
âI told you to sit up-â
âI heard you.â
âAnd you didnât listen?â Someone shouts his name. He turns to flash them that look at me, arenât I perfect? Smile, and you try not to gag.
âYouâre not my boss.â You hiss through your teeth, smiling at the people shouting your name.
Steve makes a low, rough sound in his throat. âI am your boss.â
âNo. I work under Nat.â
âWho works for me-â
âDoes she?â
Steve shoots you another look, and this time you giggle. Heâs still smiling, through every single glare. It looks psychotic.
He doesnât even try to reprimand you this time. He just sighs dramatically and looks back to the crowd. You sit up, but not because he told you to. Youâre not another one of his dogs.
Because thereâs one more rule about being an Avenger. About being an American.
No one hates Steve Rogers.
Heâs an angel. A blessing. His pretty boy face and classy words and pure heart. He never falters, never gives up, never does anything selfish, never gets off his fucking high horse. Heâs so handsome it hurts to look at, and heâs so innocent about it, like blushing virgin schoolgirl who canât stand seeing a fucking ankle without getting red faced and sputtering. Heâs all kind words to everyone, he carries twenties on him to give to homeless people, he donates most of his Avengers salary to charities, he handles every press question with tact and charm, and he looks at you like youâre sulfur coated gum, stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
No one tells you what to do when Steve Rogers hates you. Heâs not supposed to hate anyone.
So you must be the fucking problem.
You try not to look at him, for most of the panel. Itâs easy when he gets seated on the other end of the table, but whatever fucker was in charge of seating today must hate you. You canât turn your head without seeing his lazy, kind smile, and you canât turn out his deep laugh, and god, what if you just punched him in the face on live TV-
Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.
âYeah?â
Steve tenses. Youâre supposed to just nod, or say yes, not yeah. Thatâs not professional. Shame for him the media trainers gave up on you years ago. You donât know why Steve still bothers. Everyone still loves you anyway.
And the person who said your name doesnât deserve professionalism anyway. Itâs a slimy man at the front of the question line, with slicked back hair and an expensive watch and teeth that look too big for his mouth. You know what kind of question this is going to be, before he even opens his mouth.
âHi,â the man smirks at you, and you smile back. Itâs the cold, bored smile that you wear like a shield. If the man feels the chill from it, he doesnât even flinch.
âHey.â
Steveâs jaw ticks. If he breaks a tooth, maybe you wonât have to deal with this question.
âHey.â The man echoes back, his gaze dropping back to your tits. âI have to ask, what does it take to get you out of the Avengers compound and out on a date?â
You laugh, spinning your mic and leaning back in your chair. The audience laughs with you. They always do.
Steve doesnât, and it stabs near your ribs for some useless reason. Sometimes you wonder if your powers just donât work on him, which would make him even more annoying than he already is.Â
âMore than that,â you say, and the man stands a little taller.
âYou wanna give me a step-by-step?â He winks. âIâm a good rule follower.â
âHm.â You smirk. âIâm sure you are.â
A chorus of teasing jeers comes from the back of the crowd, where all the men always get shoved. Theyâre less insistent than the fangirls who want to see Steve and Thorâs muscles. The man at the front of the line looks back with a proud grinâhe got you to talk, what a miracleâthen returns his gaze to you.
âWhat about if I promise to be a gentleman?â
âThen Iâd ask you to cross your fingers,â you say, smiling with so much honey youâre worried your face is going to get glued like this.
The oooooos are louder this time, and you laugh. The man at the front looks like heâs about to fall to his knees. He grabs at the mic stand like a lifeline, staring at you with wide, devout eyes, and you donât even flinch when Steve rips your mic from your hands.
âSheâll be backstage after, buddy.â His tone is light, but firm. The man blinks at him, like he forgot he was there. âRemember, sheâs got a whole panel to get through. Donât want to distract her too early.â
He laughs. Everyone laughs with him, except for you.
You smile at him with enough venom to burn the super solider serum right out of his big, muscled body. Steve smiles back, with that strange gleam back in his eyes.
Itâs only there for you. Itâs been two years, and you never learned to read it. The questions move on, and your mic gets turned of while Bruce talks about his favorite kinds of tea. You lean to the side, hissing from the corner of your mouth.
âWhat the fuck is your problem.â
Steve doesnât blink. He keeps his winning smile on his face, and youâre sure that to anyone looking on from the crowd, it seems like youâre exchanging friendly jokes.
âThis isnât a dating app.â
âI know that-â
âDidnât seem like it.â
You scoff. Your smile is starting to hurt your face. âWhat was I supposed to do, tell him to piss off?â
Steveâs lips twitch down, ever so slightly. âYou flirted back.â
âSo? I was never going to go out with him, he looked like a fucking sewer rat.â
âThatâs rude-â
âOh, suck my dick.â
You look back to the crowd. Steve mutters your name, and you ignore him. He says it again, firmer this time, and you shoot him a shut the fuck up look.
His nostrils flare. His eyes are so blue, you think you could get lost in them if he wasnât always trying to forcefully burn you out.
âYou-â He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, shakes his head, and look back out to the crowd. âYouâre going to find yourself with a stalker one day. It happened to Nat.â
You almost snort. Youâve heard that story. Nat curb stomped him. âIâm sure Iâd handle it.â
Steveâs lip curls. âYou have no combat training,â he grunts, and you huff.
Not this again.
âIf someone got the jump on you-â
âNo one gets the jump on me.â
âYet,â he gives you a pointed look, and you hold it, unimpressed and bored. âBut one day-â
âOne day what? Iâm just going to lose all my powers? And need Captain America to protect me?â You laugh crudely, and Steve scowls.
 âI didnât say that-â
âThen what were you going to say-ââ
âThat you need to be careful-â
âAnd why do you care-â
âI donât-â
âReally?â You roll your eyes. âCouldâve fooled me.â
âYou- You fucking-â
âSteve.â Sam leans over Steveâs shoulder, glaring between you. âPeople. Watching. Calm down.â
You and Steve both freeze, and glance out to the crowd. Sure enough, almost all the eyes are on you. Shining vultures. For one, at least, picking Steve apart with you.
You smile and wave. Steve sits so tall you think he might be trying to fly away.
âWhat were you talking about?â The next person asks, and Steve laughs.
Controlled. Always so fucking controlled.
âNothing important-â
âIt looked important.â
Steve shrugs. âWe take everything we do here seriously. A conversation about dinner can look like a war meeting sometimes, with how much passion we have for- Everything.â
He waves at the air, and the crowd murmurs. You smirk, because Steve sees the light in that ripple. Only the rising relief. Not the dents itâs leaving in the water.
But you see them. You see them better than anyone. And you know why the people drop it. Tonyâs glaring down the table, and Nat is rubbing her face, and you know they heard it too.
You love it when he fucks up. Youâre beaming for the rest of the panel, because you know what the headline is going to be in the morning.
Passion, he said.
Idiot.
It happens so fast, and Steveâs the only one surprised by it.
âYou two.â Tony points between you in the morning. âMy office. Now.â
You smile, shoving your bagel in your mouth and following after him. Steve looks confused. Youâre sure heâs never been called to an office before. Youâre thrilled to have that first experience with him.
âTony, whatâs going on-â
âNo.â Tony points at him with a scowl, and the door locks behind you. âNot a word from you, Cap. This is your fault.â
âMy fault?â Steve almost recoils. âHow is it my fault, I havenât even done anything. Itâs probably her fault-â
You snort, taking the bagel out of your mouth. âMy fault? You donât even know what we did yet!â
âWell, I know itâs your fault-â
âBecause everything is my fault-â
âFor stuff like this, yeah. It is.â
âStuff like this- Like what, you getting in trouble-â
âIâm not in trouble-â
âOh, you just got called to Daddyâs office because of your good behavior-â
âCan you both shut up?â Tony raises his voice, glaring between you with his nose pinched. âI swear, youâre going to give me a migraine that kills me. And you,â he shoots you a glower. âNever call me Daddy again.â
You smirk. âWhy, does it turn you on too much?â
Steve looks at you like he wants to kill you. Tony just looks bored.
âYeah, it does. Which is annoying.â
âAw,â you beam at Steve. âHe thinks Iâm annoying.â
A vein is pushing out of Steveâs brow. If anyone is going to die right now, itâs going to be him, from bursting a vessel. You giggle, dropping in the seat in front of Tonyâs desk. Steve just stands behind you, a soldier at attention against his greatest enemy. You tip your head backwards, looking at him under fluttering lashes.
âYou should sit down, buddy.â
Something flickers over Steveâs face. âDonât call me buddy.â
âDonât stand there like a creep.â
His lip curls. You give him a challenging smile, and he lets out one of those heavy sighs thatâs only reserved for you. He stomps over to the chair next to it, and drops down with a scowl at Tony.
âYou want to tell us why weâre here, Tony?â
Tony frowns, and glances at you. âDoes he not know?â
You shrug. âHeâs a little stupid. You know that.â
Tonyâs lips twitch despite himself. Steve scowls.
âI donât know what you two are talking about, or- Planning-â
He cuts himself off, as Tony tosses the printed out article down on the desk. You hadnât actually seen it yet, but you knew it was coming. Â
From the look on Steveâs face, though, he really hadnât realized at all.
âWhat.â Itâs all he says. One clipped, dumbfounded word as he stares at the paper. You sort of want to laugh, but you bite it down. Tonyâs looking at you like this is serious. Like he canât make it go away with a wave of his hand.
Stever grabs the article. You lean over his shoulder, just to piss him off a little more. He doesnât even bother to glare at you, his fingers digging so deep into the paper it tears. The headline gets crumpled, like heâs crushing it with just his gaze.
Secret Love In the Avengers.
Itâs not very snappy. You think they couldâve tried harder, but at least the picture is good. You and Steve both look nice, and youâre staring at each other so intently you canât even blame them for the minimum effort. With Sam looking bored on Steveâs other side, and you and Steve leaning so close together, thereâs no mistaking in that photo who might be seconds from making out.
âTony,â Steve mutters. âWhatâs this.â
Tony snorts. âWhat do you think this is, Cap? A news article about trades with China? No, because less people would be reading that than theyâre reading this.â
âWeâre hotter than trades with China,â you offer, and you think Tony would laugh if he wasnât so pissed.
âWhy is there a picture of us.â Steve mutters, and Tony rolls his eyes.
âWell, when two people look at each other like they want to fuck, everyone tends to notice.â
Steveâs jaw locks. You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.
âSo what, do you need us to do another release-â
âNo.â Tony glares at you. âThis is the third time something like this has happened with you two-â
âWhat?â You snort. âNo, it isnât-â
âAh.â Tony raises a hand. âDonât play stupid with me. Iâm trying to be generous with third, and Iâm not in the mood to hold your hands through feelings right now.â
âFeelings?â Steve spits, fumbling with the paper. âThere are no- I donât know what you think youâre talking about, Stark-â
âSteven.â Tony says flatly. âYou. Shut up.â
Steve shakes his head. âYou donât know what youâre talking about-â
âYes. I do. And you do too.â
You raise your hand, frowning between them. âCan I ask what the first and second time were, because Iâd remember if this happened before-â
âNo, you wouldnât,â Tony snaps. âBecause I have spent millions bribing people out of running these stories, and you never look online to see what people are saying.â
âWhat people are saying?â You look at Steve. âWhat are people saying?â
Steve coughs, ears turning red. âNothing-â
âThey think youâre fucking.â Tony says flatly, and your mouth falls open.
âThey- What?!â
âYou have chemistry, kid.â Tony shrugs. âEvery second youâre next to each other, youâre eye fucking so much we all feel like weâre supposed to leave the room.â
You sputter, shaking your head. You can feel you flush, burning up your face. When you look at Steve, he wonât meet your eyes.
He never does.
âDid you know about this?â You hiss.
He sighs, running a hand over his face with a half-shrug. âMaybe.â
âMaybe?! What the fuck does that mean-â
âMeans he knew.â Tony says flatly. âEveryone knew.â
âEveryone knew what?! That the whole country thinks I want to fuck Steve?!â
Tony snorts. âYou do want to fuck Steve.â
Your face burns. Steve looks up with warning pinch in his brow. âTony.â
âDonât Tony me, pretty boy-â
âJust- Not now-â
âYes, now.â Tony glares between you. âThis has gotten out of hand. We get it. Youâre both hot. Youâd have hot sex. But if you donât either fuck or cut bait and start acting like adults, youâre grounded.â
Steve scowls. âYou canât ground me, Stark, Iâm your boss-â
âWell, I cut the checks.â Tony crosses his arms. âSo I think I can do whatever I want.â
Steve and Tony keep glaring at each other. You stare off in the middle distance between them. Your hands donât feel like theyâre your hands. Your feet are planted on the carpet, but not on solid ground. Your head feels like itâs pressing into itself, yet also expanding to something bigger than you can hold onto.
You donât want to fuck Steve. Sure, heâs all muscles and rugged yet soft features, but there are countless men like that.
There are very few men like that. Well, you could find one. You have one in front of you. But you donât want to fuck him. Heâs annoying. Impossibly annoying and bossy and always up your ass about something, and not in the fun way like youâd prefer-
No. You wouldnât prefer. You donât want to fuck Steve. You can have anyone else, youâd rather have anyone else. Steveâs just always there and always making you embarrassed and angry, and maybe youâre into that but itâs none of his business. Itâs not like heâd be like that in bed, either way.
You think. Not that youâve thought about it. Heâs too perfect. Too boring. Heâs not boring when heâs arguing with you. He just hates you that much. That you make him break. Or you let him show that side of himself. You donât poke and prod at anyone like you poke and prod at Steve. Heâs just fun to get a rise out of. He gets cute when heâs pissy. He sneers your name and it goes right between your legs, but that doesnât mean you want to fuck him.
You donât. You donât. You donât? Â
He has big hands, but you donât want them groping and squeezing all over your body. Heâs got a strong nose, but youâve never thought about it pushing against your clit, just like youâve never thought about his huge biceps wrapping around your neck while he fingers you stupid. And youâd smile at him, dazed and long fucked out of protesting. And heâd feed those fingers to you while sitting you on his cock, and all that perfection would melt away into something raw. Something real, thatâs open and refuses to be stitched close. Something that both of you want to drown in.
Somethingâs thatâs just for you, and Steve, and no one else.
Oh, no.
You want to fuck him.
Tony says your name, and your gaze snaps back over. Your palms are sweating, your face burning, your skin suddenly itchy and your feet restless. You want to fuck Steve. You want to fuck Steve.
He looks at you weird, and you shift in your seat. He canât know. Ever. This is going to get cleaned up, and Steve will never know that you might, kind of, really want him to just toss you over his shoulder and fuck you stupid. You glance at him from the corner of you eye, and his gaze sears into you. You have to look away.
Thereâs no way he can know. Youâve barely even known for a minute. Tony only says he knows because heâs an ass. This will pass. It has to pass.
âFigure it out.â Tony tells you, before walking out of the office.
And you will. By never being in the same room as Steve again.
You shoot to your feet, and almost sprint out of the room. Steve calls your name, but you donât look back. Heâs faster, but heâs also respectful. He wonât manhandle you and force you to listen, like you want him to.
God, you really want him to. Youâre going to kill Tony for making you realize that, then kill yourself, and no one will ever have to know thatâfor all your cool, bored smiles and teasing and flirting, for all your powers and siren-like smileâyou just want to be fucked stupid by the most righteous, innocent sex-symbol in America.
But then Steve shouts your name again. Heâs following you. Why is he following you.
âFuck off, Steve!â You shout over your shoulder, and he scoffs.
âNo, you heard Tony, we need to talk-â
âWe really donât-â
âYes, we do- Will you slow down-â
You pick up the pace, just to piss him off. Steve groans, and you hear boots hitting the ground behind you. Heâs giving chase, and you can barely outwalk him.
Steve grabs your arm before you can even break into a sprint. You thrash, but itâs useless. Heâs too strong, and thatâs so hot, and youâre going to throw yourself off a bridge about this.
âLet go-â
âNo.â Steve drags you down the hall, into an empty conference room. âNot until we talk.â
âThereâs nothing for us to talk about-â
âWill you just stop being such a fucking brat and listen?â
Steve raises his voice, stern and commanding. Itâs deep, so deep it echoes through you, and your knees wobble. He sees it. His jaw ticks, his grip slackens, and you rip your hand away.
âBrat.â You mock. âWhat would America think, if they saw their Golden sun talking to a girl like that?â
Steveâs lips twitch. âYou are not a girl.â
âAw. Iâm a woman-â
âYouâre a problem.â He leans over you, voice dropping to a hiss.
And this is how he always looks at you, but magnified. With a sharper gleam in his eyes, his lips thin and white, like heâs trying to swallow every word. A vein in his brow ticks, and you smile.
âIâm a problem?â
Steveâs throat bobs. âYes.â
âHurtful,â you whisper, and he rolls his eyes.
âYouâll live.â
For a long moment, you just stare at each other. He wants to talk, he can talk. Youâre not entertaining this. Not just for him to unravel you then keep being a fucking dick.
âYouâŚâ He shakes his head, a tiny motion as his tongue flicks over his lips. âYou are impossible.â
âYouâre impossible-â
âBecause you make me impossible,â he sneers, and you lean back slightly.
âI- You-â You try to scoff. Itâs a weak sound. Heâs too close, and he smells like pine trees and something spicy, and itâs not fair. âI donât even do anything-â
âYes. You do.â
âWhat, is my skirt too short? Are my shoulders distracting you-â
âYouâre distracting me.â Steve presses forward, until your faces are only inches apart. âYou always distract me, you fuckinâ-â He closes his eyes, shoulders heaving.
âSteveâŚâ You breathe, and he chuckles.
âDonât say my name like that,â he rasps. âYou donât fuckinâ mean it.â
You blink, trying to think over the desire, burning in your body. Of course you meant it. You didnât even want to say it, but heâs so close. Itâs intoxicating. Youâd think he was drugging you, if that was possible.
Steveâs pressed you against the conference table. His arms are caging you in, giving you no escape from the electricity, almost crackling in the air. You open your mouth, then close it, lost for what to say. Youâre worried youâll just whisper his name again. He drags his eyes open after what feels like a million years, his voice dropping down to something hot and dangerous.
âYou never push anyone,â he says. âLike you push me, doll. Itâs not⌠It drives me crazy.â
You swallow, your voice smaller than you want. âYou- You push me-â
âBecause I canât help it.â He presses closer. Your noses are almost bumping. âYou are beautiful, and insolent, and infuriating-â
âSteve-â
âAnd youâre so sweet to everyone.â He grabs your jaw, and your hand flies to his wrist. âEveryone loves you, so they think Iâm crazy when I say youâre tryinâ to kill me.â
âEveryone loves me because of my powers.â You try to remind him, because if he does this, you wonât be able to stop him. âYou- You know that-â
âI do. Trust me,â he murmurs your name, gaze flicking to your lips. âI know. Spent so long blaming them too. All those daydreams had to be because youâre Natâs honeypot. Thought it was the wrong thing to do, that I was some kind of monster to thinking about you like that, when everyone else already does. But no,â he looks back to you. âItâs just you, doll. I plugged my nose, avoided your pheromones, let Bruce experiment on me to make me immune, did fuckinâ everything, and I still wanted you.â
You take a deep, ragged breath. You have to lick your lips, to stop the spit, and Steve tracks the motion like a predator.
No one wants you. Everyone loves you, but no one wants you. Youâre pretty but untouchable. No one can hurt you. If you ask someone for something, theyâll always do it, whether they really want to or not.
But SteveâŚ
He says he wants you. And you really want to believe him.
âHow long.â You breathe, and he sighs, bowing his head.
âSince the second I saw you.â
âYouâŚâ You scan over his face, looking for any hint that itâs not really him. That he doesnât really, fully mean it. âYou want to fuck me?â
His ears turn red. âI mean- Not just that-â
âBut you do,â you breathe, and he sighs.
Stares for a second longer, then nods.
âOkay.â You whisper. Steve looks to your lips, then back to you again.
âOkay?â
 You nod. Steveâs grip on your jaw tightens, and your breath hitches. He leans down slowly. So torturously slowly.
Your lips meet, soft and chapped and nervous. You lean up, and he presses down. Your noses bump, and his tongue flicks over your lower lip. Your nails dig into his bicep, and he grunts, and-
Steve snaps.
His other hand flies to your face, and he presses over you, hot and demanding. Your breath hitches, you mouth falls open, and he shoves his tongue down your throat with a groan. You grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him so hard you both stumble back. Your knees hit the back of the table, but Steveâs fast. He ducks down without breaking the kiss, and scoops you up into his arms.
You squeal, but the sound is quickly muffled by Steveâs tongue down your throat. Your laugh is breathless and giddy. He chuckles, pushing further forward, and you pull at the collar of his shirt. He jerks forward, angling his head to deepen the kiss.
âNeedy.â He mutters against your lips, and you shove his shoulder with weak hands.
âShut up, I could still stop this-â
âBut you wonât.â He taunts. âYou like it, donât you. Like gettinâ on my nerves, making me lose control.â
Steve pulls away, grabs your knees, shoving them apart with rough, firm hands. You gasp, grabbing at his neck. âSteve-â
âYouâre wet under there.â He growls, running a big hand up your inner thigh. âI can smell it. Smell how much you want me, every damn time youâd mouth off.â
Your swallow, pressing your brows tight together. You watch him rub your legs, breathing through your nose like some wanton whore. Steveâs thumb grazes the place where youâre leg meets your core, and your whole body shivers.
He smirks, looking at you under pretty lashes. You try to glare, but youâre panting. His gaze just makes the fire in your core burn brighter, and your tongue flicks over your lips.
âYou never said anything,â you whisper, and Steve gives you an amused look.
âYou wouldâve killed me.â
And you can laugh breathlessly. Ten minutes ago, you wouldâve. But now heâs all over you, and you canât even bring yourself to mock him.
âNo,â you brush your lips over his. âI wouldnât have.â
Steve works his jaw, that raw, strange look flashing over his face. The look thatâs yours. Thatâs only ever been for you.
He leans in, and this kiss is softer than before. Steve massages your hips, settling himself between your legs. You spread them wide to accommodate him, and feel it poking against your thigh. His cock, thick and hard, somehow bigger than you imagined, and you hadnât been thinking small.
âYou feel that.â He pulls your upper lip between his teeth, smiling slightly. ââS what you always do to me. Every day, Iâd be walkinâ around so hard I was worried youâd see it. But no.â His kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. âYouâre oblivious, arenât you honey.â
You hum, tipping your head back. Steve groans, dragging his lips over a pulse point, letting his tongue flick against sensitive skin. One hand slips under your shirt, careful fingers tracing up the line of your spine.
âSteveâŚâ You whisper. âDonât tease.â
âOh, but you like it too much when I do.â He rasps. âYou love it, love being a sweet little toy for me.â
You whimper, and he reaches around, grabbing a handful of your ass.
âSo bossy âtill Iâm touchinâ you,â he sucks on your neck, grinding his bugle into your core. You gasp as the rough friction, and Steve chuckles.
âYou- Youâre such an ass-â
âYou like that too.â He grunts, breath hot in your ear. âYou like beinâ the one person that gets me going, that makes me lose it. No one else, doll.â He pushes your ass forward, so your clit is pushed against the thick hardness of him.
A long moan escapes your lips, and you drop your face into his shoulder. Steve grunts, rutting forward, and itâs so fucking hot you canât think past it. The drawl of his voice in your ear, the strength of him around you, itâs intoxicating. The clothing adding extra friction, his fingers digging into your skin. His hand slips into your pants, deft fingers dragging down your ass to tease right against the drip of your pussy.
âJust you,â he thrusts forward, squeezing your ass. âOnly you. So fuckinâ pretty and sassy, drivinâ me insane-â
You whimper, and Steve makes a low sound, taking a deep breath against your hair. The table creaks, with the force of his every thrust.
âSo rude of you, sweetheart, to make me try and keep it together when youâre running around, begginâ to be fucked- God-â
Steve moans, jerking his hips back suddenly. You stare at each other, panting and flushed. He swallows, and thereâs a stain blooming on his pants. Your mouth falls open, and normally youâd make fun of him, but fuck. Thereâs so much of it. You can see white, leaking out of the cuffs of his pants and onto the floor. He came just from that. Just from holding and kissing you.
And heâs still so hard.
You lick your lips, and look back up. Steveâs throat bobs. You smile, fumbling with your pants, and he blinks.
âYouâre- Uh-â
âIn me.â You point at his dick, about to burst the seam of his slacks, then your core. âYou- Do that in me.â
Steveâs hands curl into fists. Youâve never seen his face so red. Itâs almost adorable. âUh- Are you sure-â
âDo you want to fuck me stupid or not?â
He leans back, startled. You hold his gaze, pull down your pants, hike your legs up on the table, and spread them wide.
You could swear you see it twitch, as he takes you in. Head thrown back, your fingers rubbing between the swollen, dripping lips of your cunt. You breathe out his name, dipping one finger into your heat and pumping slowly. Steve takes a rough step forward, grabbing your knees like handles.
âStop,â he grunts, and you obey.
Steve runs his fingers down your bare thigh, slowly guiding your hand away from your pussy. You grab his shoulder, holding his gaze as he rubs his thumb around your clit. You let out a slow, relaxed breath, and Steve smirks.
âYou like that, doll?â
âAs much as you did,â you breathe out, and Steve chuckles.
âAh. Too late for that.â He presses a mocking kiss to your open lips. âYou showed me what you want. How bad you want it.â
Steve flicks your clit, and your back arches. He presses back down on the little button, and a long moan rips from your lips.
âI came in my fuckinâ pants,â he whispers in your ear. âAnd youâre still begginâ me to fuck you.â
âWasnât- Wasnât begging-â
âBut you would,â he coos. âIf I asked you to. Youâd say please, Stevie and cry for me to stuff this pretty little pussy.â He pushes down on your clit, and you whimper. âLike the good little slut you are.â
God, the hold he has on you should be crime. You choke out his name pathetically, and Steve starts to rub you in thick, unrelenting circles. His free arm wraps around your lower back, holding you in place when his fingers dip down, and start to explore the folds of you pussy.
âSo wet,â he mutters, pushing one finger deep into your cunt. You clench around him, and a squelching sound fills the room as he pumps slowly. âWet and tight.â Steve looks up at you with a smirk. âYou think youâre gonna be able to take my cock, doll? Christ, youâre barely taking my finger.â
He pushes in a second one, just to prove his point, and your mouth falls open. Heâs right. The burn of his two fingers, it feels like heâs stretching you open with a fist. He slides them in deeper and deeper, his thumb working your clit, and your nails sink into his neck.
âSt- Steve,â you gape between your bodies, watching him disappear inside of you. âSteve-â
âHm?â He gets up to the knuckle, and looks up at you with a smirk.
You try to take a second to catch your breath, and he scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist so it hits a gummy spot inside of you. You cry out, and he silences you with a deep, messy kiss.
âFeel it,â he mutters against your lips, pulling his fingers almost all the way out. âNo talkinâ for once, doll. All you gotta do is feel it.â
He slams his fingers back in. You whimper, but nod. Steve hums in approval, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You squeeze and gush around him, and he groans. You barely get a second to compose yourself before he starts to thrust his fingers, deep and hard, and you start to unravel.
Steveâs strong. This is him holding back, and heâs still so strong. You scramble to get a real, firm hold on something, because heâs pummeling your pussy into a drenched, slack oblivion. The pace is brutal, knuckles dragging right over your g-spot over and over, splitting you open in a way that makes you drool.
He makes his mouth busy, trailing kisses back down your throat, then over your shoulders. You moan, leaning your head against his, and he smiles against your skin. Steve draws back to meet your gaze, and through the daze of the pleasure heâs dragging out of you, you smile back.
Your body is rocking, from the brutality of how heâs touching you. Steveâs eyes flick down, but not to where his fingers are being swallowed by your pussy.
Heâs looking at your tits.
He licks his lips, watching them bounce under his force. You think he might be hypnotized. Before you can say anything, he reaches up and rips your shirt clean off.
âSteve- Ooh-â
âShhh.â He gives you a stern look, twisting his fingers in your cunt. âIâve got you, doll. Just- Lemme-â
Steve looks back to your tits, and his eyes are almost black with desire. Youâve never seen anything hotter, than how he looks at you as he lowers himself down.
He mouths at the curve of your tits, sucking a tiny, dark bruise. You moan, starching at his bicep, but he just drags you closer. Forcing your back to arch, your tits to push into his face.
âLook at you,â he mutters, voice dripping with something close to reverence. âMy girl.â
And you blink. Because that wasnât discussed, but your pussy clenches all the same. His girl.
You donât get more time to think about it before Steveâs lips wrap around your nipple, and you lose control.
He mouths at you like a starved man. Kissing and licking and sucking, sending tingling, electric sensations straight from your tits to your pussy. He moans every time you squeeze down on his fingers, which just feels like a vibrator right against your sensitive nipples, and makes you lose it all the more.
Youâre grinding up into him, thrashing a little like an animal and whimpering in his ear. Steve bites down softly, his thumb staring to make quick, relentless swipes at your clit.
âOh- Oh fuck-â You moan, tugging at his short, soft hair. âSt- Steve- Too much- Iâm gonna- Fuuuck-â
You donât know why you thought he was going to slow down. Steve switches nipples, biting down before sucking hard, right as his blunt fingertips hit that spot inside of you. You cry out as you cum, your body writhing against his stronger one. He keeps you in place, his hand working you through the orgasm. Pulling every last spasm of your cunt, and a few more after. He kisses your nipples and over your breasts before he draws up.
When itâs done, your eyes are lidded. Steve stares at you, slowly pulling his hand out. He smears your juices over your pussy, thumbing at your clit for a few more, light seconds. You squeak, and he smiles.
âYou look pretty when you cum,â he mutters, and you flush.
Youâve been told that before, but this feels different.
This feels real.
You canât think of anything to say. Steve doesnât push you to try. He leans forward, cupping your cheek and giving you a smaller, softer look before he kisses you. You melt into him, too dazed from what might be strongest orgasm of your life to protest.
ââm gonna fuck you âtill you canât walk.â Steve mutters. âBut- Not here.â
You hum in agreement. âClean up later?â
âLater.â Steve grunts in agreement. âIf I donât get inside of you, think Iâm gonna die.â
You giggle. Itâs so stupid, but you giggle. Steve huffs out a low laugh, and drags your forward. Youâre being carried like a koala in his arms. He kisses your cheek before drawing up to his whole height, and glancing at the door.
âI, uh-â He gives you a sheepish expression. âIâm gonna have to run.â
You nodâyouâre naked, you expected as muchâand he clears his throat.
âYou gotta hold on.â
âI am holding on.â You pat his neck, and he sighs.
âDoll, Iâm gonna be running really fast-â
âIâm holding on tight.â
âHold on tighter.â
You roll your eyes, and wrap him in the best chokehold you can manage. The asshole doesnât even pretend to grunt.
âYour boobs are in my face.â He mumbles, and you snort.
âYou were eating them like, five seconds ago-â
âYeah, but- That was just us. What if someone sees-â
âThat youâre carrying me naked? Probably that weâre fucking.â
He twists his neck to glare up at you. You smile innocently back, and he sighs.
His breath is warm, over your breasts. It makes you squirm a little, and Steveâs grip on your body tightens.
âYou are such a brat,â he mutters, almost in awe. âI stop fucking you for ten seconds, and youâre already talking back again.â
âOops.â You beam. âYou should fix that.â
Steve chuckles. His tongue flicks over his lips. âYeah,â his voice is dark. A promise. âTrust me. Iâm gonna.â
And he runs. He runs so fast you squeal, because you forgot how fast he can be when heâs really trying. You press your face back into his neck to block the wind, and when he stops, you still donât look up.
The smell hits you first. Itâs deep and rich and-
Steve.
You poke your head up, and youâre in Steveâs room.
Itâs not what you expected, a military cell where he sleeps and plans way to torture you. Itâs⌠Cozy. There are books on a shelf that slightly poorly put together, and the bed is made but the sheets look thick and soft. Thereâs a mirror on the dresser, facing the bed, and so much paper you almost donât know where to look. Drawings of flowers, and rivers, and sunsets. One of a bird, and a few of the landscape of the compound, and so, so many of-
âIs that me?â
Steve grunts, tossing you down onto his bed and starting to strip. You move to your knees, ready to scramble off the bed and get a better look at the drawings, but he gives you a stern look.
âStay.â
You roll your eyes. âShut up, I wanna see- Steve-â
He grabs you like you weigh nothing, and throws you right back onto the bed before youâre even on two feet. Your thighs press together, thrilled with the blatant manhandling. Steve notices it, and laughs.
âYou like that, huh?â
âShut up-â
âNo, you liked that-â
âMaybe I did.â You stick your tongue out, and he smirks.
âYou love beinâ a ragdoll, donât you. Needy girl, youâre gonna let me do whatever I want to you-â
âYou have drawings of me!â You blurt, because you really donât need him to make you more horny.
Steve shrugs. âI do. So?â
âSo?â You fumble, pulling at the sheets. âYou- You like me-â
âThatâs a shock to you?â Steve gives you an amused look. âI just fingered you in borderline public.â
âWell- You- You-â Youâre sputtering again. Only Steve does this to you. It drives you fucking insane. âYou couldâve just wanted to fuck me-â
âNope.â He shrugs. âIâve been in love with you for a while. You just get on my last line sometimes, doll.â
And all your protests slip out of your head.
I love you.
He- He said-
âWhat?â You squeak, and Steve sighs.
âI love you.â
He said it again. âWh- Why?â
âWhy?â He gives you a tired, almost annoyed look. âWhy wouldnât I love you?â
âBecause Iâm annoying.â You answer immediately. âAnd mean, and bossy, and- Iâm annoying-â
âYou said that one already.â Steve starts to walk towards you, and you lean into his gravity, even as your heart beats in your ears.
âHow do you know you love me.â You whisper. âIt- It could just be my powers-â
âItâs not.â
âBut-â
Steve takes your face between his hands, his thumb dragging over your lower lip. You fall silent, and you know youâre staring up at him like heâs the sun, but youâve never been so warm. Youâre afraid to move. To lose it.
âSteveâŚâ You breathe, and he hums. âYou- You canât mean that-â
âI do.â He presses his thumb forward, and your lips wrap around it on instinct. You suck, and his eyes flash with more approval.
Itâs embarrassing, how pliable that makes you. How heâd just need to give you one bit of praise after so much mocking, and you might just cum right here. Sucking on Steveâs thumb, naked on his bed, sheets bunched between your thighs.
âI love you because youâre smart,â he says, and useless, embarrassing tears prick at your eyes. âAnd funny, and kind. You never abuse what you can do to people. You work hard, you drive me crazy, youâre always ready to do anything for anyone else.â
You try to shy away. Youâd been wrong. Youâre not cumming, youâre getting so hot it feels like a fever, because having him degrade you is less embarrassing than this. Steveâs grip on you face tightens. Heâs not letting you get away that easy.
âYouâre gorgeous,â he murmurs. âAnd itâs got nothinâ to do with any powers. So I love you, doll. And youâre gonna feel it.â
Thereâs nothing you can say to that. Tears are pricking at your eyes, hopeless and confused and desperate. You need to see what that feels like. Steveâs love, painted all over you.
âYou want that?â He mutters, and you nod. âWords-â
âPlease,â you breathe out, the words muffled around his thumb. âShow me.â
Steve smiles. He pulls his thumb away with a pop, and taps your check gently.
âSee?â He smirks. âBegging.â
Your eyes narrow, but Steve doesnât let you spit out a response. He crashes down into a harsh, long kiss that makes your toes curl and thighs rub together. Steve gropes all over your body, pushing you down into the mattress before rolling over and forcing you to straddle his chest.
Heâs naked. You donât know how you missed itâprobably the love confessionâbut the thick, hard curve of his cock slaps against your ass, and his bare chest flexes when you drag your nails over his pecs.
âYouâre gonna ride my cock, doll,â he rubs your ass, smiling up at you. âDonât need you to say anything back. Just show me,â he squeezes your ass. âHow fuckinâ bad you need it.â
You look back at it, and your breath hitches. Itâs huge. Bigger than any youâve ever taken, bigger than any youâve ever seen, even in porn.
âDid you take fucking drugs for that thing?â You breathe, and Steve snorts.
âYes?â
You glare at him, and he raises his brows.
âYou getting on, or not?âÂ
For a second, you think about being petulant. You cross your arms and pout, trying to test how far you can push him. But Steve just snorts, rolls his eyes, and picks you up. You donât even get to wiggle before heâs forcing you down on his dick, and the air is knocked from your lungs.
Steve sits so deep in your, it might be pushing all the thoughts out of your brain. You gape down at him, making weak noises as your pussy pulses and stretches around him. His fingers dig into your hips, but itâs the only sign that heâs struggling to hold himself back.
âMuch as I love you beinâ a brat,â he mutters, massaging your ass. âIâd rather see this.â
He reaches up slowly, tucking air behind your ear. You smile weakly, and he chuckles, settling fully into the pillows.
âRide it, doll,â he orders, and god help you, you try.
You catch your breath after a long moment that feels like eternity, and start to roll your hips. Steve groans, eyelids fluttering, but doesnât help you. His hands stay firm on your body, forcing you to use everything you have to grind down onto his dick.
He pushes against that gooey spot inside of you, and you falter with a long moan. You shift, forcing him right against it, and he lets out a sharp breath, but still doesnât move.
âFeels good, doesnât it,â he coos, cock throbbing inside of it. âNice and big, fillinâ up your pussy so good.â
You moan, hips bucking. Steve grunts, thrusting up slightly, and you tip your head back. The friction is good. So good. For a second, back arched and thighs aching, you find a rhythm. It starts slow, rolling and pushing Steveâs cock right where you want it. You look down at him, sweaty and adoring beneath you. His hands wander, his breathing ragged and lips parted.
âThatâs a good girl,â he mutters. âCâmon, baby, there you go.â
You keen, and move faster. Your knees are weak, but the need is stronger. You bounce on Steve dick, grabbing at his chest and gasping for air as he splits you open over and over again.
But itâs not enough. You donât have extra stamina or strength, and heâs so big, and youâre so turned on your body is starting to forget how to move. Every wet, obscene sound makes you glance at where heâs disappearing inside of you, the way your slick is coating his cock when you pull up and his balls are heavy, pushed against your ass when you drop back down. You get hornier, and you want to just let go and allow your eyes to cross and toes to curl, but you canât. You canât find the pace.
You canât cum. You canât, and pathetic, fat tears stream down your cheeks because of it.
Steve reaches up, brushing them away with a tiny smirk. âAw, babydoll. Donât cry.â
You sob, shaking above him as your legs finally get to weak. Youâre just squirming above him now, blinking under wet lashes at his teasing, lazy smile.
âCanât get there all alone, can you,â he pushes you down, slamming his hips up, and you make a choked sound like his name. âYeah, thatâs right. Sweet girl, just a fuckinâ mess on my cock.â
âPle- Please-â You blubber, collapsing over Steveâs chest. âGod, Steve- Please-â
âAw. Begging so pretty.â He kisses your brow. âHow could I ever tell you no?â
Steve grabs you off his cock, twisting you onto your stomach as he sits up. Youâre shoved down into the mattress, your cheek pressed into the cushions by one of Steveâs hands on the back of your neck. The other stays on your hips, dragging your ass high up in the air to present to him.
âSuch a mess.â Steve runs the head of his cock between the lips of you pussy, letting it press against your clit before he lines it up at your entrance. âYou really needed this, didnât you?â
He slides in slowly, and your eyes rolls back in your head. Heâs impossibly deeper at this angle. You try to press your face into the mattress, to muffle your pathetic sounds, but Steve folds his body over yours, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking it back as he bottoms out.
âLook.â He bites your ear, dragging back before slamming forward, drilling his cock back into your abused, over sensitive pussy. âLook at us, babydoll. Fit so fuckinâ perfect.â
Your eyes dart up, and oh. Oh god.
Itâs the most pornographic thing youâve ever seen. Steve wrapped around you, his jaw tight and one hand resting on your hip. You canât see where heâs fucking you, but you can see how his muscles flex with each thrust. Youâre trapped under him, your gaze locked onto his black, fervorish one. Thereâs no blue left in his eyes, as he hits a pace like an animal. Only hunger and adoration.
âSt- Steve-â
âThatâs it,â he rasps. âThatâs right, say my fuckinâ name- Scream it-â
âSteve!â You cry out, the tears streaming down your face as it becomes far too much. âOh- Ooooh-â
 Steve lets go of your hair, wrapping his massive bicep around your neck. It keeps your head up, keeps your eyes on his. He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel arousal sliding down your thighs as he rolls his hips.
âSo pretty,â he whispers. âLook at yourself. Look how fuckinâ perfect you are.â
Your eyes dart over, and an unbearable warmth prickles over your skin. You look more beautiful than youâve ever felt in your life. Thoroughly wrecked, worshipped, fucked into a drooling mess with swollen lips and glazed eyes. Steve noses at you, smirking against your skin.
âGood, good girl.â His words are thick, his thrusts becoming erratic. âFeels nice, doesnât it?â
You whimper an agreement, and Steve chuckles.
âYou gonna cum for me? Câmon, show me how nice it feels, cum on my fucking cock-âÂ
Itâs like he has more control over your body than you do. The orgasm rips through you at his command, and you sob out his name as you fall apart in his arms. Steve grunts, pulling fully out for half a second to roll you on your back. You barely even feel the loss before heâs burying himself right to the hilt, and you canât remember what being empty feels like.
Thereâs more than there looked to be. Steve pulls almost all the way out, to try and make more space, but it does next to nothing. Thick ropes of cum fill you up until you can almost taste it. There are wet, messy sounds as it starts to leak out, over your ass and thighs. You can see it in the mirror, dripping down onto the mattress. Youâre stuffed up so well, you try to say Steveâs name, but it just comes out a pathetic moan.
He collapses over you with a grunt, and all the edge vanishes. He pulls fully out, cradling you in his arms and kissing over your neck.
âI made a mess.â He mutters, running light fingers over your inner thigh.
You giggle, kicking him away, and he smiles against your skin.
âYou gonna talk to me?â
You shake your head, licking your lips. Your voice is gone, from screaming, and you can see him wince when he realizes it.
âI didnât hurt you-â
You shake your head quickly, and his shoulders relax.
âOkay. Good. I- Iâm gonna-â
He tries to get up. You grab him, and yank him back down. He grunts, giving you an incredulous look.
âHoney, itâs everywhere.â
You glare at him. Heâs warm. Heâs not getting away from you that easy. And you expect him to argue, like he always had before, but he just⌠gives in.
âOkay. Five minutes.â
He leans back over you, and you lay there. Cuddling.
Like a real couple.
You could be. Steve said he loves you, and he meant it, and that opens a door youâve never thought about before. A door you never even let yourself think about.
A door you might want to see the other side of, more than youâve ever let yourself admit.
But now-
You want it. You wanted this, and you want that, and youâre not going to spend another second pretending you donât.
âAbout what I said,â Steve mutters, like heâs reading your mind. âBefore we- Or- I guess during-â
 You roll over and grab his face. He blinks adorably, and you smile.
Steve murmurs your name, and you smile.
âI love you,â you croak out.
His jaw goes slack, and your smile widens. Itâs the only thing you can think to say. The only thing you want to say.
And when Steve kisses you, itâs slow. Romantic and loving and deep. He really loves you. Everyone in the world, and the perfect man loves you. He holds you like youâre the only thing in his world. You feel like youâre the only thing in his world.
And he might really be the only thing in yours.
âŚEnd note: i will never back off my "he's mean during sex" agendaâŚ
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cw: modern au, mdni, 18+, f!reader, substance abuse (alcohol), hallucinations, mental health problems, obsession, darkish daeron
ââââ â ââââ
ŕš he is certainly mad, the town folk liked to say, utterly insane. they called him the dreamer and told their kids haunting stories about the lighthouse keeper, who moved to the coast, trying to run away from the visions
ŕš some say he is from a wealthy family sent here as punishment, some say he is a fisherman's son, dutifully doing his job, some say he is a hopeless alcoholic, some say he is a real seer, connected to the old spirits
ŕš no one knows enough, so every statement is just a speculation. the town sits around a harbor. a few miles away, on a rocky cliff that juts into the sea, stands the lighthouse. the lightkeeper lives in a cottage beside it. that was everything people had, which only fed the whispers of the supernatural
ŕš what was certain is that he is a recluse. everyone in town knows that daeron doesn't need or want any sort of company besides his black newfoundland that barked and snarled at the mere sight of another human approaching
ŕš the visions, the voices, the dreams have never left him, even here in this godforsaken place, they were torturing him, stealing any hope of peace. many mornings, he found himself lying in the sand, wet and shivering, even though he was sure to close his eyes in his bed before falling asleep
ŕš though sleep was a generous word for the scraps of unconsciousness he was able to get. his days were cold, draped in a thick fog of agonising dread, while nights were hot, full of distant fire and pain, he never fully witnessed but felt deeply
ŕš sometimes it was more than just dreams, sometimes nightmares leaked into daylight as voices calling his name somewhere far away, sometimes they came as visions, twisting his sanity into something barely recognisable
ŕš daeron drank more at such days. much more. alcohol never fully helped, only dulling the gnawing never ending terror that lived in his mind, poisoning everything that was unfortunate enough to appear in his pathetic life. he could go days without showering, barely eating a thing, drowning all his feelings in brandy
ŕš his days were repetitive and simple, barely differing at all. sometimes he felt like he was living one never ending day. not that it really matter. daeron treated his job seriously, because it was the only thing in his life he could keep under some sort of control. so he checked the weather, repaired railings, walked the cliffs with his dog, lighted the beacon and drank
ŕš still it was better than in the city. it made sense, for him being here. even though, mostly because here he had you. his salvation. his ethereal curse. his safe place. his siren. the first time daeron saw you he was convinced you are one of his hallucinations, soaked wet from the rain, banging on his door
ŕš once you appeared in his life, many things started to make sense. the only thing that didnât make sense was how you found him and why you stayed. daeron didnât dare to ask. he was simply grateful, no, more than that. he was in utter disbelief, praying to whatever gods he believed in for you not to vanish, not to be a trick of his ill mind
ŕš you were always leaving in the morning and coming back in the evening, and it was the first time in his life that he had caught himself eagerly waiting for the day to end, just to see you again. no liquid could ever sedate him like your scent could. nothing ever could bring him the peace he felt when you were holding him close
ŕš sometimes he woke you up in the middle of the night, babbling nonsense and drenched in sweat, calling your name and begging you to stay, not calming down until you pressed your lips against his, shushing his feverish mumbling with your tongue
ŕš on good days, when the dread somewhat feels bearable, he is completely different: attentive, sweet, happy. daeron is so touch starved. ideally, he would keep you in his bed forever, spending hours between your thighs, listening to your moans and whimpers
ŕš daeron is deeply affectionate. holds your hand constantly, lays his head in your lap, and nuzzles your neck, feeding you breakfast, pulling you into his lap whenever he can. boring days suddenly evolved into your personal version of heaven. he smells of sweat, salt, and the lingering sweetness of liquor, mixed with something uniquely him. something that you associate with happiness
ŕš daeron is all raw emotions and insatiable desire. he is a deeply obsessive man, and he is starved. derranged and filthy, gross and perverted. in his eyes, you are still unreal, something ethereal, overworldly that he has a chance to put his greedy hands on.
ŕš daeron doesn't just adore you, doesn't just worship you, he devours. devours the same way he empties the endless bottles of alcohol he drinks you in, fucking, kissing, sucking, licking until you physically can't take it anymore
ŕš you are his magic pill to everything. his treat, his painkiller, his favourite meal that he can never get enough of. the more you spend time with him, the more daeron hates it when you leave, fueled by the fear of you never returning, vanishing, dissolving in the sand like another dream
ŕš to him it's not just sex. it's a ritual. an overworldly way of showing his devotion, of letting go of his ache, at least for a few hours. it is a soul merging bonding that makes the horrors feel survivable and the life worth living
ŕš sometimes he fucks you slow and tender, guiding your hips down on his throbbing length as hard rain drums against the windows. sometimes he is fucking you hard and fast, pressing you against the slick stone wall of the lighthouse, biting your lips until your saliva is filled with the coppery taste of blood. sometimes he is making you sit in his lap near the fireplace, toying with you, his fingers teasing the dampness between your thighs with agonizing slowness, pretending not to hear your pleading and begging. sometimes he is eating you out with your back against the hard shore cliff, hiking your leg up his shoulder, taking his time, savouring the moment of complete power he has over your pleasure
ŕš he is certainly mad, the town folk liked to say. and perhaps he was. but it doesn't really matter when you are the one driving him mad, does it?
blurb idea but itâs Dex x reader whoâs a ghost rider? Maybe a complex nuanced relationship like your other stories đł đđ
Dex Falls in Love With You. Unfortunately, Youâre a Ghost Rider.
TW canon-typical violence, CLINGY!DEX, mentions of death, moral corruption, possession, obsessive love, toxic devotion, manipulation of divine vengeance for a loved one lol, she/her pronouns, Zarathos is the spirit of vengeance.
word count : 1.8k (I keep getting overboard)Â
Dex x Ghost Rider!Reader is not an âI can fix himâ situation.
Itâs hellfire itself looking at your boyfriend like a meal and you standing in front of it saying, Not this one. Pick another one.
Being the Ghost Rider doesnât just mean you have a flaming skull and motorbike.
It means you are the human host for the Spirit of Vengeance. It means you are Zarathosâ favourite human meat bag.
You are nothing but a vessel for an ancient force who punishes people who have sinned beyond repair.Â
Zarathos isnât really a spirit in the simple little horror-movie sense. It is older and stranger than that. It was literally made by the One-Above-All to hunt the guilty, drag sin into the light, and make evil answer.
Basically, you hunt sinners.
You are still you. You still have your own heart, your own mind, your own love, your own mercy. But under your skin, behind your eyes, there is something divine and monstrous that wants to turn every sinner it touches into dust.
Like every other Ghost Rider before you, you have the penance stare.
It forces a a sinner to feel every bit of pain they have ever caused. All of it comes back at once as punishment.
Dex has seen you do it.
He has seen what happens when the Rider takes over and your skull is on fire. He knows the smell of smoke and burning leather and the way your voice stops sounding like one person and starts sounding like a chorus of dark angels hunting for a thousand damned souls.
He has watched your flaming skeletal hands grip AVTF agents by the jaw and make them look into your eyes. He had seen them scream. Most go catatonic. Some hearts simply stop because the body could not survive the weight of its own sin.
So yes, Dex knows what lives inside you. And you know what lives inside him.
Because the Spirit doesnât look at Benjamin Poindexter and see your boyfriend. It sees a man who needs to pay for his actions.
See, you can smell sin on people, and Dex is drenched in it.
Dex, who has thought terrible things, done terrible things, wanted terrible things. Dex, who would do more terrible things if someone gave him a reason and a clean line of sight.
The Spirit takes one look at him and goes: Sinner.
And you internally go, I know.
The Spirit says: Guilty.
And you say, I know.
The Spirit says: Burn him.
And that is when you bare your teeth and say, No.
Because you love him so much it is making you blasphemous. You love him so much you are arguing theology with the Spirit of Vengeance living in your ribs.
You love him so much you are standing in front of divine punishment saying, yes, I know he is guilty, yes, I know what he has done, yes, I know what he might do, but he is mine, he is my home, he is the only person who touches me like I am still human after the flames go out.
And Dex loves you for it.Â
In his defense, when he first fell in love with you, he didnât know about the Ghost Rider.
He just thought you were a pretty girl with pretty eyes he could get lost in. A pretty girl whose voice made his whole world narrow down into one fixed spot. He didnât know there was hellfire under your skin.Â
Then one day your eyes turned orange and your flesh burned away and suddenly the girl he loved was vengeance itself.
And Dex shouldâve run.
He didnât, because he knew you were still in there.
And honestly? He couldnât care less about the Spirit of Vengeance.
He cares about you.
Dex loves like tunnel vision. Once you are the centre, everything else is just noise.
The Spirit hates him? Fine.
The Spirit wants him dead? Fine.
The Spirit wants him burned for every sin he has ever committed? Fine.
You warned him multiple times. Told him, âDex, it wants to kill you.â
And Dex, an awfully devoted man, just looked at you like you had handed him a challenge, and boy does Dex love a challenge. Especially when the prize is loving you.
Still, there are good days and bad days.
On good days, when Dex is almost docile, Zarathos stays mostly silent as you go on your flamed bike and go hunt some other guilty soul instead.
But on bad days, when Dex kills and thinks about killing, he knows that loving him hurts you.
And he hates that.
Because for all the terrible things Bullseye has done, he wants you obsessively safe. Locked-door, checked-window, hand-on-your-back-in-a-crowd safe. He wants to protect you from every bad thing that has ever existed.
Except most of the time the bad thing is him. Because he is the one waking up the ancient spirit inside you. On these days, you actively have to bargain for his life to the Spirit.Â
And Dex is not selfless enough to leave. He loves you too much, wants you too much, needs you too badly to do the noble thing and disappear for your own good. He canât. He wonât.
But it still wrecks him.
Itâs obvious when he comes home bloody.
The second he steps into the apartment, everything changes.
The whites of your eyes disappear and they go black instead of orange. Then, you just stand there, staring at nothing.
Dex freezes in the doorway, blood drying on his skin, and his stomach churns because he knows you are fighting on his behalf.Â
You are somewhere inside your own head, teeth bared, pushing hellfire back down your lungs because Zarathos has seen him and smells blood.
SINNER.
You grit your teeth in your head. I know.
HE HAS KILLED.
I know.
HE WILL KILL AGAIN.
You cannot deny that.
You know Dex too well to think of him as innocent. You know the blood on his will never truly wash off. But the spirit lives in you. So if it wants to judge Dex, it has to go through you first.
The windows rattle.
The lights flicker.
Your eyes are somehow darker, darting back and forth as you are fighting a battle in your mind.Â
Dex is behind you now, blood drying on his sleeves, hands settling at your waist.Â
Zarathos snarls. HE BELONGS TO VENGEANCE.
No.
HE BELONGS TO JUDGMENT.
No.
HE BELONGS TO ME.
You bare your teeth inside your own skull.
You chose me, you hiss. You live in my bones. You use my hands. You wear my face. So listen to me for once.
In the physical world, Dex presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. Your fingers twitch.
You will not touch him.
HE HAS BLOOD ON HIS HANDS.
So do I.
In the real world, he presses another kiss, lower this time, through the fabric of your shirt. Dexâs mouth lingers there like he is trying to call you back.
HE IS DAMNED.
Then damn me beside him.
Dexâs arms fully slide around your waist. His forehead rests against the back of your shoulder.
âBaby,â he murmurs. âCome back to me.â
Zarathos roars.
The lights flare.
The air heats so quickly it feels like the apartment is about to catch on fire.
And then Dex, Benjamin fucking Poindexter, the man covered in blood, the man divine vengeance wants dragged screaming into punishment, kisses the side of your neck and almost whines. âCome on. I want a cuddle.â
Which is so ridiculous.
The Spirit of Vengeance is awake in your bones. Hellfire is crawling up your throat. An ancient force of punishment is trying to seize control of your body so it can burn your boyfriendâs soul clean out of him.
And Dex is behind you asking for a cuddle like a clingy housecat.
But thatâs your Dex, alright.
And somehow, it works, because the Spirit is losing its grip on you.Â
Zarathos roars, all fire and ancient hunger.
But Dex kisses your shoulder. Then just under your ear.
These were little kisses. Sweet, stubborn, selfish kisses from the worldâs most guilty man.
Insane.
Because what do you mean you are arguing with divine vengeance over Bullseye? What do you mean the Spirit wants him punished and you are standing there saying no?
The Spirit snarls.
YOU WERE BORN FROM WRATH TO DRAG SINNERS INTO THE FIRE.
I know.
Dex kisses your cheeks as his hands tighten at your waist.
But not this one.
The black in your eyes starts to break as you come back to the real world. You suck in a breath like you just crawled out of a grave, and Dex turns you around before your knees can give in
âThere you are,â he whispers.
You are mostly you now.
Mostly.
Your breathing is still shaky. Your hands are still gripping his shirt. The apartment still smells like smoke and the windows have just stopped rattling. The lights are still pulsing.
But your eyes still have a flicker of orange there.
Zarathos, the spirit of vengeance, is quiet, but itâs not gone.
Itâs watching and Dex knows it.
Of course he knows. Dex notices everything, especially when the ancient entity inside his girlfriend is staring at him like itâs time for dinner.
He knows Zarathos could kill him. He knows that thing could drag sin out of him and burn him hollow. He has seen what you can do. He knows the Spirit does not bluff.
And still, he smiles against your lips, that smug little fucker.
Because as far as he was concerned, The Spirit of Vengeance is being forced to watch its vessel kiss its prey. And Dex is just awful enough to enjoy it.Â
He kisses your cheek, your jaw, then your mouth again.
This time itâs slow and hot and a little mean with it, like every kiss is aimed at the orange glow behind your eyes.
âDex,â you breathe, half warning, half plea, as if to say please donât antagonise the ancient power in me.
He hums against your mouth, not even pretending to be sorry.Â
Because he loves that the Spirit wants him punished, and instead has to sit there in the back of your eyes while you let him pull you into his lap.
Such a fucking Dex thing to do.
He looks right at that little orange flicker and smiles, like he is baiting it. Like he knows exactly what he is doing.
Like heâs saying, look! Look at her choosing me again!
His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it aches, and his forehead presses to yours.
âI missed you,â he whispers.
And you melt a little, because fuck does he know how to bring you back.
So you kiss him again, blood drying on his shirt, your hands still trembling against him, the Spirit burning silent and furious behind your eyes.
Dex loves making it watch.
Because every time Zarathos reaches for him, you come back to Dex.
Every time.
And Dex loves that he is winning.
â
Note: I read Hellhunters, so Zarathos in this is more that flavour than the Mephisto-cursed version. Iâve also got a Bucky x Ghost Rider!Reader fic already, so I might fuck around and turn this Dex one into a longer one like that. Probably wonât be for a couple months though, so donât hold me to anything.
Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.
Word Count: 5k+
Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, slightly dark!Targaryens, medical inaccuracies, age gap
Note: so sorry it took forever for me to update, but I should be posting on schedule from now on <3 my exams are officially over!!! more chapters to come shortly!!
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The words came out slurred, almost incoherent.
But the sheer violence of them wasn't muffled.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Aerion didn't have the strength to sit up, to move, to do anything, but he still tried. Hands grabbing blindly at the sheets that pooled at his waist, the foreign line that was forced into his veins, injecting Seven knows what sort of poison into him; his movements were desperate, clumsy.
You stopped him before he could rip the IV out, holding his wrists down.
"Stop it." You hissed out, trying to prevent him struggling but he was relentless, body writhing despite the pain that flared at each attempt. "You're going to rip your stitches open."
He let out a noise â half whimper, half groan, all weakness. He looked ashamed that he allowed the noise to escape, cheeks tinging pink as he continued to glare at you. You were unsure if his rouged cheeks were sourced from embarrassment or the suspected fever. He repeated the question, this time the words coming out clearer.
"Fucking shitâ" He groaned out, the swears spitting out of his mouth as another wave of pain rippled through his body. "Who are you?"
He had stopped moving now, his fingers curling into the garnet silk as he tried suppressing another wince. He wasn't successful, his face screwing up. Everything just hurted so much â his chest, his ribs, his lungs, everything. Especially his abdomen, the skin prickled there, the pain was deeper, crueler.
You muttered a reply. His mind went blank when he heard it, trying to decipher the meaning behind it until he finally recognised it for what it was. A name. Your name. It was pretty, suited you well, but it meant nothing to him.
"That's not what I asked." He mumbled, the consonants slurring, softening. He continued to glare at you, or at least tried to. You were moving too fast, making him dizzy as you rounded the side of the bed going to something he was unable to see from his laying position.
"Someone your family kidnapped." You responded, not bothering to sugarcoat the truth as you grabbed the stethoscope once more, lifting the neckline of his shirt as you let the chest piece settle where his heart was, counting the beats. It was thrumming steadily, quickening for a moment when the cold metal kissed his hot skin, his body involuntarily shuddering at the sudden contact, but his heart beat settled once more. It was still faster than what it should have been.
He was quiet, unsure if you were lying to him or just making a weird joke, but the deadpan stare you gave him confirmed that you weren't.
You moved it lower, aiming for his lungs this time.
"Slow, deep breaths." You instructed, focusing on the sounds â it sounded mainly normal, except for the slight wheezing sound you could hear each time he inhaled.
You removed the stethoscope, moving to scribble your result onto a new page, ensuring to include a note about the patient being awake.
"You Blackfyre?" He finally asked, voice strained, his mouth feeling strangely dry.
You hummed softly at his question. You had heard that name far too many times in the past day, being mumbled like a curse. And even now when Aerion had said it, it was dripping in vitriol. You vaguely recognised it; you had seen it many times during your late night research, the name seeming to follow House Targaryen like a shadow, lingering on the sidelines. Far enough that you did not truly know much about the Blackfyres, but close enough that you knew there was history there. Hatred, to be exact.
It was deeper than simple animosity, harsher than just business ventures going wrong; there was shared blood, a certain permanence forged through relation. And that hatred seemed to never waver.
Maekar cursed it with anger, Aerion announced it with disgust â it was clear that this was an ancestral loathing that was being passed down generation to generation, and would certainly be inherited by the next.
"You're more stupid than I expected." You answered, keeping your gaze focused on the neat, equally spaced lines of your notebook, the ink swirling in the space between as you continued to write your observations. Clammy skin, looks pale. "Why would I be allowed to care for you if I was?"
You noticed his breathing becoming shallow, as if the very task of breathing was becoming difficult for him. You frowned slightly, shit. Was he getting worse?
He was quiet for a moment, and you could almost see the thoughts rattle in his skull, desperately trying to find a reason as to why you were at fault for being abducted. You suppose you were, in some sick twisted way. You should have never helped.
"Peake, then?" Aerion tried again, brows furrowing as he felt pain ripple through his chest with each breath he took.
"No."
"Then why the fuck would they take you?"
"No idea." You muttered exasperated, grabbing for the oral thermometer in the hopes that it would shut him up. Just for a few minutes at least. "Open your mouth."
He screwed his lips shut, forcing them into a tight line as he watched you with weariness, as if you were holding a dagger rather than a thermometer.
You were going to scream.
You closed your eyes, breathing in deeply, exhaling â repeating the motions once, twice. But still your head ached, and still you felt your anger flare once more. You just had to take care of him, ensure he wouldn't drop dead, and then you could leave. And now this loser wasn't even letting you do what you were abducted for? What you were being forced into doing?
He was pissing you off.
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying desperately to not swear at him (and to not hit him either, which was becoming an extremely tempting thought).
"You were shot." You stated, your finger curling around the cool plastic of the thermometer as you forced your voice to remain stable. You pulled his shirt up, exposing pale skin and his bandaged abdomen as you poked at the very spot where the injury was. He flinched. "And I dug the bullet out. I cut your middle open to check if your organs had been blasted through. And I then stitched you up. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it then. Open your mouth."
He just watched you, eyes squinting as he tried to judge the weight of your words, to discover whether they held any truth. But thinking just made the room spin more violently, and he already felt sick.
Slowly his lips pried open, his gaze darting away from you as he allowed you to put the thermometer into his mouth, as if by denying you his attention he was not truly accepting defeat. The metal nudged against his tongue as you gently pushed it underneath the pink muscle. You held it there for ten seconds, the time seeming to drag as all you could hear was his shallow breathing.
You already knew the result before you had even seen the small digital screen, the square flashing numbers just confirming what you feared. 39°C. His temperature had jumped since the last time you had checked, and before you could control yourself, the back of your hand was resting gently against his forehead, gauging the temperature as if the thermometer had lied to you.
He moved his head at the contact, trying and failing to escape your hand (but he couldn't move much, and soon gave up).
"What's wrong?" He questioned, voice coming out hoarse.
You didn't answer him, instead turning to Dunk who had been lingering at the entrance the entire time, quietly observing you.
"I need paracetamol." You stated, ripping out a page in your notebook as you began to write the name of the antibiotics you needed, hesitating for a moment as you tried to recall the exact names and dosages. You offered the piece of paper to the tall man. "And, um, these antibiotics."
You had ensured your handwriting was legible, that each inked letter was clear and unable to be misread, but even then Dunk just stared at you blankly, his gaze darting from the piece of paper in his hand, to you, and then back to the paper.
"Ceftriaxone and metronidazole." You recited, your brows furrowing as you watched him repeat it back.
"Paracetamol, ceftriaxone, metronidazole." Dunk muttered to himself over and over, trying not to stumble over the syllables, turning to leave as he folded the piece of paper once, twice, placing it neatly in his blazer pocket. It had been written, so why was he determined to commit it to memory? It made no sense.
You turned to Aerion.
He had already been staring at you.
Observing you with a wary quietness, not truly trusting you. He didn't have to, the sentiment was shared.
"Am I dying?" He mumbled pathetically, and you rolled your eyes at him.
You wanted to reply sarcastically, to be cruel and mock him, but it was hard to be a bitch when he was watching you with genuine fear, his skin all pale and sweaty as he waited for your response with baited breath. It must've felt like he was dying, pain coursing through his body each time he tried to do something as little as breathing.
So you showed him some mercy, unable to find it in you to be mean.
"No. You have a fever."
You didn't explain what a fever could mean, that it hinted at another issue. That you prayed that you hadn't missed something during the surgery. You hadn't, right? You were certain that everything went well, but you could barely remember.
It seemed to have comforted him at least.
"Just a fever?" He repeated, letting you help him sit up, his back hitting the ornate headboard. Despite your gentleness, he still hissed in pain, a stabbing ache throbbing through his full abdomen, the air escaping his lungs. "Don't need meds then. Dragons don't take meds."
You stared.
One second passed, and then another. And you just sighed, choosing to ignore his words. It was the fever talking, it had to be.
(But with three separate dragon heads facing your direction, and numerous other examples of dragon paraphernalia dotted around the room, you weren't entirely sure. Was this dude a furry? You'd rather not know.)
'Mother Above, give me patience.' The silent prayer repeating in your mind as you began to lift his shirt, fingers ghosting his skin as you helped him out of it. The prayer had no value to you, and you felt slightly silly for resorting to muttering words you had not even recited since your father had died. But you were desperate and they helped distract your mind, even if it were only for a moment.
He grunted lowly as he allowed you to pull the cotton over his head, dropping the t-shirt on the end of his bed, the branded label flashing at you slightly as the fabric pooled by his feet. You would have to get him a new shirt, this one having the scent of iron and sweat clinging to the fibres.
You unwound his bandages, gathering the loose material as you disposed of it, your attention returning to Aerion's abdomen.
"Like the view, Angel?"
You frowned at his words, gaze flickering up to meet his only to find him smirking at you, his eyes sharpened with amusement.
"Oh definitely." You replied sarcastically, not even hiding the harsh eye roll you offered him. "The sight of deathly pale skin and blood really gets me going."
His smirk twitched slightly at your response, eyes narrowing. He didn't appreciate your sarcasm. But you didn't care, you weren't going to offer him sincerity, not when you hadn't slept in more than 24 hours, not when you didn't even want to be here. You preferred him when he was unconscious, when his brain was blurred with pain. When he was unable to speak.
He remained quiet as you cleaned his wound once more, your hands gentle as the skin twitched beneath your touch, watching as he tried to restrain his flinches. You noticed his sharp inhales, the way his fingers curled into themselves. You said nothing, but ensured your touch was lighter.
You wrapped his abdomen again, fresh bandages spanning around his waist, flush against the lean muscle, your arms wrapping around him in an awkward half hug each time the bandages circled his person. You were close, too close â he was able to smell the scents of your soap, something floral, something sweet, he was unable to pinpoint the exact notes.
He could only swallow harshly when you were at this distance, half sat upon the edge of his bed as you secured his bandages, ensuring they were tight enough. His gaze traced the contours of your face, the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek. Brows pinched in concentration, a small wrinkle forming in the middle of them. The plush of your lips set in a tight line. His gaze lingered there the longest.
But you pulled back all too soon, mind distant as you advanced towards the large mahogany armoire, rifling through it until you had found exactly what you were looking for. It was a strangely difficult task, to find an old shirt that would be baggy on his frame, it seemed like the silver-haired Targaryen dared not repeat his outfits, all clothing items appearing as if they had only even been worn a maximum of three times. You had only wanted to find something that wouldn't cling to him, that would have minimal opportunity to disturb his bandages, yet it felt as though you had searched through his entire closet just to find one that had been bunched up into the corner â the soft cotton now a faded grey, suggesting that it had once been dyed black but age had bleached its fibres.
It was slightly wrinkled, evidence of being neglected and forgotten (yet its very presence suggested the opposite â why would this remain when it simply did not fit the evident pattern of his wardrobe? Why was this not discarded also?) The typography was simple, white peeling vinyl simply stating VSC below the minimalistic image of an anvil.
Aerion did not bother speaking to you after that, his mind going blank as he allowed you to manipulate his limbs, dragging the old shirt over his upper body, your touch ghosting along his skin, causing goosebumps to rise. He was unsure of what to even say, all he knew was that he wanted to speak more yet his mind was not allowing him to do so. And soon he yielded to the temptations of sleep once more, falling into the clutches of slumber, the thought of you drifting across his mind as he began to have hazy dreams of gunpowder and arsenic.
You watched as he slept once more, kicking off the slippers that Dunk had brought you last night, busying yourself with cleaning any scratches that marred your skin, evidence of your failed escape. You wouldn't be able to leave through impulsivity, that was what you had quickly deduced. And you could not appear irrational to the Targaryens either, yet that was easier said than done.
You could argue that you were the most rational individual within the premises, yet they still outnumbered you.
Fucking Targaryens.
You were not entirely sure how you were meant to handle this situation. Your mind wandered, what would Rowan do?
Well, firstly your best friend would never be in such a situation. She would have had the sense to ignore strange noises in the middle of the night. Yet if she were to ever give you advice for this situation (which unfortunately you could not ask, nor would you ever seek for you knew that it would be truly stupid to involve her), she would laugh and remind you that you were surrounded by men.
Men were simple, as she would often say. She would have been able to manipulate them all, with a flutter of her lashes and a pleasing smile, she would have softened Maekar's brutish nature and convinced the otherwise unwavering Baelor to allow her to leave.
But you were not Rowan, and it seemed as though these men did not care for your anger or your tears. Yet you could still try.
It was easier than you believed â it was not in your nature to soften yourself. Yet when you offered Dunk a hesitant smile accompanied with a gentle 'thanks' as he handed you the very antibiotics you had requested (the doses correct, the names matching the very ones you had provided), you watched with gleeful triumph as his eyes widened slightly, cheeks tinged pink as he stumbled over a reply. Yet despite the slight pride that ignited within you, you found yourself not even focusing on the man before you.
Would you be able to have such an effect on Baelor? A small voice in your head whispered that you wouldn't. That even if you fluttered your lashes at him and appeared meek, the brunet Targaryen would most likely quickly deduce your intentions. Your heart fell at the thought; he certainly would not be rendered weak by your attempts.
Dunk lingered near you after that small interaction, watching silently as you began to administer the antibiotics into his IV, his gaze fluttering over you when he believed you would not notice. You did notice, it was hard not to when the half-giant was hovering beside you, his lips parting slightly as he tried to will himself to speak to you, before dissuading himself.
You decided to rescue him from his indecision, forcing him to reply to you as you began talking half-mindedly, your gaze returning to his momentarily as you allowed idle conversation to fill the air while you settled once more into the seat by Aerion's bed.
He would avoid your gaze as he muttered hesitant responses, only allowing himself to look at you when he believed that your attention returned to Aerion, who was blissfully unaware of his surroundings.
"Egg did that?" You giggled, lips stretching into a smile that felt too real (it seemed as if you were manipulating yourself more than him, and you just tried to excuse it with your own exhaustion â surely you would be more clearheaded once you slept), watching as Dunk offered a soft smile as he recounted the story of how he met the young Targaryen.
"The boy's far more clever than me, and I hadn't even realised what had happened." Dunk complained, yet the way his eyes crinkled exposed his fond pride as he recounted how Egg had conned him into believing that he was just another Smallfolk boy. "Just that he needed help, and I gave it."
You hummed softly, tone teasing as you leaned towards him. "Yet you benefited from his scheming in the end."
"I supposeâŚ" He mumbled as you referenced how he got his job as a Kingsguard, blush violently remaining on his face as cracked his knuckles, the room beginning to lull into an even silence once more. He wanted the conversation to continue, yet he was unsure of how to do so. He was never good with his words. He was simply glad that your anger seemed to have dulled.
Your gaze flickered down to his hands, tracing the scars and callouses that were peppered across his skin, accompanied by the very grazes you had scratched into his skin the night before. The skin still appeared raw, angry red lines that had scabbed over slightly, the skin slightly torn. Silence stretched as your gaze remained unwavering from his hands.
"I thinkâŚ" You began slowly, forcing your gaze to drag from his hands, returning to his blue irises. "I think I need to speak to Baelor again, especially now thatâŚ" Your voice trailed off, watching as Dunk began to shake his head, your brows furrowing as he motioned a wordless refusal.
You interrupted your own trail of thought, slightly confused.
"No?" You questioned.
He had the decency to appear sheepish as he confirmed that no, you could not speak to Baelor. "He's returned to King's Landing, along with Maekar."
You nodded gently, steeling your expression as you tried to not react to the word return. They returned to King's Landing, meaning that where you were, where they had taken you, was certainly not still in King's Landing. Where in the Seven Hells were you then?
"Oh, okay." You replied, voice hesitant as thoughts began to whizz through your mind, only furthering the headache that plagued you. "Dunk, could you do me a favour?"
He visibly stilled at those words, his eyes widening slightly as his brain began to malfunction, stumblings of a reply exiting his lips.
"Umâ" He stalled, his gaze fluttering away from you as you watches as his focus darted around the room. "Maybeâ depends? Why?"
You forced the smile to remain on your lips, hoping that it appeared more fond than strained. "I just need to make a call."
"I don'tâ"
"Come on." You urged, your gaze chasing his as you leaned towards him. "You do owe me, Dunk. I'll forget about the full thing if you just let me."
You watched his expression with avid curiosity, observing through your lashes as his lips tightened, his gaze unsteady, fluttering to you, then towards a sleeping Aerion, and then towards the flying dragons carved into the bedframe. You watched as indecision wavered on his features, brows tightening as he prepared himself to refuse you once more. You interrupted him before he could utter those dreaded words.
"I'm not stupid, Dunk." You quickly interjected, trying to hide the nervousness that began to seep into your features, keeping your tone teasing as you stood up, grabbing his hand gently. He flinched slightly at your sudden touch, yet still allowed you to grasp his hand, "I'm not going to tell them about what's happened, I just need to make sure my family won't worry about me."
He bit his lip slightly, a small frown dawning on his features. "You're not going to mention any of this?"
"Of course not." You responded, immediately latching onto the semblance of an offer, intertwining your pinky with his. "I promise."
His gaze dipped to where your fingers were linked, and immediately you knew you had won.
This would quickly be evidenced by the fact that within the next second he was fishing his phone out of his pocket, offering it to you with slight hesitancy as your pinkies remained connected by your side as you snatched the phone out of his hands. You weren't able to discern whether Dunk regretted his decision, your attention mainly focused on remembering Rowan's phone number, each digit quickly filling the top half of the screen as you pressed the green call button, the device vibrating slightly as you waited. There was one buzz, and then another, before the familiar melodic tones of Rowan's voice disturbed the silence.
"Hello?"
Your heart soared at the sound of her voice, a part of you almost wishing to just begin sobbing, airing each and every complaint that had festered within you. But you couldn't.
Her voice called out again, the vowels dragging as her questioning tone filled the air once more.
"Helloooo?" She repeated, and you could hear the murmurings of a male voice in the background urging her to hang up. "I don't know, I don't thinkâ"
"Rowan." You interrupted, your voice coming out more breathless than you had anticipated. "Hi, sorry, I just needed to call you."
She uttered your name in that same questioning tone, and you could hear her fumbling with her phone, no doubt checking the number that had called her.
"Babes, whatâ what's going on? Whose phone are you calling me on?" Her voice was laced with confusion, words stumbling over themselves only for your voice to interrupt her once more.
"Just using a friend's, but that doesn't matter. Just needed toâ" You exhaled a sigh, taking a moment to recollect yourself as you tried to not stutter over your words. "Just having a family emergency, you know? Could you take care of the practice for a while? Message Alys to cover my shifts please?"
Your voice came out in a myriad of questions, trying to force your tone to remain even, to not expose any evidence of the nerves that were haunting you.
"Friend? Emergency?" She repeated the words back incredulously and you suppressed the urge to wince. She could tell you weren't telling the entire truth. "Babes, I don't understand, what's going on?"
"Ro, I am so sorry, but I can't talk right now." You avoided her question, instead choosing to feign urgency. "I'll explain the next time I see you, yeah? Love you."
You hung up before she could reciprocate any farewells, the phone emitting a definitive click as you abruptly pressed the red button, watching as the screen returned to Dunk's homescreen, a picture of a sunhat-wearing Egg sat upon his shoulders.
You let go of his hand, letting his pinky fall out of your grasp.
"Thanks." You muttered weakly, offering him his phone and a tight-lipped smile.
"Go to the kitchen." He blurted out, his voice surprising you slightly. "I just mean, you should go eat something, I can watch him."
"I'm not hungry."
"You should still have a break." He insisted. You hesitated for a moment, your gaze drifting over Aerion. Dunk noticed. "I'll call for you if anything happens."
"Maybe just for a bit?"
"Just for a bit." He encouraged, offering you a soft smile as he moved out of your way.
You quickly regretted accepting his offer of a break, immediately feeling disoriented the moment you left the room, feeling almost blinded by the stark marble that shone at you from every direction. You felt dizzy seeing something other than bloody crimson and ornate dragon heads.
The rest of the manor appeared foreign to you in the daylight, unable to discern which direction you were truly heading in. You were almost certain you had not travelled these same corridors the night prior, however, by some miracle, you somehow managed to stumble upon the kitchen.
Which had been filled by the rest of Maekar's brood.
They all stared at you as you entered, watching you wide-eyed as you tried to blend into the walls, pretending as if you had not noticed their obvious attention. You instead directed your focus towards the actual room (how enthralling, you were now being entertained by furniture), unable to ignore how it appeared awfully clinical.
Stainless steel and glimmering marble; it was truly a gorgeous kitchen, yet it appeared so sterile you were certain you could have performed Aerion's surgery here without having concerns of cleanliness or a lack there of. It appeared more industrial rather than familial, like the kitchen of an upscale Reach restaurant rather than a family home.
And like everything within the manor, it appeared unused.
Daeron broke the silence as he watched you inspect the double doored enormous fridge (yet despite the appliance being so large, it's contents were so bare, with only a few random items on each shelf).
"Made you toast." He offered, pushing the plate in your direction as he leaned against the ivory marble island. "Would ask if you want something else, but unfortunately this is where my culinary prowess ends."
You turned slightly, observing the two sad pieces of sourdough bread he offered. Slightly charred at the edges, yet the middle appeared strangely untoasted. Gods, why did you feel kinship with the toast. Just another thing the Targaryens managed to fuck up.
You grabbed the jar of raspberry jam, letting the fridge doors swing shut as you mumbled a soft 'thank you'.
You weren't exactly well-versed on abductee etiquette, instead choosing to abandon any attempt at small talk as you allowed awkward silence to fill the air, the only sound being your stainless steel table knife dragging against your toast, smearing the vivid tart jam across its surface.
And clearly the Anvil's children's were unsure of how to handle such a situation either. But seeing as they were the abductors, or rather related to the abductors, it only made sense for them to take the role of interrogators.
"Are you really a doctor?"
"You're so prettyâ"
"âCan you look at Meraxes nowâ"
"âAre you going to be our new Mummy?"
You choked at the last question, the toast feeling as if it had impaled itself into your pharynx as you struggled to breath, unable to look at the little girl.
Daeron did not help, immediately falling into a fit of giggles at Rhae's question. But the young Targaryen did not see the humour within her question, and instead repeated it with increased urgency.
"Well? Are you?"
"No." You wheezed out, your face feeling as if it were burning. Seven Hells, fuck your fucking life.
"Why not? You're taking care of Aerion, even though he's mean. And you're really nice, and pretty. Do you not like my Daddy?" Rhae interrogated, head tilting as she peered up at you through her pale lashes.
Darling girl, I don't think anyone in their right mind would like your Daddy.
Yet you found yourself wholly and truly dumbfounded, unable to respond. Speechless as you could only just stare at her.
"Think she's a bit young for Dad, Sun-Rhae." Daella interrupted, immediately noting how shocked you appeared as she watched unimpressed, flipping though her magazine (the front page boasted the title 'The Maidenvault' and you quickly recognised the image of Kiera of Tyrosh pictured).
"So? Auntie Dany is younger than Uncle Maron?"
"I justâ" You cleared your throat, immediately noticing how strained your voice sounded. "I don't know your dad, andâŚ"
And you couldn't believe that you were even bothering to explain why you would never marry the man who aided in your kidnapping???
"âAnd she's just here to help Aerion." Daeron finally explained once he stopped laughing, yet that stupid smirk remained on his face. At least someone was enjoying this interaction. You certainly weren't.
And you were so tired that you couldn't find it in you to correct him. Sure, you suppose you were here to help Aerion, despite it being unwilling.
"OkayâŚ" Rhae mumbled, her voice trailing off as she continued to watch you, her soft lilac gaze observing you as she looked unconvinced by the explanations offered.
"Okay." You parroted, voice weak as you tried to focus on finishing the toast before you, yet it felt as if your appetite had suddenly abandoned you. You were going crazy, surely that was what was occurring. Sleep deprivation did that to a person.
"Pleaaasssseeeee, can you look at Meraxes now, pleasepleasepleaseâ" Egg's voice caused you to jump slightly as you finally noticed that the bald Targaryen had managed to sneak up behind you. You gasped sharply, spinning to face him as his hands grasped at the hem of your shirt, tugging at it slightly.
"Sure! Why not!" You exclaimed, finally relenting to Egg's pleas, more so excited to finally escape the kitchen. You were certain that if you remained there any longer you would truly become insane. "Just bring her toâ"
And before you could even finish your sentence, Egg ran off, darting out of the kitchen with such speed that you found your head spinning.
Medical school is hard. It's even harder when your brother is officially your boss, and you have the most debilitating crush on the intern in charge of you. From THIS moodboard.
warnings: 18+, mdni! canon medical talk, explicit sexual content (oral f receiving, protected pinv), reader is mark greene's half-sister, but remains undescribed physically, she also has a little bit of performance anxiety surrounding orgasms w/c: 6.5k
main masterlist // ER masterlist
You didnât know that you had a brother until you were nine, and your mother died.
Your parents were never fully together, per se, but your dad was a fairly constant presence in your life. At every birthday, recital, soccer game. Heâd go away for work, and come back with some kind of present for you, and a little gift for your mom too.
If somebody had told you that his âwork tripsâ simply meant that he was with his other, original, family, you would have laughed.
Thereâs no way.
How could a man maintain two entirely separate families in the same city, and not get caught until your mom has a massive heart attack and dies in her sleep?
As your newfound legal guardian, heâd been left to introduce you to Mark and his mother. The other Greene Family.
To this day, youâre still not sure how he broke the news. Youâve never asked Mark - it didnât seem fair to reopen old wounds.
As a nine-year-old with no other relatives, youâd moved into the box room at the back of the house - barely enough room for a bed, much less a person. It didnât help that Markâs mom insisted every single trace of your life be confined to that room.
If somebody was visiting, theyâd never know you even lived there.
In hindsight, you understand where she was coming from. Markâs parents had been married, and your presence wrecked that. They didnât separate, but it was never the same.
All of them, including your dad, would have been far better off without you.
Despite that, Mark was a saving grace. Never once did he hold your past against you, understanding that you had nothing to do with your dadâs grievances. Instead, he took you under your wing, even at eighteen. He played soccer with you, took you out to lunch, and looked out for you.
Of course, it couldnât last forever, and soon Mark went off to college, leaving you caught between a depressed step-mother (if that was what you could call her), and an alcoholic father.
Life was hard, made brighter only by Markâs occasional visits. Heâd call and write, telling you all about medical school - how he had a girlfriend named Jen, and they were going to have a baby. Sometimes, you liked to pretend that you had no parents at all, and simply lived with your brother.
Even now, you wonder if you would have become a doctor without Markâs influence.
You hadnât quite taken the same path as him, training as a nurse during undergrad, before landing a scholarship for medical school. Even with the extra help, you wouldnât have been able to afford to move to Chicago without him.
The nursing job at County? Definitely something Mark managed to wrangle on your behalf. You can pick up locum shifts whenever you need some extra cash - Carol always needs the help.
You moved into his and Jenâs spare room, barely bigger than your one back home, but endlessly more inviting. You paid your rent in babysitting Rachel until you had enough saved to get your own shoebox, and life suddenly started looking up. Now, finally, itâs all making sense.
Youâve started your clinical rotations. Practicing the job youâre going to be working until youâre sixty. Being at County helps - youâve grown very familiar with Markâs friends over the years. Doug, Carol, Susan.
Feels a little less like being thrown to the wolves.
After a harrowing six weeks in surgery, spending as much time as possible in the ER with Benton, youâre finally back until Christmas. You love it here. Itâs exactly your speed.
Thereâs just one problem.
In your entire medical school career thus far, nobody has terrified you the way John Carter does. Not because heâs scary, or unpleasant, or anything of the sort.
But because you canât think straight whenever youâre in a ten-foot radius of him. Which, unfortunately, is most of your day.
Itâs not your fault. Carter is exactly your type - practically tailor-made to your tastes. If youâd been asked to build yourself a boyfriend at the age of ten, youâre pretty sure you wouldâve come up with somebody almost identical to him.
Maybe he wouldnât be quite so popular with women. Youâve never been one for competition - ironic, since youâve chosen to devote your life to medicine.
You had been clocked immediately by Doug and Carol for your crush, leading to some interminable teasing during your surgical rotation. After all your time in Chicago, theyâve become as much siblings to you as Mark.
Unfortunately, Doug Ross is far more perceptive than Mark Greene, and likes to lord that fact over you. Thus far, his meddling has included shoving you into Carter, tricking you both into wearing matching costumes at the ER Halloween party, and even locking you both in a supply closet under the guise of a dodgy hinge.
Things have only gotten worse now that youâre in the ER every day, with a whole new group of students.
There are four of you. You, Iain, Madeline, and Emil. All entrusted largely to Carter for the duration of your placement.
Emil is nice. Quiet, and very obviously not cut out for Emergency Medicine (heâd confessed to you on day one that he was gunning for geriatrics), heâs smart in an entirely non-judgemental way, and youâve studied with him on more than one occasion.
You tried your hardest to like Madeline. As one of the few other women on your course, youâd felt like it was important to have some kind of sisterhood. Support each other in a field dominated by men. She didnât quite share the same sentiment. While she doesnât seem to have a huge interest in the ER, she does have an interest in John Carter.
A big one.
If you thought your crush was obvious, Madeline is shameless. Sheâll try and flirt with him over the most severe traumas, while the rest of you are elbow-deep in some guyâs guts.
The worst part was, you thought it might be working at the start. For the first week or so, he seemed to entertain it, leading to all sorts of rumours in the ER.
Youâre not proud to admit it, but it made you sick with jealousy. Pulling some strings with Mark, you cited an interest in paediatrics as an excuse to work with Doug instead, and tried to put John Carter out of your mind.
It worked for all of a week, before you went to a hospital gala with Mark and the others, and Carter was suddenly everywhere.
It was like Madeline didnât exist anymore. He was calling for you with traumas, showing you how to suture, and helping you with your charting.
You have no idea what changed.
According to Doug, Carter is into you. But given his track record with Carol, youâre not jumping to take his advice. Youâre too scared to ask for anyone elseâs opinion, for fear it gets back to John.
Itâs only so long before Mark figures it out.
He may be oblivious, but heâs not stupid.
âWhatâs your problem?â He asks, dropping down next to you in the doctorâs lounge.
You jump slightly at the intrusion, having spent the last ten minutes lost in your thoughts. Madelineâs been even more overt with her flirtations today, and youâre starting to worry that it might be working. âNothing. Iâm fine.â
âMhm,â Mark replies, entirely unconvinced. âYou sound like Rachel. And sheâs seven.â
You shoot him a glare. âI do not. I just donât want to come running to my brother every time anything goes wrong. Gives the wrong impression.â
âYou know - you donât have to make everything as hard as humanly possible for yourself, just because you donât want to ask for help.â
âI ask for help!â You protest, and Mark snorts.
âSure. And Iâm not getting a divorce.â
Finally, thereâs Iain. The worst of them all. Before he even opens his mouth, itâs obvious that he wants to go into surgery. Trauma surgery, to be specific. He carries himself like heâs already an intern, like this placement is just a formality before someone hands him a scalpel and a title.
And for some reason, heâs decided youâre the easiest one to bait.
Carter is tied up with a complicated trauma, Madeline hovering nearby like a shadow, Emil buried in charts, and youâre left with Iain and a patient who needs sutured - simple enough on paper.
âIâll do it,â You say, a little too quickly, trying to sound confident.
Iain doesnât stop you. He just steps back, folding his arms. Watching.
Itâs almost worse.
You prep the site, hands steady at first as you gather the needle. Youâve done this before. Plenty of times. But thereâs something about the way heâs standing there - silent, expectant - that makes your fingers feel heavier than usual.
âLocal?â he asks, after a beat.
âIâve got it,â you reply, sharper than you mean.
A pause. Then, mildly, âJust checking you werenât going to skip steps.â
Heat creeps up your neck. You inject the anaesthetic, wait a moment longer than necessary, just to be sure. The patient winces, then settles.
Taking a breath, you angle the needle and press it into the skin. You realise immediately that your bite is wrong, and that the stitch wonât hold. Instead, it tears the flesh at one side. Thankfully, your patient isnât watching, instead opting to look out the window instead.
God, you wish it was a cannula. Or bloods. Youâve been doing them for years - can get even the most tricky veins with your eyes closed.
But suturing is almost exclusively medical students and doctors. You havenât had nearly as much practice. Especially with Iainâs presence.
Youâre totally off your game.
âDepthâs wrong,â Iain says.
âI know.â
âDo you?â
Your jaw tightens. âI said Iâve got it.â
A small pause.
âRight,â He says. âLooks that way. Youâre overthinking it. Or maybe underthinking. Hard to tell.â
You donât respond, teeth gritted as you prepare for another attempt..
âHand it here,â He adds, already reaching for gloves.
âNo,â You snap. âIâve got it.â
âBased on what?â he replies evenly.
You feel the patient shift under your hands.
âI said Iâve got it,â You repeat, quieter now.
His voice is devoid of all emotion, âYou donât.â
He steps in before you can stop him, close enough now that you have to move aside or be in his way. The decision is made for you.
God, you canât believe heâs making such a fool of you in front of a patient. In private, you expect that kind of thing. But youâd hoped he would have slightly more respect for you in public.
âWatch,â He says, the word edged with a derision that makes your stomach ache. âThis isnât complicated.â
You leave him to it, for fear that youâre about to cry in the middle of Curtain Two. Youâve had enough embarrassment for one day, and stick to charting, to small tasks, to anything that doesnât involve someone standing over your shoulder waiting for you to mess up again.
By the time things finally start to quiet down, you slip out under the excuse of grabbing supplies you donât actually need.
The staff room is empty when you get there. Fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead, vending machine buzzing in the corner. You lean back against the counter, pressing your palms into your eyes for a second, willing the tightness in your throat to go away.
It was stupid.
It shouldnât matter. Youâve done cannulas before. Nobody gets all of them first time. Thatâs not how it works. You shouldnât be letting a stupid comment from a rich prick stick in your head like that. Youâve worked harder in the past year than he has in his whole life, just for the privilege of getting to be here.
A few tears come anyway.
Maybe Markâs mom was right. Maybe you did just follow him out here because you had nothing else going for you.
âHey.â
You drop your hands immediately.
John is standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, like heâs been there a second, like heâs been watching you.
âYou alright?â
You nod too quickly. âYeah. Fine.â
He doesnât move. âCarol said you were upset.â
You sigh. Of course she did.
You let out a small breath, shaking your head. âIâm okay. Just - long shift.â
âYouâve had longer. Worse. Whatâs different about today?â
If he keeps looking at you with such a tender expression, you think you might bawl. âJust Iain being a dick. I donât really want to talk about it. Exam stress, portfolio stuff, it all just caught up with me. Mâfine. Promise.â You offer him a smile, though you canât imagine itâs in any way convincing.
âWant me to give him the impaction in four?â
You snort. âYouâd do that for me?â
âOf course. Guy's a dick.â
âI think⌠that would make me feel a little better, yeah.â
âConsider it done,â Carter muses, before continuing. âI know you donât like to use the Mark connection, but if Iainâs really bothering you-â
âIâm fine, John. Promise.â
He nods, and steps back towards the door, when you speak again.
âCarter?â
âYeah?â
âDo you think you could maybe give me some suturing tips tomorrow? I think I could use some practice.â
He doesnât seem at all surprised, and you wonder how much he knows. Just as heâs about to leave, he pauses. âYou know, she had chronic steroid use. Makes skin really fragile.â
âWhat?â Your head whips round to face him.
âNot your fault,â Carter shrugs, and then heâs gone.
*****
You manage avoid Iain until your final hour, when Carter appears at your back. âGreene, McDougall - I want opinions.â
You fall into step behind John, Iain a few paces behind, barely able to hide his disinterest.
âMiddle-aged male,â He says quickly. âChest pain. Came in about twenty minutes ago. Central obesity, history of Type 2 Diabetes, currently taking Metformin, Propanolol and Atorvastatin. Here,â He passes you a chart, âis his ECG. Talk to me.â
You examine the patient in the bed first, while Iain goes straight for the ECG. The patient - Michael Murray, you note - is diaphoretic, pale, one hand pressed flat against his chest. Not sweaty, the way youâd expect from a straightforward MI, but you canât rule it out yet.
Iain answers first, of course.
âLikely non-cardiac,â he says, glancing briefly at the chart. âCould be reflux. Maybe musculoskeletal. Heâs overweight, risk factors unclear. When patients are that obese, they canât really tell whatâs chest and whatâs stomach pain.â
You reach for the ECG, examining it carefully. On first glance thereâs nothing hugely wrong - no obvious STEMI, or tented T-waves. But there is some ST-depression. âI would do another ECG. Posterior this time. Make sure itâs not an MI before I move onto other differentials.â
âBased on what?â Iain asks.
âST-depression in the anterior leads. And I think I see some prominent R waves in V1 and V2.â
âItâs non-specific,â He cuts in. âYou canât call a posterior infarct off that.â
âIâm not calling it,â You reply, trying to keep your voice steady. âIâm saying itâs a possibility.â
âA remote one. Much more likely indigestion given the presentation.â
The patient shifts again, visibly uncomfortable. You glance at Carter, who remains quiet, and you suddenly realise what heâs waiting for. He wants you to fight for this, for your patient. âIâll do another one,â You say, reaching for the leads. âPosterior, this time.â
Iainâs jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. âItâs not necessary,â he says.
âMaybe not,â Carter replies evenly. âBut itâs quick, cheap, and if sheâs right, it matters a hell of a lot to this patient.â
Itâs a strange feeling when the ECG comes back with massive ST-elevation in the V7 to V9 leads. On the one hand, you know the patient has just had terrible news delivered to him, and you empathise greatly. On the other hand, youâre so relieved to finally get one up on Iain.
Within minutes, the trolleyâs being wheeled out, heading upstairs to the cath lab. As it disappears through the doors, Carter turns back. His eyes land on Iain.
âYou see the problem?â He says.
Iain doesnât answer.
âYou didnât even glance at the patient. You went straight for the ECG, and treated him like a textbook case. Pain, presentation, risk - those matter more than your first impressions.â
Iainâs expression is tight. âIt wasnât a classic presentation.â
âThey rarely are,â Carter replies. âThatâs the point.â He checks his watch, before letting out a heavy sigh. âAnyway, I think thatâs a good place to stop for the night. Go, try and enjoy the rest of your nights, and be here for seven sharp.â
You all disperse, and make for the lockers. Despite the save at the end of the day, youâre still desperate to get home, and clean the hospital grime that lingers for weeks out of your hair. Carter follows, chatting absentmindedly about the MI. How he doesnât think he wouldâve caught it at that age.
Madeline tries to catch him on the way out of the lounge. Asking for some kind of favour regarding her portfolio.
âHm? Yeah, Iâll catch you tomorrow. We can talk about it then.â Carterâs voice is distracted, and he doesnât slow down. Doesnât stop.
Madeline falters, just slightly. âOh - okay.â
But heâs already looking past her.
At you.
âYou heading out?â he asks.
You nod, adjusting your bag. âYeah.â
âGood,â he says. âCome on - Iâm done too.â
You push through the hospital doors together, the air outside cooler, quieter - for a second, neither of you say anything. You wipe at the sweat on your forehead, and let out a small sigh.
Finally, he speaks, âYou did well back there.â
You glance over at him. âI almost didnât say anything.â
âI know,â He shrugs. âI watched you hesitate. But you spoke up, and thatâs what matters. You saved a manâs life today.â
âYou knew it was a posterior MI,â You argue.
âI suspected - you confirmed.â He pauses for a second, as you walk up to your respective platforms. âGet some sleep. You look like you need it.â
You raise an eyebrow. âWow. Thanks.â
âMe too,â he admits. âLong shift.â
The train pulls in, brakes screeching slightly as it slows. âSee you tomorrow, Carter.â
He offers you a soft smile. âSee you round, Greene.â
*****
You hear them before you see them. Heading into work first thing, youâd been planning on getting a head-start on some scut work to free you up for studying later. It appears some of your colleagues have beaten you to it.
You donât mean to overhear, but the lounge door is creaked open, and when you pause to tie your lace, you catch a voice.
âCarter,â She says, sounding annoyed. Like he should just immediately know what sheâs talking about. âOr have you not noticed?â
A beat.
Then, dryly, âIf this is about you not being the centre of his attention anymore, Iâm not interested.â
âItâs not that,â She snaps, a little too quickly. It definitely is.
You should leave.
You donât.
âItâs about her,â Madeline continues. âHe keeps pulling her onto cases. Showing her things he doesnât show the rest of us. I mean, I know sheâs his bossâ sister, but come on.â
âHeâs overcorrecting,â Iain says. âPeople do that. Get fixated.â
âOn her?â Madeline scoffs. âWhy?â
âWhy do you think?â Iain says, quieter now, but sharper.
Madeline doesnât answer straight away.
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â she asks, guarded.
Another pause. You can almost picture the look on his face. âCome on,â He says. âYouâre not that naĂŻve.â
Your stomach twists.
Madeline lets out a small, incredulous laugh. âYou think - what? That theyâreâŚ?â
He doesnât answer immediately.
âI think,â Iain says finally, âthat kind of attention usually comes with a reason.â
âNo,â Madeline says quickly. Too quickly. âThatâs not - no. He wouldnât.â
âWouldnât?â Iain repeats, almost amused. âI thought that was actually kind of his thing. If youâre to believe what the nurses say.â
âHeâs not like that,â She insists, but thereâs something strained underneath it now. âAnd she-â a scoff, sharper this time, â-sheâs not exactly-â
She stops again, like even she doesnât quite know how to finish it. She doesnât have to.
âRight,â Iain says, unconvinced. âBecause this makes so much more sense otherwise.â
âIt doesnât have to be that,â Madeline snaps. âMaybe he just⌠pities her or something.â
That stings in a completely different way.
âSure,â Iain says. âThat must be it.â His tone makes it clear he doesnât believe that for a second. âEither way, it wonât last.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âMeans,â He says, âif itâs about performance, she wonât keep up. I mean, sheâs a fucking nurse, for Christâs sake.â A pause. âAnd if itâs not,â He adds, âthat kind of thing burns out fast. Sheâs just pretending, and theyâre all indulging her because they like her.â
Madeline doesnât respond.
You donât wait to hear more. Your pulse is loud in your ears, drowning everything else out.
She wonât keep up.
That kind of thing burns out fast.
Not only do you have to deal with the very real prejudices against you for your background - now thereâs apparently a sex scandal, so obscure that even you and Carter arenât aware of it, despite allegedly being involved.
You just need to keep your head down, and ignore them entirely.
A patient needs reviewing. Then another. Observations, notes, small jobs no one else wants - you take them all, keep moving, keep your hands busy so your head doesnât catch up.
When thereâs a lull, you pull out your notes, leaning against the counter, flipping through exam checklists. Cardio, Neuro, GI, Breast - just a few of the practical exams you need to be able to perform flawlessly for your OSCEs coming up next month. You mouth them under your breath, like if you say them enough times theyâll stick in your brain.
âPracticing or hiding?â
You look up.
Carter nods toward the empty treatment bay. âCome on.â
You follow him in without question.
He sets up a practice pad, hands you the needle holder. âShow me.â
You start slower this time. Deliberate. Thinking about depth, angle, tension - getting the perfect bite. Already, things are looking better - all you had to do was remove Iain from the equation. He gives you a few tips, showing you how to do other stitches for different injuries, and you get to practicing on a banana.
He watches your next stitch. âOSCEs coming up, right?â
âYeah.â
âYouâll be fine,â He says. âTheyâre more interested in whether you think about what youâre doing than whether itâs perfect.â
âThatâs reassuring.â
âItâs true,â John shrugs. âTalk through it. Show your reasoning. Half of this is just convincing people you know why youâre doing something. Tell them what any sign you spot could indicateâ
You nod, tying off the stitch a little more neatly this time.
âSee?â he adds. âThatâs already better.â
Before you can respond-
âCarter - trauma incoming! We need you in the bay.â
âShit,â Carter scrubs a hand across his face. âIâm sorry-â
Youâre about to interject and tell him itâs fine, that heâs done more than enough already, when he keeps talking.
âYou want to run through some examinations later?â
âOh,â You reply. âI uh, I get off at five.â Itâs not that you arenât grateful for the offer. But youâve been here since six-forty-five this morning, and the idea of overtime is not an appealing one.
âYeah, I know. I do too. You could come round to my place - we could order pizza, do a practice exam?â
You must be dreaming. This cannot be real. And yet, Carterâs scribbling something down on a piece of paper, and pressing it into your hand. An address.
âAny time after six is fine.â
*****
Itâs only when youâre trying to pick out an outfit that you realise what a terrible idea this may be. Half of your classmates already think youâre sleeping with Carter - anything that could come out of tonight would surely only further that.
Then, you really start to consider Iain and Madelineâs position in your life. Realistically, once this rotation is over, youâre unlikely to ever see them again. Your graduating class is huge, and soon youâll all be picking electives anyway.
In an ideal world, youâll match to County. Neither of them want to stay in Chicago after graduating.
Youâre overthinking.
This is fine.
Carter is your friend, and thatâs all this is.
You manage to get out of your head, and land on an outfit - a slightly-nicer-than-average top and jeans. Casual, but definitely a step up from scrubs.
Unfortunately for you, Carter had neglected to mention the fact that he lives in a literal castle. Youâre still trying to get your bearings when he opens the door, smile wide. âHey, you made it!â
âAre you like a Kennedy or something?â You mumble, glancing around the foyer as he leads you inside. Your whole apartment could fit in one tiny corner of the hallway âJesus.â
He has the decency to look a little embarrassed, rubbing at his neck. âUh, yeah - the Carter Family isnât really known for subtlety. But my grandparents are away on holiday, so weâve got the place to ourselves.â
âI donât think weâd be encroaching on their space even if they were here.â
Truthfully, youâre glad thereâs nobody else here. While the red cotton is nicer than scrubs, itâs certainly not nice enough to meet Carterâs rich-as-God grandparents.
His room isnât quite as extravagant - very Carter, but still obviously full of items that cost more than you make in a month. âMake yourself at home.â
You let your backpack drop to the floor, and perch at the very edge of the bed, too scared to touch anything else. âSo⌠uh, how do you want to do this?â
âWell,â He starts, leaning back against the headboard. âI figured I could be your mock patient, and you can just treat this like an OSCE. Then we can go over anything you missed at the end over pizza?â
âAre all the medical students getting such special treatment?â Deep down, you know the answer already, but a part of you wants the confirmation.
Carter scoffs. âGod, no. Emil, I would consider helping him out within my working hours. The other two are on their own though.â
âReally?â You murmur, leaning forward to rest your chin on your elbow. âThought you were quite fond of Madeline-â
âWho said that?â Any teasing has disappeared from his tone, his brow furrowed slightly.
âNurses talk,â You shrug. âYouâre forgetting I still do the occasional shift. Lydia knows all.â
âWell, she doesnât know that,â He grumbles. âI do not like Madeline. At all.â
âGot it,â You reply, suddenly desperate to change the subject. Maybe heâs regretting suggesting this. âShall we get started?â
âWhat do you want to do first?â
âUm, Cardio.â
*****
âOkay,â Carter breathes, face only inches from yours. âWhatâs next?â
âI need to listen to the valves of your heart now,â You reply, trying to drag your gaze away from his. âBut uh, first I need to feel your apex beat.â
âGood girl.â
You stiffen just slightly at the phrase, praying that he hasnât noticed the shift. Your mind races ahead of you, wondering what it would be like if he was saying that in a different context, while you were writhing under him-
No.
You canât think of him like that. Especially not now. Heâs your friend, and heâs doing you a favour, and all you can do is think about how much youâd like him to-
âMid-clavicular line,â You say, voice barely more than a squeak. âFifth intercostal space.â
Your fingers press down his bare chest as you feel his ribs, moving slightly until you feel the familiar thump against your hand. Itâs strong and regular, but definitely a lot faster than youâd be expecting from a guy Carterâs age.
âWhat do you notice?â
âItâs a little fast. I should listen to make sure.â
He just nods, and lets you reach for the stethoscope, before you press the diaphragm to the mitral valve. Just as you felt before, his heart is hammering.
You swallow heavily. âStill tachycardic.â
âWhy do you think that might be?â
âUm, I guess it could be stress, high caffeine intakes, exerciseâŚâ
âClose proximity to a pretty girl?â
âWhat?â
âSâa good differential. Definitely one you should consider. Now, câmon. Keep going.â
As if you can think about anything else after that admission. But heâs looking at you expectantly, and you try desperately to make your brain start thinking straight again. You listen to the other valves, and start to check for thrills and heaves, praying that he canât tell how clammy your hands have gotten.
You press the bell of your stethoscope to his carotid, pretending not to notice the way his eyes keep flitting to your lips. âNo sign of aortic stenosis,â You say softly, and Carter nods.
âGood sign. What next?â
âUmâŚâ Shit. Your mind has drawn a total and utter blank. Your brain is too occupied with the way Carterâs cologne tickles your nose. âI donât remember.â
He watches you for a second, before deciding to put you out of your misery. âYou should check my back next.â
âOh. Right. Yeah. Thanks.â
You check for scars or deformities, before listening to his lung sounds. Because of the way heâs sitting up, your back ends up bent at an awkward angle while you try and check for sacral pitting. âYou know,â He murmurs. âMight be easier for you to just sit there.â
The idea of being any closer to John than you are right now makes you positively dizzy, but youâre not in the habit of not listening to him. Mostly.
Bracing your hands across his bare shoulders, you hoist yourself behind him, and get settled. Really, itâs unnecessary. You know already that Carter doesnât have sacral pitting.
âNothing interesting?â
âNope.â
âCanât really hear you from back there,â He replies. âSit up a little closer to my ear, honey.â
You comply, getting ready to give him a rundown of the examination, when Carter tilts his head, and kisses you.
Even though the entire study session has arguably been preamble for this, it still manages to catch you off guard. His lips are soft but intentional, parting your own with his tongue.
God, you canât believe this is happening.
In just a single movement he twists, bracing over you as youâre crowded up against his headboard. Your hand tangles in his hair, pulling him further into you.
As close as he can humanly get.
âNobody would dare fail you if this is the kind of exam you give,â Carter mumbles between kisses, and you groan.
âYouâre so mean.â Thereâs no real bite to it, but you pout against his lips anyway.
His fingers tug at the hem of your sweatshirt, and you lean back to let him discard it, leaving you in only your bra. Itâs definitely not one of your sexier items of clothing - focused entirely on comfort during long shifts in the ER - but up until twenty minutes ago youâd assumed that this was simply a study session.
If it were anybody else, youâd feel self-conscious.
Something about John puts you at ease, though. It always has. Even when you were deeply terrified of him, of embarrassing yourself in front of him, youâd known deep down that heâd never make fun of you, even if he didnât feel the same.
Based on the way you can feel him hardening against your thigh, you figure thatâs not an issue. âPrettiest girl in the world,â He mumbles, lips returning to your neck. Eyes fluttering closed, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, and he allows you to tug them downwards. Yours go next, leaving you both in your underwear.
When it comes to foreplay, youâre used to a finger or two, scissoring you open just enough for the main event.
Youâre not expecting John to draw back entirely from you, as he starts to press kisses down your navel.
Youâre almost embarrassed for him to reach your panties, given how much youâve managed to soak through them in just a short time. âIs this for me, or do cardio exams just really get you going?â
He shoots you that shit-eating grin, and you roll your eyes, before allowing your upper half to flop back onto his pillow. If he wants to be a dick, two can play at that game-
âOh.â
Carter wastes no time, mouthing at your cunt through the wet fabric. One hand settles on each thigh, holding you firmly in place for him.
Thereâs no build-up - just John and his tongue, relentless against your skin. You donât even register when he gets the fabric out of the way, your hand finding a home in his hair to guide him to where you need it most. âF-Fuck, John-â
âYeah, honey? You like that?â
The coil in your belly is tightening, and you feel the familiar wave of panic start to wash over you. Youâve never been good with orgasms - itâs always felt too scary to let yourself go like that with another person. What Carter is doing feels really fucking good, but you also know that you donât want to ruin this. âNeed you up here-â
He complies immediately, clambering back up to press his lips to yours. You taste yourself against him, moaning into his touch.
Everythingâs going so well, Carterâs reaching for his bedside table, whenâŚ
âYou have had sex before, havenât you?â
You pull back. âYou did not just ask me that.â
âWhat? You're⌠young.â
You stare at him, jaw dropped. âI'm twenty-five, not sixteen. What are you - twenty-nine?â
âTwenty-eight,â He grumbles.
âWell - Iâm not a virgin, if thatâs what youâre worried about.â
âNot worried,â He replies, more earnest than you expected. âJust want it to be good for you.â
Youâre suddenly overwhelmed with a deep affection for the man in front of you, and lean forward to kiss him again. The wrapper crinkles as John fiddles to get the condom out without breaking contact with you.
âYouâre sure about this?â He asks, and you laugh.
âNot sure I could get a better anatomy lesson if I tried-â
Your voice cuts off in a sharp gasp as he pushes in just slightly, before pulling out again, cock head dragging through for folds. âFuck.â
He does it again, pushing just a little further, and then retreating. Only on his third time, does your hand cup the back of his head, to draw him against you. Carter bottoms out with a low moan, hips rolling so he catches your clit.
Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, and he starts to move.
âThought about this so much, sweet girl,â He grunts, peppering kisses across your cheeks as he rocks against you.
Itâs a real effort to form a coherent thought, and you lace your fingers through his. âYou h-have?â
âHavenât been able to get you out of my head since that gala. H-Had to get myself off in the shower as soon as I got home, âcause of that dress. âCause of you in that dress.â
âDidnât realise you even noticed.â
âS-Shouldâve taken you home right there. Shouldnât have left you wondering how I felt.â
Carter looks just as overwhelmed as you feel - a bead of sweat is trickling down his chest, and thereâs a vein on his forehead that looks like itâs in serious danger of bursting. He picks up the pace a little, and you whimper.
Youâve never whimpered in your life.
You hope you remember this moment for the rest of your life. âKiss me, Johnny.â Your voice is breathless, almost unmoored from your body.
You can feel the coil tightening again, but it doesnât feel quite as scary when John is looking at you so sweetly, and pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth in between his praise.
It creeps up on you, and soon your face is buried in the crook of his shoulder as you cry out his name.
*****
âGod. Your brother is going to kill me.â
âMhm, heâll get over it.â Youâre currently tucked into Carter's side under the duvet, fingers tracing soft patterns onto his chest.
âEasy for you to say,â John snorts. âYou wonât be the one he kills.â
âIâll make sure that youâre remembered,â You hum, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you bite back a laugh. âIâll throw you a memorial, get Benton to eulogise you. Itâll be the event of the season.â
âGlad to hear it. âMake sure to make it tasteful,â He adds, deadpan. âI want something upbeat. Something that says âhe died young, but at least he had good hair.ââ
âYou do have good hair,â you murmur, carding your fingers through it like youâre proving the point. âIâll make sure thatâs mentioned. Extensively. Very pullable.â
âIâm sure my grandmother will love to hear that thatâs my defining trait.â
âWell, you also give really good head. Iâm not sure sheâd want to hear about that, though.
A comfortable silence settles over you both, Carterâs arm tightening round you. ââŚYou really think heâll be that mad?â He asks after a moment, voice dropping just a notch.
You shrug against him. âMad, yeah. Murderous? Probably not. He likes you.â
âHe tolerates me. But just so weâre clear - if I do die, I want you to erect a statue in my honour.â
You groan. âAbsolutely not.â
âLife-size.â
âNo.â
âBigger than life-size. Ten feet fall.â
âYouâre unbelievable.â
âBronze,â He continues, ignoring you entirely. âDramatic pose. Maybe a sword.â
âYouâve never held a sword in your life.â
âDetails.â
It isnât until an hour later, when youâre cross-legged on Johnâs bed wearing only his shirt, a pizza box perched between you both, that you have the courage to ask. âSo⌠like, was this just a one-time thing, or⌠what?â
Not your most eloquent of phrasing, but you figure youâd scare him off if you admitted that youâve been in love with him pretty much since you saw him for the first time.
âTechnically itâs already a two-time thing, since we fucked again in the shower.â
âJohn-â
âOkay, okay,â He concedes, hands in the air. âComedy surrounding the sex is not appreciated. Noted. Well⌠on that note. I think Iâd really like to take you out for dinner. Celebrate your catch yesterday properly. Celebrate you properly.â
You smile, so wide that it almost makes your cheeks hurt. âReally?â
âOh yeah. Youâre not getting rid of me that easy, Greene.â
⥠synopsis: when you present to dr. robby with clear signs of domestic abuse, his efforts to try & convince you to report your abuser to law enforcement fall upon deaf ears. knowing that once you leave ptmc, you may wind up in a morgue next, he takes a drastic step to save you by offering you a room in his house.
⥠content: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, domestic abuse, signs of strangulation, brief indicator that reader was sa'd, bruises, fractured wrist (history of a past broken arm), reader is in denial, domestic bliss/fluff, sexualizing that old man's tummy, medical inaccuracies
⥠a/n: i don't know how pa works, in terms of dv protection orders, but i did use my own experience when writing the section about them. while i did write the portion with a rather bleak outlook on reporting someone for abuse, i do acknowledge that there are many along the way who have helped us. so, while the system is deeply flawed, i promise that there are those who will go the extra mile to help those in need as best they can when they find themselves in these nightmare situations. | thehotline.org
With the exam rooms apparently being full, you were admitted to one which comes with a soft hospital bed to lie back in instead. More comfortable than hard vinyl, you figure. As you were led inside, you caught sight of a sign mounted near the door that said something about trauma.
You suppose that's fitting either way.
So, now here you sit quietly fiddling with the sleeve of your well-loved sweater. A nurse had joked about how if you didn't change, you'd be right back where you started, but with a diagnoses of heat stroke next. You had tried to force a smile at her joke to lighten the mood and throw her off your scent before lowering your head again.
Maintaining eye contact is difficult for you.
You can't remember if it was always that way, truthfully. All you can is the way things are now. It's like what's happened to you has eaten holes in your brainâbut only through the pleasant memories. Maybe it's a strange sort of coping mechanism. Can't miss something if you don't remember ever having it, like safety or happiness.
You watch as people flit by the doorâalways seemingly in a hurry. You wonder what your providers must think of you since you'd indicated 'homemaker' on your patient forms. Here, they spend their days saving lives while you have to vacuum and dust to keep him happy. Nothing wrong with maintaining a household or family, but that's only when it's your own choice to do so.
He has something in common with them, though: preferring things to be neat.
That's your job.
You glance up when the door swooshes open and the cacophony of the ED ushers in before it seals thankfully shut again, once again bathing you in calming silence.
You watch as a tall middle-aged man with a well-trimmed beard and kind brown eyes enters the unoccupied space next to you, followed by him pulling on a pair of robin's egg colored gloves. A color you would find pretty under different circumstances.
"My name is Dr. Robinavitch," he says with a smile before seating himself on a stool and wheeling it toward you. "But you can call me Dr. Robby. So, you've come in for a wrist fracture today?"
You nod while trying to think of a polite way to request a female doctor.
He won't be pleased that you've been seen, touched by, or are talking to a man. No, he'll be angry.
"And did this happen today?" he asks while reaching for your wrist.
"A couple days ago," you reply. So quietly that it's practically a whisper. "I...I fell on it. I was bringing groceries in. Tomatoes went everywhere," you say with a smile, hoping that humor will throw him off the trail he may soon stumble his way onto.
You must always be attuned to other people's reactions, lest they discover the horrible truth you mean to hide.
"May I ask why you didn't come in when it happened?" Dr. Robby asks while folding back the cuff of your sweater.
He'll see.
If he goes any further up, he'll see. You have to stop him. Answer his question, pull away, get out of the bed and go back home and try to fix it yourself.
"IâI justâI tried resetting it like always. Itâit didn't work. It hurt, andâ" You clamp your mouth shut then.
You only made it worse.
And now he sees it anyway.
The more he rolled, the more horrified he became. It'd been like peeling back decorative wallpaper, only to reveal rotting mold beneath. An attractive veneer on the out, but its purpose solely being to hide something malignant that swarmed under it.
Brushing his thumb along the dark bruising which paints the smooth skin of your arm, his brows furrow. "What did you mean by resetting it like always?" he asks while looking at you.
You read his lips, but didn't really hear himâyou couldn't over the ringing in your ears.
"W-What?"
"Have you reset injuries before? On yourself?"
You blink back tears while considering a trash can in the corner.
You think you may be sick.
"I don't know why I said that," you blurt out. "No. No, of course not. I wouldn't even know how to do something like that," you say with a nervous laugh, which doesn't reassure like you intend for it to, but instead only further cements Robby's suspicions.
His eyes flit between yours, and for a moment, you think he may hit you.
That's what happens when things grow quiet and a man stares you downâthey're considering violence.
Just as you open your mouth to begin apologizing, he stands. An action which causes you to flinch.
He notes it.
"Just to rule out a break and see exactly how severe the fracture is, I'm going to do a portable X-ray. Is there any chance you could be pregnant?"
A hand flutters toward your stomach subconsciously. "No. I took a test a couple days ago. It was negative."
Always a relief when that's the case, since you're not allowed to use condoms anymore. He's not a fan of birth control either, but at least he's permitted it.
For now.
Dr. Robby nods while swinging around a strange looking apparatus that's attached to a tall, sterile white machine. "Alright, just hold your wrist still for me while I take a few pictures."
Your heart quivers in your chest as you wait for Dr. Robby's return. Maybe if you'd just dug further onlineâwatched a couple more YouTube videosâyou could've figured it out on your own.
He was already enraged when you asked to go to the hospital, but you couldn't sleep because you were in so much pain, so you didn't see any other choice. When you began to cry and apologize, he softened before finally taking you into his arms and telling you that he was sorryâhow it's all his fault in the first place.
Then he'd started in on hospital bills that he wouldn't be able to afford. You remained quiet as he backtracked and told you that you could goâbut because he had to work, you needed to be very careful in what you told them in terms of the explanations you provided for the bruises which littered your body.
Stupidly, you'd almost asked about vaginal tearing, but refrained because there'd be no reason for them to venture past your forearm at most.
You jolt when Robby returns. "Got your results back," he begins while pushing a few dark colored floppy images onto a display next to you, which you turn to see. Switching it on, you stare at X-rays you've little idea how to read.
"Wow, that's inside of me?" you ask while glancing to him.
At least it earns you a chuckle.
"Hairline fracture," he says while tracing what looks to be a a thin crack in your wrist with his pinky finger. "It'll require a splint, as well as you keeping mobilization of the area to an absolute minimum for the next month and a half." He switches the light off, then comes to stand next to you with crossed arms. "A follow-up appointment will be scheduled so the injury can be reexamined and the splint taken off if the fracture has healed."
You nod, despite knowing that you won't be coming back.
He steps over to a supply cart and pops open a drawer before removing a newly packaged splint. Returning to your side, he seats himself again while taking your wrist between his hands. "I saw what looked to be an old break in your forearm."
His eyes flit to yours. "You wanna tell me about that?"
Lie, lie, lie. "It was from when I was a kid."
He grabs the splint. "It didn't heal clean. You know that injury may end up causing you long-term chronic pain, right? Not to mention deformity, arthritis, nerve damageâ"
"It was a long time ago," you sputter, interrupting him.
And then you look at the doctor in a panic. Why didn't you let him finish speaking?
"Sorry," you mumble while looking away.
Once he's securely tightened the velcro straps, you settle your wrist back into your lap.
"Sweetheart, look at me."
You wince. You know what's about to happen, but being given even a modicum of kindness makes you feel indebted to him. That's what has been taught to you: for every thing you are given, you owe repayment. Ten fold.
It's why you hate when he brings home flowers or dinner in apology. Would save you energy if he just gifted you another punch instead. You don't have to pay him back for those with spread legs or an open mouth at least.
You glance to Robby before hanging your head in shame.
"Can you pull down the neck of your sweater for me?"
You slowly shake your head while biting your lower lip.
He reaches up and you slam yourself back against the bed in panic.
Robby hesitates, then hooks both his index fingers over the neck of your sweater before pulling it down to your clavicle. "Jesus," he whispers.
He'd hoped with futility.
Settling your clothing back into place, he sits once more. "Did you know that you are 750% more likely to be murdered by him after he's strangled you?" Robby asks gently. "Your body is covered in signs of his abuse. He's broken bones, fractured them, cut off your airflow, grabbed you with enough force to leave bruises all over your arm," he says while counting off on his fingers before resting his palms on his knees.
You shouldn't have come.
Robby shakes his head. "And those are just what I've been able to see. I don't want to imagine what's still covered."
"Am I free to go?" you whimper.
"I'm obligated to report this to law enforcement," he informs youâhis tone gravely and low.
Your head jerks in his direction and your heart lurches into your injured throat. You grab for his hands to make him listen while shaking your head. "No, no, no, you can't do that! TheyâThey'llâYou just don't understand. It's not always like this. I promise. I promise I can fix it. I can do this. He'll stop. I can fix him. I can't go into a shelter. I won't survive without him. HeâHe takes care of me. He works and Iâ"
You swing your legs over the side of the bed. "I have to go home. I need toâ"
Robby rests a palm over your knee. "Nothing has happened yet. We're just talking. I am begging you to stay. Please."
You waver.
"I know that we don't know one another, but, as your doctor, my obligation is to your wellbeing and safety. If I let you go back to him, I would be breaking my Hippocratic Oath."
Your brows furrow.
"I'm obliged to abstain from intentional wrong-doing. Letting you return to someone who is physically and psychologically harming you would be doing just that."
You swipe hot tears from your eyes. "You don't know him," you begin softly. "I do. His parents weren't there for him like they should've been. He... He wasn't mothered the way he deserved to be."
His eye twitches.
"It's my job as his... As his to give him what he's missing. I take care of him," you insist while resting a hand over your heart. "He just gets so overwhelmed. He doesn't know where to put it. Talking isn't easy for him."
Robby grimaces.
"I know he doesn't mean the things he does in moments of anger. I have to love him through it. I will not abandon him like everyone else. You don't just..." You shake your head. "When things get hard, you don't just walk out. You cling to them, despite it."
You sniffle. "He works so hard; too much. He... Without me, he'd fall apart. I cook and clean, and comfort him. We'll die without each other. Don't you see that?"
Staring at the floor, he blinks, breathes, then looks at you. "You'll die if you stay."
Why won't he just listen? All he sees are bruises, whereas you see a man who's hurting and just doesn't know how to handle it yet. But he always promises that he'll change for the betterâfor the sake of his love for you.
And when he's kind... It's so wonderful. Because he's warm and affectionate, and tells you all those things you've been so starved to hear.
You chase those moments to hold them close. Such as right now.
Now quietly crying, you grab his hands unexpectedly. "Please. Dr. Robinavitch, I am begging you not to do this. The arrest won't stick. You and I both know he'll get a slap on the wrist, then released soon after on bond. Proceedings won't even get a chance to begin because I'll refuse to press charges. He'll come homeâbecause I am not living in some temporary shelter that doesn't know or care about me like he doesâand things will get worse."
Brushing his thumbs over your knuckles, he sighs while shaking his head. "I'm being put in an impossible position. By reporting, a process can be startedâ"
You scoot further toward the edge of the bed, indicating that you're ready to leave.
"Fine!" he relents. "Fine. Just...stay a little longer while I try to figure out a way to help you."
A gentle sob crests up your throat and over your lips. "I can't trust you to walk out that door and not make a call. I need to go home to him. I have to get started on dinner."
Hesitantly, you raise a trembling hand and cup his cheek.
Robby's breath catches, and all his nerve endings converge into that one patch of skin where you've made contact.
You know how to bring a man to a standstill, he'll give you that much.
"Thank you for your concern," you say quietly while brushing your thumb along the apple of his cheek. "I know you're right. But I'm not ready for that yet. I am not done loving him yet."
Gingerly, he slides your hand from his face to hold between each of his own instead. "The next time I see you will be on the news as another statistic. He doesn't deserve someone so dedicated and kind. He's not going to change."
"It's easier if I stay," you whisper. "It's a convoluted process which I'll throw in the towel over before it even gets a chance to begin."
"You can file a protection orderâ"
"Which is temporary," you retort. "Yes, they would probably give me a long-term one. But it will eventually expire, and I'll be required to keep refiling it. That's given that he even honors it. It's just a piece of paperâ"
"You've researched this," he says with realization.
"And every time I did, my resolve crumbled when I saw how futile my efforts would be." Your chin wobbles. "I'm tired. I don't want to fight anymore. It's easier just to give him what he wants. That much I can do because it's all I know now."
His eyes flit between yours before he stands and begins to pace.
You watch idly as he walks this way and that with slow, measured steps of silent contemplation.
Just as you think to settle your feet on the floor, he crosses his arms while turning to face you. Walking over to the bedside curtain, he draws it forward so that no one can curiously peek inside.
You stare up at him with weary eyes.
"I'm risking everything by making you this offer: my career, my medical license..." He sighs while running a nervous hand down the back of his head. "I'm not trying to be another man who tells you what to do, or to keep his secrets, but if you decline, I implore you to keep this between us," he begs with hands folded like they're in prayer.
You shift in uncertainty, but ultimately nod in agreement.
Returning to your bedside, you gaze up at him while he settles a hand on your upper arm. "I have an extra room... And it's yours if you want it."
Time slowing to a standstill, you stare up at this man who is both stranger and familiar to you now. In the last twenty something minutes, you've divulged more of your personal truth to him than you have anyone else since you gave up every facet of your life to please the man at home. Familial connections, friends, employment, savings, reproductive freedoms.
It had been...important to him that you rely upon him and find him to be deserving of the privilege once that process began.
It had seemed like a choice when you relinquished your freedom. With hindsight, you realize he had just been very persuasive in achieving his own selfish ends at the cost of your autonomy.
"I can't become a burden to someone elseâ"
Robby shakes his head. "You wouldn't be." He gestures toward himself. "I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't certain."
Your brows knit together and your nose tingles. With a slowly tightening throat, you force a response. "You don't know me."
With a gentle smile, he slides his hand to the crown of your shoulder. "I know enough to be sure that I'm doing the right thing."
Standing in the doorway of your new homeâyou're not wholly sure that it's right to think of it as such just yetâit's with bags of your things clutched to your chest and dangling from the crooks of your arms.
You jolt when Robby plants a hand against the small of your back. "You want me to show you to your new room?"
You stare up at him and nod dully.
Leaning against the doorway, Robby watches as you wander around the limited space curiously. "It's yours to decorate as you please. You can rearrange the furniture... Just, do whatever you need to to feel at home. Safe." He taps the doorknob. "It has a lock on it." Robby nods toward an empty chest of drawers. "The only keys are on top of the dresser. I will never come in here unless you invite me to. This is your space."
You plop your bags down on the bed and begin to softly cry from exhaustion.
Robby pads over to you and draws you into the comfort of his chest while reassuring you that no one will ever harm you again.
Not here.
The sun has only just crested when you're awoken by the sound of shuffling footsteps not far from where your bedroom lies.
Forcing yourself out of a sleepy, morning fog, you plant your bare feet on warm hardwood floors and pad to the door before peeling it open and heading toward the living room.
It's going to take getting used to, to be certain: awakening in a new place each morning.
"Are you leaving for work?" you ask while watching Robby gather his things before shrugging on a backpack.
"Did I wake you?" Robby rasps while pulling on his shoes.
You come closer. "I'm a light sleeper."
The truth is, you tossed and turned for hours as your mind raced with horrifying thoughts. What if he found you? Hurt Robby? Killed you both? Set fire to Robby's home just for trying to save you?
You had seriously considered at one point leaving to go back to him, but staring at your shoes near Robby's by the doorway, you couldn't bring yourself to do it.
You're not entirely sure why. When you did fall asleep, you were awoken by a nightmare of him strangling you in your new bed while something painful was shoved inside you.
But you can't tell Robby about any of that. You don't think you should, anyway. Much that you want to.
"I should make you breakfast," you state in a hushed tone before turning to head for the kitchen.
"No. No, sweetheart, it's fine. I don't have time. I really do have to get going."
You turn back to him with hooded lids and a head of messy hair. With only an oversized t-shirt hanging from your frame, he's given cause to swallow thickly from nerves.
"I'm sorry," you whine. "I would've gotten up earlier ifâ"
Robby advances toward you before cupping the back of your head and planting a soft kiss atop it.
He doesn't notice how your body goes rigid from what you had thought he meant to do.
You squeeze your eyes shut to fight back tears, and your hands into fists to prevent their shaking.
"I'll see you tonight. Just try and go back to sleep for awhile, honey," he murmurs before turning back toward the door, grabbing his keys, and making an exit.
Being alone you know; can make do with. But in such a spacious home still yet left unexplored... You feel a bit out of your depth.
You decide to go back to bed like he suggested. Taking orders you can do, too.
After retrieving you while he was at work, Robby had taken you to get a new phoneâyou were only afforded an old landline at the houseâso you spend awhile familiarizing yourself with the shiny new device. It's been a handful of years since you've been afforded such flashy technology, so the learning curve is steeper than you initially anticipated it would be.
You steer clear of all social media and don't even bother with an email. Instead, you spend awhile playing match-3 and hidden object games to pass the time.
The only number stored in your contacts being that of Robby and his workplaceâthe ED at PTMCâit's not like you have anyone to chat with, either.
You consider asking permission to clean his house, but don't want to interrupt him at the hospital. Plus, men seem to like when women do that: mop and do laundry and wipe down surfaces laden with crumbs. Not that his living space looks like it really needs it, but you've become an expert at locating overlooked nooks and crannies that've been sorely neglected.
He'll be pleased once the place is sparkling top to bottom.
It'll put him in a better mood when he gets home. Less chance of him yelling at you because you've been wasting time all day playing mobile games.
When Robby steps over the threshold of his house, it's to the sight of a faintly flickering candle set atop the entryway's narrow table, and the scent of seasoned chicken and roasted vegetables wafting down the hall from the kitchen.
Toeing off his shoes, he takes note of how his boots and running shoes, and even an old forgotten pair of slides have been polished and aligned by designated purpose.
Even the crooked rug he kept meaning to wash and recenter against the doorway looks freshly laundered.
"Welcome home," chimes a musical, feminine voice from the end of the hall.
Jerking his head up, he stares at you in surprise.
"I made you dinner. I... I hope that's okay."
"You did?" he asks foolishly.
You nod while clasping your hands together. "Does... Does that bother you? I used food from your fridgeâ"
He shakes his head with a contented grin while walking toward you. "No, honey, that doesn't bother me at all."
Robby seems very pleased that you took painstaking care to clean every inch of his home that you could reach and think of. He apparently forgot he had an iron. You learned as much when you disclosed that you used it on his scrubs.
While taking small bites of your foodânever wolfing or scarfing, as that would be unattractiveâyou watch attentively as he dines on a hot, homecooked meal made by your own two hands.
His pots and pans had been far fancier than anything you were accustomed to. So shiny and brass that you'd been afraid to use them, in fact. You had considered it a treat as you dallied around the kitchen and acquainted yourself with a thick wooden cutting board, an expensive looking knife block, and a collection of hard to pronounce spices.
Sliding your socked feet together, you take another bite of steamed broccoli. "Is it...good?"
Robby hardly looks at you as he continues digging in. Popping up a thumb, he nods. "'S fuckin' great," he drawls.
You grin and breathe a sigh of relief you'd not realized you'd been holding. "I'm so glad."
"While I can't begin tell you just how much I appreciate everything you did today, I do want you to know," Robby begins while shutting the dishwasher and switching it on, "That it's not necessary. I know that with him, it was expected of you to keep house; to tend to all domestic duties."
You watch as he wipes his hands with a dishtowel.
"But I don't."
He tosses the towel down, and you mentally note that you need to refold it. Leaning his hip against the kitchen island you each stand at, he loosely crosses his arms. "The only thing I care about is that you feel safe. Happy. That you're given a chance to heal." He slides a hand over your splint. "In every way you need to."
Your eyes flit to his. "I folded your laundry. I hope it's okay that I went in your room."
His brows furrow.
Perhaps you just don't have any idea how to respond to reassurance and concern; care. Maybe it came with an ulterior motive before, at least a portion of the time. Or expectations. Nothing being allowed to come from something.
"Yeah, honey," he says while giving your fingers a reassuring squeeze. "That's fine. You're free to go wherever you like in this house. Nothing is off-limits."
On your way for a midnight trip to the bathroom, you're just passing by Robby's room when you catch, out of the corner of your eye, the familiar glow of a TV casting a darkened room in muted neon colors.
Gently pushing his bedroom door open, you hesitate in the hall before finally stepping over the transition strip and sinking your toes into soft brown carpet.
Starfished across the bed, Robby snores quietly with a comforter thrown haphazardly over his waist and legs. A smile tugs at your lips when you see one of his feet peeking out. You right this by tugging a blanket over it and rounding the foot of the bed to watch him from the other side for just a moment. With a pillow shoved beneath his chin, he draws in a deep breath before releasing a snore, and you giggle quietly.
He's peaceful like this. Lost in dreamland.
Part of you wants to smooth tousled hair from his brow and run a soft hand down his naked back, but refrain.
You miss being touched very much.
Swiping the remote from his bedside table, you click off the TV before quietly settling it atop his bedside table. You exit the room then and softly shut the door behind you.
Despite Robby's protestations, you've been getting up early every morning before him so you can make him breakfast.
The dishes vary, because variety seems to be important to you. One morning, it's a burrito with cheesy scrambled eggs, chopped bacon, and diced peppers. Another, pancakes with butter, strawberry syrup, and freshly sliced fruit. This one? Waffles with bits of fried chicken and cups of fresh-squeezed orange juice to accompany.
He'd half considered taking your phone away so you wouldn't have an alarm to wake you anymoreâit's important to him that you get plenty of restâbut knew any trust you now feel toward him would dissipate entirely if he did so.
At least he's not operating for hours on-end with nothing on his stomach but black coffee and a cheap protein bar now.
Speaking of, you even bother with filling a tumbler for him each time he's readying himself at the door with fresh coffeeâcomplete with plenty of cream and sugar mixed in for him to take along during his commute.
He's worried you feel obligated to do all that you are. Rather, he knows that you do. But he's also aware that you want to feel usefulâare keeping yourself occupied when he's not here with you.
He offered to buy you an e-reader, or puzzles, or supplies for any hobby you think you'd like to try to busy yourself with, but had been met with resistance when you told him "not to waste money on you".
He picked you up the most expensive Kindle he could find anyway, as well as a hundred dollar gift card for it, a protective case, and a felting kit that's supposed to make a kitten holding a daisy.
Not exactly his thing, but you seem sweet enough that he'd hoped it would pique your interest.
"Did you turn my TV off last night?" Robby asks between chews of crispy chicken.
Your utensils clatter against your plate. "I... I was going to use the bathroom and saw that it was still on. I didn't want it to wake youâ"
He shakes his head while taking another bite. "I sleep with it on," he explains. "Just a habit I can't seem to kick," he states with a casual shrug.
You slide your trembling hands between your thighs and swallow down the lump in your throat. "I'm so sorry," you whimper. "I didn't mean to upset youâ"
His head jerks up.
"I won't ever go in there again. I promise. Iâ"
"No, sweetheart, you didn't upset me. I'm not angry. I was just telling you that I left it on on purpose."
You nod fervently. "I'll do better. I promise."
He stands, lifts his chair, then settles it next to your own before sliding an arm around your shoulders. "I appreciated it: you trying to look out for me." He chuckles. "Now you understand why I've tried insisting you not get up to make me breakfast."
You turn to look at him.
"Your sleep is just as important to me as mine is to you."
Heat rushes to your cheeks when he presses his lips to your left one, and you cross your legs at the ankles when his beard scratches pleasantly against the soft skin. "Thank you," he rumbles.
"You're welcome," you chirp.
You're not sure why, but every time your phone dings with a text from Robby, your heart flip-flops in your chest. Maybe because you're not used to such communication methods, so you're always worried about your tone being misread because of it being typed words.
It's usually about the same time every day the thing goes off now with a Having a good day? message occupying your lockscreen.
What you don't know, is that Robby watches with eager anticipation as those three dots pop up... Then disappear. Pop up... And disappear.
Then, Yes, thank you đ
Need me to pick up anything on my way home to you?
He shakes his head with a frown and proceeds to delete the last two words before pressing send.
Same song and dance: dots, disappear, and so on.
Almost out of your coffee.â And if it's not any trouble, a pack of strawberries.đ
Your constant inclusion of emojis only serves to endear him to you further. He assumes it's because they're new to you, and you have a mild fascination with their being a new sort of lexicon.
You got it, sweetheart.
Once again, he deletes the last tacked-on word.
Thank you!đ
He doesn't ask about the bee. Instead, Robby stares down at the photo he took with you a couple weeks back which he has set as your contact photo: the two of you sat on the couch, and his lips pressed to your cheek while you smile shyly at the camera.
You'd been so flustered when he surprised you by snapping it, but could see from the way you squirmed after that it wasn't due to discomfort, but something else entirely.
And now, every morning before he leaves for work, it's become an unspoken part of his routine: you padding over with a tumbler of coffee, which he takes while leaning forward to kiss one of your cheeks, or forehead, or the crown of your head while telling you to have a good day. In return, you tell him to be safe.
You've become something he looks forward to seeing again once each impossible shift is finally through.
He never knew just how worth having someone to come home to could be.
Robby doesn't acknowledge the one word which sums up the warmth that's developed in his chest every time he thinks of, or sets eyes or hands on you as he turns to head back inside to tend to a trauma case.
"Oh," you quip before dropping a stack of Robby's clothes onto the edge of his bed. Unable to stop yourself from greedily studying every inch of his half-naked form, your eyes flit from one facet of his body to another like you're trying to memorize it before this moment passes.
He's just exited the bathroom and his hair is a damp, tousled mess. A towel is wrapped loosely around his waist, which his belly that's smattered with dark hair hangs heavily over.
Your mouth grows dry at the generous swell of it.
Is it strange if you want to press your hands into the plump skin while straddling his bare waist?
You nearly glance down at your own waist when you feel a foreign fluttering start up between your thighs.
For so long, even just watching kissing on TV disgusted you. The thought of intimacy which went any further made you feel downright nauseous.
But seeing Robby like this... It stirs something within you which you once thought lost.
You study your slippered feet. "Sorry," you mumble. "I thought you were still in there."
He plucks a pair of briefs from the top of the folded pile and pulls them on beneath his towel before removing it from his waist and balling it up to toss into the hamper in the bathroom. "It's okay. Just glad I had a towel on."
You bite back a smirk because the thought of him without it...
"Would you like for me to put your clothes away?"
He turns back toward the bathroom. "I can do it. Don't worry about it."
You chew your lip for a moment, then grab his underthings and pad over to his dresser anyway.
When Robby emerges from the bathroom again, it's to the predictable sight of you tending to yet another chore that you've made your responsibility.
He does appreciate the unspoken intimacy of you folding his underwear, though. Only woman who ever has, in fact. Minus one other, but that ended decades ago.
He pulls a dark t-shirt from the pile as wellâone less thing for you to throw on a hanger, he figuresâand just as he goes to pull it on over his head, you turn back to him.
"You don't have to," you say quietly. "Incase you're...still hot from your shower."
At times before, he would go shirtless, but not with you here now. Everything he does, he does while trying to keep your comfort in mind. "Not as fit as I was twenty years ago," he says with a chuckle.
"I didn't know you then," you say while grabbing a couple pairs of his scrubs. "But I find it hard to believe that you looked better than you do right now."
When you turn to place the items in his closet, it's with him being left utterly speechless.
Robby forgoes the shirt, much to your satisfaction.
It'd sent you into an utter tizzy, but the day Robby brought home the charming little sedan he purchased for you is the day the dam broke.
Abbot pulled up behind him, still somewhat fuming, because only that afternoon when he accompanied him to the car lot so there would be someone to get his truck back home for him is when Robby finally divulged the dirty little secret he'd been hoarding for months: he was living with a patient. Not just any patient, either, but one that should've been referred to law enforcement or a battered woman's shelter instead of taken into his home to receive the professional help she needed.
Jack had lain into him with no sign of stopping before Robby finally blew his top and screamed at him that he was in love with you, and that you were his to care for now. That he was just as professional as they and knew good and well how to take care of things. And that if he had an issue with it, then it was his shit to sort out. Not Robby's goddamn problem, because he couldn't lose you.
The two of you helped fix each other in so many wonderful ways, and he couldn't bear the thought of relinquishing the home he'd found in you by providing you with a literal one in exchange just because some may think it "unethical". Unethical would've been letting you go back to him when Robby had a safe place to take you to.
It would be a cold day in Hell before he allowed that to happen.
When Jack watches from the driver's seat of Robby's truck, however, and sees the way you wrap yourself around himâliterallyâwhen he sweeps you off the ground before circling his waist with your legs and your arms around his neck before you each cradle the other's head while showering one another with kisses and happy tears, he vows to keep his mouth shut about things.
He once told Robby that he spent too much time alone, and that it wasn't doing him any favors. So how can he be angry when he sees that he's rectified it?
Jack exits the cab to come and meet youâthe girl who saved his best friend from himself.
Things continue to be gradual, but you've come far from where you once were.
You now work part-time at a small local library, and sleep in the same bed as Robby. You haven't been intimate yet, but he did watch one night as you touched yourself while pawing excitedly at his stomach, while you straddled his lap.
He couldn't quantify how flattered it made him feel with mere wordsâthe fact that you find his one insecurity to be so incredibly erotic.
He hardly wears a shirt around the house now because of it.
Not that you ever complain.
You still play homemaker, and Robby has assured you that you don't have to work, but if it brings you joy, then by all means.
He even helped you set up a bank account that's solely in your name.
In the morning, you now kiss on the lips before Robby leaves you for patients and leading his ED staff, while you flit around the house and do chores before heading off to work yourself.
And biggest of all: you're now in therapy. You had to manipulate the truth as to how you and Robby met, lest you risk him being reported, but your ex is what you focus on discussingâit's the trauma he caused which you mean to work through.
Robby pays for the sessions so you can save your money for whatever else you like. You've recently gotten into adult coloring books, for example.
Jack sometimes comes over for dinner, and it makes you smile to see he and Robby joking around; that he has such a close friendship. You had worried that Jack would have opinions as to your two's relationship, given that he's an attending just like Robby, but to your relief, he seems rather fond of you.
You may've tried to bribe his good graces early on by purchasing him a special polish for his prosthetic, as well as a cream for his amputation. He took it from you with thanks and a grateful smile before joking that maybe he and Robby take turns over having you when the other is at the hospital.
You'd wandered away with a bashful laugh.
Nothing is perfectâlife rarely isâbut at least yours is livable now. More than. All because of the loving heart of one good doctor you now have the privilege of calling your man. And to him, when the time finally comes before long...his fiancĂŠe.
you approach everything clinically, including poorly constructed sex scenes in books. dr langdon decides to take that as an invitation to give you a proper sex ed lesson.
pairings: nerd!reader x frank langdon
warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, reader reading smut, virgin!reader (kind of implied more than outright stated), innocence kink, corruption kink, langdon supplying reader with an sex book?, literally so freaked out and for what, female masturbation, phone sex, langdon talking you thru it!!!
wc: 6.2k
Youâve always had a somewhat fraught relationship with imagination. People say you lack it, to put it plainly. They say youâre too literal. As if being literal isnât the reason airplanes stay in the air and bridges remain standing.Â
But you just happen to find reality plenty beautiful. More than beautiful, actually. Reassuring. There is dignity in a thing that can be tested, reproduced, and counted on.
Newtonâs law. The sodium-potassium pump. Entropy. Even the grimmer systems at least are consistent if nothing else.
So naturally, medicine was what you pursued in college. Everything means something. Everything is attached to something else. Symptoms are not random; bodies are not whimsical.
Even if an answer is hidden, it exists, and if you are willing to stay with a problem long enough, turn it over enough times, peel it apart layer by layer and build it back from the inside out, eventually it reveals itself.
Fiction does not afford you that courtesy. Fiction wants you to tolerate blank spaces and gaps. You hate gaps. You love knowing.
Fiction gives you half a scene and waits expectantly, like congratulations, now you do the labor.
Build the room. Place the bodies. Infer the angles. Ignore, apparently, that the human body is not an abstract concept but a heavily regulated system of hinges and limits and gravity and very obvious spatial constraints.Â
You are experiencing one of those gaps now, staring so hard at the page your eyes begin to sting a little, focus tightening to a punitive little point. You think if you look at it severely enough the scene might resolve into something you can understand.
The book says the woman is âon top,â which should be clear enough on its own, except the next sentence immediately ruins that clarity by describing angles that do not, as far as you can tell, exist in three-dimensional space.Â
And you have so many questions.
Is there a bed involved here? A couch? A floor? Any surface at all?
You reread the line. Maybe you overlooked a prepositional phrase hiding in plain sight. A detail that will clarify whose leg is bent and why it apparently now has the range of motion of a paper clip.
Nothing. No luck. Still opaque.
Possibly more vague now, because repetition has begun to dissolve whatever confidence you had in your own reading abilities.
It is difficult to overstate how humiliating it is to be bested by mediocre smut.Â
You sigh and look to your watch. 9:18 p.m. Late. The bus is always late. Thatâs why you have this book in your hand in the first place, wanting to turn dead time into something educational. Unfortunately thatâs not how itâs going.
You blow out a breath as another gust of wind snakes over the exposed strip of skin between your socks and the hem of your jeans.
They used to hit lower on your ankle, but courtesy of your buildingâs shitty communal dryer, they donât do that anymore.
âInteresting reading choice.â
It is not a voice you prepared yourself to hear. You werenât prepared to hear a voice at all, really.
So when you hear the familiar pitch of Landon, your body overcorrects, sending you backward like a startled deer losing traction on ice.
You see the next ten seconds in a flash: the hollow thunk of your head on the pole behind you, the stuttering apologies delivered as your vision tunnels, the concussion protocols that will surely haunt you for weeks, months, possibly forever.
But those ten seconds never actually happens.
Instead, you cautiously peer up into the flat, coolly appraising expression of Langdon, whose hand is placed behind your head, taking the brunt of the impact.
âOh. Hi. Dr. Langdon. I, um, this isnât â Iâm not ââ Youâre already floundering, trying to assemble something defensible out of a situation that is not defensible. âIt was recommended,â you say at last, which is true, though not in a way that sounds remotely exculpatory once spoken aloud. âBy Javadi. She said it was good, which I assumed meant, like, well-written, not â this. Which I know sounds â I hear it, I hear how it sounds, but I didnât just, like, seek this out independently. I was curious from a clinical standpoint.â
Shit.
You just lobbed Victoria under the bus didnât you? And unlike the literal bus, this metaphorical one arrived enthusiastically on time, probably even honked.
You add it to the growing ledger of things you owe her. Coffee, at the very least. Something artisanal, thoughtful, handcrafted.
A note, handwritten in apology, because email would be cowardly and texting would feel insufficient, and really â after what youâve just done, youâre not sure anything short of ink, paper, and a tangible record of shame could suffice.
He removes his hand, the pressure at the back of your head disappearing as he shifts to rest it along the bench behind you instead.
âClinical,â he repeats. His eyes flick briefly to the book in your hands, then back to you, unimpressed. âAnd what have you concluded so far, doctor?â
âNot a doctor yet,â you point out. Not sure why you do. âBut, um, just that itâs just not very clear? Like, the scenes move really fast, and I feel like Iâm missing steps in between, so I keep trying to visualize whatâs happening and I just end up getting stuck on, like⌠where everything is supposed to go and ââ You stop, frowning now. âYou â you probably didnât actually want an answer to that, did you?â
His mouth pulls just enough to suggest heâs entertained despite himself. âNot initially.â
You nod. âOkay, good, because I definitely wasnât planning to provide detail. Just, you know â general plausibility stuff. Realism concerns.â
âLet me see,â he says, and before your frazzled brain can form an adequate objection, he's already reaching forward, extracting the paperback from your suddenly slackened grasp.
You stand abruptly, the bench scraping in a terrible sound against concrete as you reach for the book.
âYou really donât have to do that.â
A correct statement. Useless, however, as he lifts the novel out of reach without even looking at you, arm extending just enough to make it clear that this is not a negotiation, and also, somewhat insultingly, not even difficult.
You briefly consider climbing him. Scaling him like a distressed, socially compromised marsupial and retrieving the book by force.
It feels like a viable solution. You dismiss it only on the grounds that in the last five minutes alone, accumulated enough embarrassment to sustain a normal person for at least two lifetimes.
And theoretically there should be a cap.
There is not, apparently.
Because after a brief glance at the page, he starts reading aloud: âShe sank down on him with an aching slowness, savoring the stretch of it, the sweet friction that made her pulse flutter faster with every roll of her body. His hands gripped her waist, guiding her, keeping her there while the pleasure mounted in teasing waves until she was shaking with it, desperate and almost there.â
You feel the heat spark up your spine and towards you neck before saturating your face. The intensity momentarily blurs your vision.
Your hands tighten uselessly at your sides, a strange, unfamiliar tightness coiling low in your stomach.
You try your very hardest not to let your mind start making substitutions. You try not to let the faceless bodies on that page acquire identifiable features. A chin dimple, for instance. You try not to let the voice in front of you fuse itself any further to the text than it already has.
You wrench your gaze upward, fixing it somewhere behind his left ear, hoping that physical distance might somehow dilute your newfound imagination that just five minutes ago you were bashing.
He closes the book with a snap, eyebrow arched. âSounds perfectly reasonable.â
âI mean, maybe,â you respond, a little too quickly. âIf there were just⌠more specifics? Like, about the positioning. The angle, or where ââ You take a quick breath. âNever mind.â
âAnd exactly how would you clarify it?â
âIâd probably just⌠add another line,â you say. âLike, specify that her hips are lower, or that her weight is shifted forward so her center of gravity is closer to his. Just so itâs clear whatâs actually happening.â
He doesnât say anything right away and when his eyes flick forward again, they look a little different beneath the dark of the sky, the blue of them deepened into something richer. A little less straightforward, you think. Lapis held in low light, saturated in silver strips and a little too pretty.
You watch as his tongue drags across his lower lip, the briefest glimpse of moisture highlighting the subtle contours and fine, shallow ridges of texture there.
âIf youâre that concerned with accuracy,â he murmurs, âIâm sure thereâs ways to run a practical demonstration.â
You have a hard time understanding what he means by that and when your mind does attempt to furnish the words with imagery, you have to recoil from your own thoughts.
Does he mean with him?
No, surely not, that is not where he wanted this conversation to go, and besides, that interpretation feels reckless, egotistical even, considering he is almost certainly saying it in the most neutral, solution-driven sense possible.
If thatâs what heâs saying at all. He might not be. You canât tell.
He is offering a suggestion for you.
You are the one making it weird.
âOh. Well, itâd probably end up being more complicated than itâs worth. Iâd need a controlled setup, probably multiple attempts, and at that point itâs less a demonstration and more a full reconstruction.â
A muscle feathers along his jaw as he tips his face towards the moon-lit sky. He seems to do that a lot. Like heâs appealing to some higher power for fortitude to deal with you. Or maybe not you specifically, which would be preferable, expect it does feel rather like you are the central to the current crisis, you just arenât sure how.
Then he exhales a small laugh, thin with disbelief, and shakes his head once.Â
âYouâre right,â he says, voice deadpan. âClearly I wasnât thinking this through. Practicality first.â He glances pointedly at his watch. âItâs late. Iâll give you a ride home.â
You accept his offer without arguing, youâd be a fool not to, and trail him out toward the parking lot. A step behind, then a half step, then back again. You canât quite decide on the appropriate proximity.
When you reach the row of cars, you realize youâve never seen his before.
Itâs nice. Grey, practical, a four-door SUV that screams fiscal responsibility and weather-appropriate footwear, a vehicle with divorced-dad energy so specific you can practically invent the rest of the man around it: patient at youth soccer, quietly resentful in a grocery store parking lot, pretending not to be wounded by logistical disappointments.Â
The interior only deepens the impression. It is clean, but not in a forbidding way, not scrubbed of personality.
There is a toy in the cupholder, a crumpled napkin tucked into the side compartment, a few fast-food receipts scattered near the floor like the residue of a life conducted at speed.
It feels lived in, which is somehow more intimate than if it had been spotless.
It is, disconcertingly, human. More human than you expected from a man who often carries himself like a sealed document.Â
Nice, you think again, and then, unhelpfully, him, the two notions beginning to blur together before you can stop them.
Itâs a relatively quiet drive to start. The radio tuned to some Catholic station it must have picked up nearby, murky and hard to decipher, while streetlights drift past in bands of orange and green, staining the inside of the car with color and then taking it back.
âJavadi really recommended that?â Frank asks suddenly, piercing the silence.
âYeah,â you admit, then wince almost immediately. âWell, sort of. I mean, I probably should not make it sound like she shoved it into my hands in some kind of corrupting-the-youth campaign. She mentioned it, but I was already curious. It was not not my idea.â You glance down, suddenly very interested in your own hands. âIâve just been trying to do a little research, I guess.â
His fingers tap once against the steering wheel.
âAnd what, specifically, are you hoping to learn?â
Your mouth presses thin for a second. Youâre not sure if you should continue.
âI was mostly just trying to get a better sense of... how certain things work in real life,â you say, picking each word carefully. âAs opposed to in theory. Or in whatever version of reality people usually pretend is self-explanatory.â
He says nothing at first. Then through grit teeth: âYou mean because no oneâs explained it to you?â
You glance over, caught a little off guard by the question. âWell, not in any useful sense.â
His jaw flexes.Â
âAnd the alternative,â he says slowly, âwas assigned reading.â
You wince. âWhen you phrase it like that, it does sound bleak.â
âWhen I phrase it like that, it sounds like youâre trying to teach yourself something most people learn by experience.â
âWell,â you mumble, âyes. More or less.â
The light changes and he brakes, the red wash from the signal pouring through the windshield and across his face, tinting his skin rose-gold.
He screws his eyes shut for a brief second, hands drawing tighter on the wheel before he exhales.
âIn that case,â he says, opening his eyes again, âIâm not entirely convinced thatâs the most reliable educational resource.â
âWhy?â you ask, with enough sincere confusion to make it clear you are not arguing so much as requesting clarification.Â
The light turns green.
âBecause itâs not source material. Itâs entertainment.â His tone stays level, but only just. âIt takes whatever is most dramatic, most flattering, most appealing, and presents it like itâs standard. It leaves out the parts that are inconvenient or unsexy, which means if you treat it as educational, youâre going to come away with a very distorted sense of how any of it actually works.â
âI guess that makes sense,â you say. âThere were definitely sections where I kept thinking, surely that cannot be how that happens. Or at least not without significantly more preparation, flexibility, or orthopedic intervention than the text was willing to acknowledge.â
âSo I gathered.â
You fall quiet after that, though not for lack of further questions. In fact the opposite is true, because now he has accidentally positioned himself as a person with knowledge of how sex works.
But that would be inappropriate on at least six different levels.Â
He is driving you home as a favor, not volunteering to become some kind of after-hours consultant on the mechanics of sex, and there is no universe in which asking for elaboration would make you seem anything other than catastrophically unwell.
You almost ask him anyway.Â
But before you can make what would almost certainly be the worst possible decision available to you tonight, the car slows, turns, and then stops.Â
You stare at the windshield, disoriented by the fact that you are suddenly at your apartment.
âRight,â you say, gathering your bag with the abrupt, clumsy movements of someone trying to recover from her own thoughts. âThank you. For the ride.â
He gives a brief nod, one hand still resting on the wheel. âIt was no trouble.â
You do not believe that for even a second. Still, you murmur goodnight and let yourself out, hurrying inside with as much dignity as can be salvaged after a conversation like that.
A couple days later, youâre sitting in the breakroom with your head propped in your palm, devoting a frankly heroic amount of effort to not drop face-first into the laminate.
You are exhausted, which is surely unrelated to the fact that you stayed up too late conducting what can only be described as independent research.
There is, it turns out, an astonishing amount of positions.
More than seems necessary, honestly. Far too many names. Far too many diagrams. So many that appear to require either exceptional upper body strength or a level of mutual coordination that feels statistically unlikely in the average civilian population.Â
Some are perfectly straightforward. Many are not. Several seem just down-right wrong.
The door opens and you glance up, prepared to offer some vague nod of recognition to whoever has come to interrupt your private collapse.Â
Langdon.
âOh,â you say, straightening a little too quickly. âHi, Dr. Langdon.â
That seems to be your automatic response to his presence.
His eyes narrow. âRough morning?â
You give a small shrug. âMâfine.â
âYouâll have to excuse my skepticism.â He drags the chair across from you and sits.
âJust stayed up too late.âÂ
You hope that doesnât inspire follow-ups.
He slides something across the table toward you. A book. You stare at the cover. Then at him.Â
âThis,â he says, tapping two fingers once against the cover, âis at least designed to explain things.â
Slowly, as if touching it too fast might make this more real, you pick it up and turn it over.
The back is dense with tidy paragraphs about desire, arousal, and the science of how womenâs bodies actually work, all written in the reassuring language of expertise, which would be comforting if your pulse were not currently behaving like it had something to hide.
âThatâs⌠unexpectedly thoughtful,â you murmur. âThank you.â
âDonât make too much of it.â
âI wonât,â you say, which is a lie so poorly constructed it barely qualifies as one.
You are, in fact, almost certain to make too much of it later, probably in bed, probably while staring at the ceiling.Â
Then the door opens again. You nearly jump. You pull the book against your chest like you are protecting classified material. Langdonâs eyes narrow a fraction.
Garcia steps inside a second later, pauses, and looks between the two of you.
â...Am I interrupting something weird?â she asks.
You stand so quickly the chair legs scrape against the floor.
âNope,â you say. âNot at all. Nothing weird. Not even slightly.â You clutch the book tighter. âI do, however, suddenly need to go be elsewhere. For work-related reasons. Very legitimate ones.â You nod once. âOkay. Bye.â
Itâs late when you finally start to read the book Langdon gave you. Your first mistake, really. You have to be up in four hours. Four.
But the book turns out to be more useful than expected. It has information. Real information. Terminology and diagrams and explanations that move in a sequence a human brain can follow, one thing leading intelligibly to the next instead of that gauzy, vague, everyone-just-knows-what-to-do, magical event nonsense.
And this all should, theoretically, be enough to satisfy you.
Except every answer you get splits open into three more questions, hydra-style, the whole thing multiplying the second you think you have a grip on it.
And yes, sometimes Google is enough. But sometimes it is not.
Too broad, too contradictory, too many tabs open at once, too many Reddit posts written by men with misplaced confidence.
So now you are sitting on your bed staring at your phone, typing a message, deleting it, retyping it, deleting it again. Because this is weird. It is weird to text him.
But then again, he did hand you the book.
He did, in a very real sense, amplify this situation. And maybe giving you additional reading material counts as tacit approval for further questions. A follow-up. Continuing education.
You hit send.
hi dr. langdon. sorry. i have a question about the book!
It takes only a couple seconds for him to answer.
Go ahead.
You sit up so fast the book slides off your leg and drops onto the bedspread with a soft thump.
You stare at the screen.
You expected eventuality, a response tomorrow morning maybe, sometime after sunrise, sometime under the polite cover of daylight when everybody involved could collude in pretending this was a normal academic exchange and not you texting a senior resident after dark about sex-adjacent material like you were requesting clarification on electrolyte imbalance.
You glance at the clock and frown.
What is he even doing up?
Surely you didnât wake him. You cannot imagine he sleeps with his ringer turned up loud enough for that. No, he feels like a phone-on-silent, notifications-curated, emergency-contacts-only kind of man.
You spend four minutes composing the question. You send six words.
what does âbuilding sensationâ actually mean?
Need more context than that.
You photograph the page. You send it. You put your phone face down on the quilt and do not look at it for a full minute.
When you finally make yourself turn the phone over, heâs answered.
Itâs the physiological buildup to orgasm. Increased blood flow, heightened sensitivity, pelvic muscle tension. Sustained and constant stimulation. The sensation compounds on itself.
Your thumb catches idly on the hem of your pajama shorts, worrying the fabric back and forth while you stare at the screen. It takes a long amount of time to realize youâre doing it. You stop. Then start again without meaning to, fingertips slipping under the edge to press against your thigh.Â
is consistency about location or pressure or both? the book implies they're interchangeable. Â
Both. Generally location first, then pressure. If you keep changing where youâre touching, itâs harder to build anything. If the location is consistent but the pressure is erratic, same problem. Theyâre related, but not interchangeable.
Your free hand has drifted north to the waistband of your shorts, thumb pressing little crescent moons into overheated skin. Almost feverish.
Location first.Â
An unfortunate instruction to receive while being aware of the exact location in question, muted now by two thin layers of cotton.
You should stop there. Obviously.
You should set the phone down, turn off the lamp, go to sleep, and revisit all of this in the morning when you are less suggestible.Â
Instead your hand keeps moving, slow enough that you can perhaps pretend you have not consciously decided anything, slipping lower until it hovers over your underwear, where your clit presses back against the fabric. Swollen. And then lower than that, wet.
That startles you more than anything. From what, exactly? A sex manual? A few texts? Him?
No. That last one is inadmissible. Wildly inappropriate.
So you drag your mind back to the book instead, using it as a kind of corrective, something technical to blunt that he is, however indirectly, implicated in this.Â
Start with indirect stimulation. Let the body acclimate. Donât rush the thing. Let the thing, apparently, arrive on its own like a skittish woodland creature you are trying not to scare off.
Fine. Whatever.Â
You press your thumb down and make a circular motion, sucking in a breath so sharply it almost hurts, mostly because the sensation is immediate and strange and good. You wouldnât say overwhelming. Though maybe you would. You canât think straight. Surprising, then. Concentrated.
Like pressing a bruise, except the complete inverse of that, if they lit up instead of aching. It makes you want to do it again.
So you do.
Small circles. Experimental. Testing the waters.
And itâs not like this is technically new. You have tried before.
But before was rushed and graceless and was the sort of thing done half-curiously and abandoned quickly, with no patience for your own body.
You were raised sheltered, and beyond that, serious. Preoccupied with things that seemed more pressing, more worthy of your attention, as though this part of yourself could be indefinitely postponed without consequence.Â
You pick the phone back up with your unoccupied hand.
okay. that makes sense.
You stare at it, dissatisfied. Too final. Too capable of ending the conversation. You add another line before you can overthink yourself out of it.
and if the sensation is building, when are u supposed to switch? like to inner stimulation, i mean. or are you not supposed to unless what youâre already doing stops working?
The typing bubble appears instantly.
You donât have to switch. Thatâs the first thing.
External stimulation is usually more important, especially early on. Inner stimulation is optional, not a required next step.
Little gasps keep escaping you as you refine the motion, not changing much, just enough pressure to sharpen it, back arching into the mattress.
It feels good. You donât remember it ever feeling this good.
Maybe because before did not involve a very attractive doctor explaining your own body back to you in real time.
It is getting harder to text. Harder to think in complete sentences. Still, you manage, so if itâs working, is it better to not change anything? even if it starts feeling a lot more sensitive?
Your phone starts ringing.
You freeze when Frank's name flashes across the screen.
For a moment you can only stare. Your pulse jumps in your throat, fluttering there like something trapped, and then you are yanking your hand from your shorts and grabbing for the phone with fingers that suddenly seem to belong to someone much less coordinated than you.
âHi â,â
âWhat are you doing?â
âWhat do you mean?â you ask, though your voice already sounds guilty, chest rising and falling unevenly. âIâm â nothing. Iâm just reading.â
âYouâre not a very good liar.â
You frown at the dark ceiling. âI hate the confidence with which you say things.â
âItâs usually earned.â
You make a face at that, even though he cannot see it.
âI wasnât prepared for a pop quiz,â you mutter. âYou called out of nowhere.â
âA call seemed appropriate,â he says through the soft buzz of static.
âWhy?â
Your whole body feels keyed up now, strung too tight, humming with a surplus of energy like you have been plugged into the wall and simply left there to glow.
It's hard to keep still under the blankets. Harder with his voice in your ear, that low grain of it roughened by the hour, touched with that tired edge that makes him feel closer than he is. He sounds warm. He sounds half-undone.
You can picture him without trying. In bed. Hair rumpled from sleep or from his hand shoved through it one too many times, one stray piece fallen near his eyes. Maybe in pajamas. Maybe not. Either option is equally disruptive. You brain offers a shirt pushes up a little, one arm behind his head, a strip of stomach, a line of hair disappearing into plaid boxers.
You shift on the mattress. Your hand trails back down your front, fingers resuming their place on your underwear.
âBecause your last text didnât read like a theoretical question,â he says. âI wanted to hear whether I was right.â
The words move through you, like he has reached through the phone and pressed a hand flat to your lower stomach.
âAnd were you?â
Your hips shift on the mattress again, angling into your own touch.
You bite your lip around the small throb of pleasure that follows.
âYeah. I was.â His voice comes through coarser now, the line fuzzing around it, but not enough to hide the change. âAnd if Iâm hearing you correctly, you havenât stopped.â
You squeeze your eyes shut.
â...maybe.â
There's a brief pause on the line. You hear the rustle of him moving, before he speaks again. âTell me exactly what you're doing.â
âIâm, uhâŚâ You mouth goes dry. âI mean, you know.â
âI canât tell you what to do if you wonât tell me what youâre doing,â he says. âYou need to be specific.âÂ
You swallow.
âIâm touching over my underwear,â you admit finally, the words coming out hushed and a little uneven. âJust with my thumb. Iâm not really⌠doing anything more than that.â
A soft exhale crackles through the phone.
âThatâs good,â he murmurs. âTell me if it feels good.â
Your lashes flutter at the words. Your thumb keeps tracing the same spot, a little more rhythmically now, and every so often your hand falters when the sensation catches unexpectedly bright, a live wire under your skin.
Flashing hotter and hotter and hotter until you can barely stand it.
Your thighs draw in on instinct, then ease apart again, restless, unable to decide whether they are trying to hold the feeling or escape it.
âMhm.â Itâs all you can manage.Â
You start to picture him again. Existing in real time in the dark on the other end of the line now.
It sends the throbbing in your cunt up tenfold, sharp little bursts of color flying behind your eyelids, green and orange and something almost gold.
You use your imagination to conjure up the image of him doing the same. Him with the phone in one hand and the other moving in lazy unhurried strokes around his cock, like this is no great strain for him, like he is as controlled in private as he is everywhere else.
You wonder what it looks like. His cock. Probably big and pink and veiny.
You know, rationally, that he is probably not doing that at all. He is probably just lying there in the dark, listening, talking, being composed for both of you.
But it is a nice thought anyway. More than nice, really. Your body answers it before you can caution it otherwise, your clit going heavier and more swollen, as you move to touch yourself without the barrier of your panties. Itâs more sensitive that way. And your whole lower half seems to lean vainly into your own hand, practically preening toward the touch.
âNow Iâm, um, touching myself directly.â
âAlright. Want you to try something. Can you do that for me?â
âYeah,â you say quickly. A little too eager. âI can.â
âGood girl.â The praise makes your stomach tighten. âWant you to slide two fingers into yourself a little. Not all the way, just enough to get them wet, okay? Then bring them back to your clit and keep using your thumb, or your fingers if that feels easier. Same pace as before.â
You nod even though you know he canât see it and slip two fingers down, enough to feel the sticky warmth of yourself, coating your digits.
You bring it back up, smearing it over your nub.
âOh,â you mumble breathily.
âYeah?â he teases quietly. âThat better?â
âA lot.â
âGood. Itâs easier like that. Less friction. If youâre getting more sensitive, too much drag starts working against you.â
Heâs right. Heâs always right. You feel a little strange and floaty now, like your whole body has narrowed down to one incandescent point.
âHow do you know all this?â you prod.
A pause. Then, âExperience.â
âRight. That.â Another circle, another spark of pleasure down your spine. âI donât exactly have that.â
âI gathered.â
Something in his tone makes you go a little still. Not enough to stop, but your hand falters, tightening around a thought before you can even identify it.
He notices immediately. He has some terrifying sonar for you specifically, some private frequency calibrated to every tiny shift in your breathing, every dropped beat, every half-second hesitation.
âHey,â he says pointedly. âDonât get in your head now. Never said it was a bad thing. Keep going. Think about something else.â
âSuch as?â you whisper.
Thereâs the sound of breathing from the phone before he answers, âthatâs up for you to decide.â
You suck in a sharp breath, squirming as you adjust phone closer to your ear
âCan you just⌠keep talking to me?â
Thereâs a huff on the other end, almost a laugh. âThatâs not very specific.â
âI know.â Youâre sure youâre not making much sense right now. âI just â donât stop. Please. Just wanna hear you say anything.â
Heâs quiet for a second, like heâs trying to decide what, exactly, youâre asking for. The problem is, youâre not entirely sure either.
You only know thereâs a strange, tightening warmth low in your stomach, something gathering there, and his voice seems to nurture it instead of breaking it apart.
You hear something clang on the other end of the phone.
âFuck. Okay. First need you to breathe, okay? You're tensing up, I can hear it. Relax your legs.â
You try to do as you're told.
In. Out. In. Out.
Each breath feeding the whole thing oxygen, driving you nearer and nearer to the vanishing point until your eyes threaten to roll back and your body feels like on extended nerve.
âI ââ A breath. âSorry, I just ââ Another one. âFrank I think I'm â I'm close, I think, I don't â It's really intense and I don't know what I'm ââ You lose the thought entirely. âI just don't know what I'm supposed to do when it starts feeling like this. Do I stop, or ââ
âShit baby, you've never gotten there before? Not even ââ
âNo,â you manage.
âOh, poor thing.âQuiet. Almost to himself. âOkay. âS okay. Don't stop. I need you to stay with me and just let it happen, can you do that?â
âI think ââ
âDon't think,â he cuts you off. âFor once in your life, don't think. Just feel it.â
Something in you finally gives.
You feel all of it at once.
Your orgasm peaks so fast it almost feels like losing power everywhere at the same time, every room going dark together, and your back comes off the pillows and your hand presses harder before you even mean for it to and a gasp tears out of you, high and helpless and so unlike anything you have ever heard from yourself that for a second it barely sounds like yours.
âThatâs it,â Frank says, low in your ear.
It rolls. That's the only word for it.
It rolls outward from your pussy in a slow, stunned series of tremors moving through your thighs, your spine, your chest, each wave its own distinct thing and yet not distinct at all, each one its own event, its own brief undoing.
You cannot do anything except lie there and take it, receive it as it passes through you, because there is nothing else available to you now, no other function left online, no thought, no dignity, no language, only this long bright aftershock and your body answering it whether you understand it or not.
Your breathing takes a while to come back to anything recognizable.
At first it is just air dragged in and let back out. Sweat has glued a few strands of hair to your forehead. Your hand has gone slack.
âYou still with me?â
That is when your brain comes back. All at once. Hard. Fast.
Because now you are not just a body coming down from an orgasm.
Now you are yourself again. And Frank Langdon just talked you through getting off.
Frank Langdon, your coworker. Frank Langdon, your superior. Frank Langdon, whom you have just used as a combined anatomy instructor, practical demonstration guide, and live sex education resource.
âYes, yeah, sorry.â You swallow, wipe at your forehead with the heel of your hand. âI'm here.â
âGlad to hear it,â he says. âYour sensitivity's going to be elevated for a minute, so just let your muscles relax and let your breathing even out. If you feel shaky, that's normal. If you heart's racing, also normal. Get some water when you can. Sit up slowly if you're going to move.â
âOkay,â you murmur, because he sounds so certain that for a second it is easy to borrow some of it. You try to unclench by degrees, thighs, stomach, shoulders, one thing at a time. âI am a little shaky, which is good to know is normal and not, like, a sign that Iâve accidentally broken something."
âNo,â he says, and there is that low note of dry amusement under it now, just enough to catch. âYou didnât break anything. If you had, trust me, weâd be having a very different conversation.â
âRight, no, I know. Though sex-related injuries are not exactly unheard of. Do you remember that girl in the ER who had a condom stuck in her for over two months and didn't realize it? That would suck."
"Mm. It would," he agrees. "Protection is important. Equally important to make sure it actually comes back out with you."
You let out a small giggle at that and shift on the bed, drawing yourself up a little slower this time, careful like he told you to bed. The quilt bunches under your legs.
A quiet opens up. And it might be comfortable if it with anyone else. But it is not with anyone else.
You break first.
âSo what happens now?â you ask, trying for light and missing by a little. âDo we pretend this was a totally normal educational exchange and never speak of it again?â
âI donât think youâre capable of pretending that,â he says.
You flush hot all over.
âAnd you are?â
A pause.
âNo.â The room goes still around you. You wait for him to elaborate. He doesnât, but he does say: âYou should get some sleep.â
âYeah,â you murmur. âProbably.â
You have to be up in three hours now. Have to see him in four.
Another beat. Neither of you hangs up.
Then, very quiet, very even, he says, âNext time, ask sooner.â
âNext time?â
âIf youâre going to use me as a reference source,â he says, all dry composure again, though now it feels a little put on, âIâd prefer a more reasonable hour.â
Your cheeks heat with the power of a thousand suns.
âOh, well, Dr. Langdon, I think ââ
âGoodnight.â
The line clicks dead.
You lie there staring into the dark, phone still pressed to your ear, and understand with awful, perfect clarity that this has not ended anything at all.
More gaps in your knowledge.
And you really hate gaps.
A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts 4 ten thousand yrs!!!!!!!! thinking about writing a part two but we shall see. anyway thanks for reading!! love ya always
Pairing: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x F!Reader
Summary: pt. 2 to midnight stranger
WC: 6.3k
Warnings: 18+, mildly dubcon, reader is lowkey scared of him but also isn't telling him "no", maybe a little fear/primal play?, (i really dk how to tag this scene), uhmm, dark!dex, JEALOUS!dex, he thinks you and matt have something going on, manhandling, rough sex, biting, spanking, fingering, PIV, overstimulation, unprotected, creampie, no use of Y/Nben
Dex's not-so subtle moans fill your ears. His jaw working. His fingers press into his mouth, sucking and licking them clean. His gaze levels yours with a smile.
Your face burns and you look away while you clear your throat.
"Food's good. Thank you."
You turn back to him, face still aflame as you stand, clearing your plates from the table. "Of course. You need fuel to help heal your...body." You almost cringe at yourself, trying not to glance down at his shirtless state. His damp hair messy on top of his head. You turn abruptly to the kitchen, hands full with the dishes. He watches you closely, tracking your every move. You're trying not to squirm, try not to think about these thoughts he's eliciting out of you. After cleaning the plates, you take your time washing your hands as he stares from the dining room table. Maybe you just needed to keep some distance away from him.
"You feed Matt while he's here?"Â
The question makes you frown and pause in your task, looking back up from to catch his stare. Dex's tone every time he's mentioned the Daredevil has been laced with...you want to say, unfriendliness. Maybe even hostility. It confused you, weren't they supposed to be friends? He was sent here by him, was he not? His hands are busy picking nonexistent lint off the sweats you gave him, as he looks away from your questioning regard.Â
"Uhm...no, I don't think I have." You actually try to think back to those countless nights. Maybe there was a pizza ordered here or there.
"Too busy with each other, huh?"Â
You miss the seething hatred in his tone as your brain tries to think about Matt and food and when the last time you saw him was.Â
Airily, without thinking, you reply, "Yeah, we're always busy when he's here."
You turn away to grab a rag to dry your hands, sink water turned off. This means you also miss the way Dex's lips twist up in a sneer, the way his hands clench and bunch up the grey fabric of his sweats. When you're done with your tasks, you turn towards your bedroom door, peering in before turning back to him. You were exhausted. You assess the man still seated at the table, his lips pressed into a thin line. Maybe he really was still in pain.
"I'll get you some pain medicine." You head into your bathroom cabinet, grabbing some acetaminophen and ibuprofen. It was the only thing you had on hand, hoping the two combined with the right dosage would help him ease some of his obvious discomfort.
When you come back, you're shocked to see he's moved to the couch. Pillow over his lap, legs kicked up onto the coffee table in front of him.
Before the two of you had sat down to eat, he'd helped you roll up the ruined rug, despite your protests about his wounds. You stood there and watched his muscles work, trying not to think about his hands on you while his arms worked the rug into a roll. Watched his back muscles roll when he lifted it up, hoisting it over his shoulder. Blushed when he'd given you a wink, not even phased, not even winded. You had to scold yourself when thoughts about him hoisting you up over his shoulder, ushering you into the bedroom, maybe even his hand swatting your ass had clouded your mind. He had looked at you like he knew exactly what you were thinking.
So the rug was gone. As was his cut up suit. His weapons, however... They sat right next to his feet on the coffee table. They unnerved you, to say the least. Daredevil didn't ever have any real weapons on him. He wasn't a killer. You didn't know much about the man you had in front of you, but you could venture to assume that he was similar to using violence as a tool like Frank Castle. You weren't sure how you felt about that.Â
You step closer to Dex, hand reaching out to drop some meds in his outstretched one. Instead of letting the medicine fall into his palm, he catches your hand with his, his rougher and larger hand engulfing yours. You catch yourself from pulling back in shock, instead turning your hand in his so he can properly take the medicine from you. He hums when you finally pull away from him, popping the medicine into his mouth like candy with a devious smile. Your skin tingles from where he'd touched you.
As a distraction, and curiosity, you look back at his weapons, trying to keep cool about everything. You doubted the Daredevil wanted you lusting over his friend, who was obviously in a vulnerable state. There's a moment of silence, as you turn away from his weapons and look around the room, until you're staring back at him. He smiles and pats the cushion next to him. A bit awkwardly, you move around the coffee table and sit on the opposite end of the couch, hands folded in your lap like this wasn't your home.Â
Taking a steadying breath, you turn to him with a careful voice, "What...what happened last night? Is Daredevil...is Matt okay?"
It was Dex's turn to look away from your gaze. Which was odd, considering how he never seemed to stop staring at you. His tone was nonchalant, "There was a fight. I can't get into too much detail." He turns back to you, his eyes slowly assessing you, "I'm sure he's fine."
You don't feel satisfied with his answer, "Okay, well, you're going to have to give me more than that. What is going on?" Your body turns more towards him on the couch, brain now on a mission. He was being way too vague from the get go. "Why did he send you here?"
"I told you," his shoulder lifts up in a shrug, "He told me to come. I had to get out of there."
"So, that's the part where I'm concerned, Dex," you stress his name in a scold, "If you came here in such a state, who is to say that Matt isn't worse off? Shouldn't we call the authorities or go check on him?"
He clenches the pillow on his lap, he teeth biting together. "Why are you so worried about him?"
You blink.Â
"What?"Â You ask, taken aback from his accusatory tone.
"I said why are you so worried about him." He almost hisses it out.
"I heard you." You frown at him, suddenly not liking where this conversation was going. All those comments on Matt from him starting to line up together in your head. Oh God. Did he...did he not like Matt? "I...I'm sorry, I'm confused. Why would I not be concerned about him?"
"Are these his fucking sweats I'm wearing?"
Your brows pull together into a deeper frown, glancing at the grey sweats around his legs. They weren't. They were a pair of your ex's you had stolen, unwilling to give them back and in a way, spitefully keeping them after the breakup years ago. They were comfy, and you doubted the SOB was missing them. Maybe it pleased you if he did, but that was besides the point. What was going on in this conversation with the man in your house? On your couch.
You slowly stand from the couch, red flags and warning bells now ringing in your head. God, you were stupid. Falling blind to his attractiveness, thinking he was here because Matt sent him. What if he killed him? You look down at the weapons on the table with widening eyes. Oh God, what if those wounds you patched up on him were from the Daredevil himself? You feel your feet backing up slowly, trying to subtly gain space from Dex.
His eyes darken, his lips parting into a dark smile. "These are, aren't they?" He makes a low furious noise as he stands from the couch. "No wonder they don't fit properly." Dex rises to his full height, tossing the pillow behind him, back onto the couch. He takes a slow step forward as you're taking a slow step back.
Sweat drips down your back. Eyes trailing his down his torso, to the waistband of the sweats. You're about to tell him, No, of course they aren't. Why would you have his clothes here? But your mouth dries and you force a swallow as you see the obvious outline of his thickening dick through the material. You feel your skin burn, desire filling your belly. You feel dizzy from the mixture of fear and arousal. What has gotten into you?
The man chuffs an amused noise as you take him in as he continues to stalk you like prey around your coffee table. Your legs quiver with anticipation, your body wanting to bolt. Fuck, you're wet. He's so tall and broad, the outline of his cock in the sweats burning into your brain. He looks big and thick and heavy. He takes step forward, and you flinch at the sudden movement, heart rate quickening. Your lips part in a pant before your tongue swipes out to wet them. Your mind clouding with desire. Your gaze trails back up his body, his mouth still lifted up in a smirk. Like he's happy to see that you caught on to him. That you're still catching up to the game he's been playing since you let him in. He's somehow moved so subtly, that he's an arm length's away. Your body racks itself into a full shiver, just before you're jolting into action.
Except he's faster. His hand reaches out to snatch your loose pajama shirt, almost tearing the fabric as he pulls your body back to him. His built arms coming around you to capture you against him, his breath leaving him in a short laugh when your back hits against his torso. You can feel the press of his hard cock flush against your ass as you squirm against his hold, one arm of his cording around your waist to keep you trapped to him. His other arm banding across your chest, hand going up to flex over your throat. You let out a small simpering and pathetic sound, pussy painfully throbbing with the contact of his body against yours. He presses his hips into you, the length of his dick grinding in between you two.Â
"Easy, girl." Dex's voice presses on the shell of your ear, like he's trying to calm you down. His fingers flex over your throat, not cutting off your oxygen, just keeping you in a hold. "Fuck, you're squirmy." He groans as you try to continue, weakly, to get out of his hold, your ass rubbing up against his hard cock. You feel it jump against you. You freeze while pull in air through your bared teeth.
"What are you doing?"Â You hiss out to him, biting back a whimper when he grinds into you at the sound of your voice.Â
His nose presses into your hair, a shudder racking his body behind you as he takes in a breath of your scent. "Do you fight Matt like this?"
You can't suppress a gasp when his mouth comes down to your throat, his fingers just barely parting for his tongue. He licks you softly, like he's testing your taste. Your eyes flutter shut as your head tilts, giving him more space. Dex notices and hums, pleased with the permission you gave him, his hand coming up to your jaw to tilt your head more as he sucks a spot on your neck. His grasp on you loosens, though he's still keeping you caged against his hard body as he works you up with mouth and tongue. Your panties are thoroughly soaked, and you grind back against him with a small moan. He releases your neck with a sucking pop, pleased to see his mark on you. He wants more of them on you, dark thoughts almost overtaking him until your hand is reaching in between the two of you, seeking out his throbbing length. He chokes when you grip him through the sweats, his head dropping to your shoulder.Â
You suck in a breath as your hands grip his girth, feeling him throb underneath your fingers. You work him through the fabric, his hips twitching up to press more into you. Dex's hand leaves your jaw to trail down to your breast, squeezing you through the fabric of your shirt, eliciting another weak moan from you. You hadn't bothered putting on a bra after your shower last night, something you don't ever sleep in. His fingers finding the peak of your nipple, rolling it in between them, causing your grip on him to tighten. He lets out a curse behind you, his mouth going back to your throat to suck another mark into you. When he's satisfied and finished with his bite, he quickly releases you, spinning you around before his mouth comes crashing down on yours, his hands grasping the back of your head, fingers tangling into your hair.Â
A surprised noise leaves you, smothered into his mouth, body rigid with the sudden movement until you soften into the kiss, mouth parting for him. You can feel him shudder again, pleased with how obedient you were being. How soft. How willing. But his mouth turns harsh, consuming, his kiss almost biting and clashing with anger. He's thinking about Matt having his hands on you, swallowing your moans. Having your hands pulling him in. An angry noise spills into the space of your battling mouths, his hands now hooking up under your thighs and ass, hoisting you up into the air with such ease it shocks and scares you. He was so strong, so agile and quick. Your thighs come around his waist, knocking into his wounds and stitches, the pain egging him on as he lets out a anguished noise. You try to slow down, to apologize, to tell him to put you down so you don't hurt him, but he kissing you with such angry abandon that you can't get anything out, can't even think straight as your hands come down to clutch his broad shoulders. His fingers dig into the swell of your ass, gripping you so tightly you're sure to have his fingers imprinted on you. Dex walks the two of you steadily back into your bedroom, placing you onto your bed, following you without his mouth leaving you once.
The situation starts to play your mind, your lower belly burning with want and need, legs spread for him to make space as his cock rubs along your clothed sex. You let out a moan into his mouth, your hands trailing up to his hair, tugging, trying to get him to take his mouth of yours so you can at least speak. The pain just seems to encourage him, his dick humping into your cunt, the friction from his weight and clothes making you hotter and hotter. You pant openly against his mouth, his tongue slipping in with an eager groan. You feel his hands pet along side of you, touching and gripping as much as he can through your clothes. He pulls away to look down at you.
Hell. You're looking up at him with hungry eyes, soft and pliant in his arms. Lips red and puffy from his attacks. Your pupils are blown out in lust, and it makes his stomach tighten as he thinks about Matt of all people in this moment.
"You look up at him like that too? Or is that just for me?" He grips your jaw, making you look at him dead on as your face scrunches up in confusion.
"Wh-" You start, until he's cutting you off by smacking his lips against yours again, teeth biting at your lips. You let out a shrill, hands coming to his shoulders to push him away.
"What is with you?" You hiss at him, thumping a hand against his shoulder as you try to push him off you. You're fighting him again, weakly, you might say, as his fingers wiggle their way under your shorts, making you pause in your fake struggle. You look back up at him, his dark gaze on your face as you watch him watch you feel his quick fingers just outside your soaked panties. He swipes them against the heat of your clothed core, your hips bucking up in response. He presses his fingers against your sopping wet entrance, smiling at the way your mind goes blank just from his touch.
"Tell me you want me more than him." Dex growls down at you, the pads of his fingers pressing onto your clothed and aching clit. You let out a broken gasp as he finds your spot easily through your clothes.Â
"Dex,"Â you whine, trying to grind down on his fingers, needing more friction than he's allowing you to have. You give him no other response but a short cry, as he's suddenly shoving your panties to the side, underneath all your clothes, his fingers brutally shoving inside you. Even fully clothed, you feel exposed as two of his fingers stretch you open, making squelching noises around his digits as he fucks them into you. Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, fingernails digging into his flesh. He can't pull his fingers out properly to thrust them in, so he moves them in a debilitating up and down motion, scissoring them into you, pressing harshly against your G spot. You suck a sharp breath in, your exhale a long devastating moan. He's ruining you, destroying and rewriting you this quickly.Â
You don't realize the noises you're making until he's leaning down to swallow them, his mouth sucking another biting kiss into yours. Your fingers clutch the strands of his hair as you keep him to you, the moans and whimpers you're making not stopping, just getting muffled into his lips. There's dull and hot sensation in your core as he works you, he's shoving you towards a sensation you've never really felt before. Your legs tremble with the stimulation, and you almost want him stop - it's so strong. Your muscles clench and release, like you're body is trying to catch up with the way he moves. You can only feel pleasure, as his fingers isolate a perfect spot inside of you, overwhelming you with the fire blurring hot inside your veins and entire body. He pulls back from your mouth, staring down at you. You almost cry when he starts talking again, his fingers pushing you higher and higher-
"That's it. That's it. Fuck yes."Â
What is happening? Your pussy is clamping and fluttering around his fingers, your mouth opens with a silent cry and you suddenly feel soaked. Your back arches into the bed, head tipping back, eyes screwing shut and that's when you finally feel it. Sparks zapping inside you, energy sucking up out of your body. You feel your orgasm through your entire body, rather just down there, body cumming before your brain even knew what was happening. You pant as you come down, limbs heavy. Dex eases his fingers out of you, humming a pleased noise in the back of his throat. He pulls his wet fingers out from underneath your shorts, your eyes darken as he sucks them into his mouth, cleaning them up noisily. It makes that need and want crawl back inside of you, core clenching with just the act of him doing that. He smirks around his fingers, teeth biting into his flesh as he looks down at you. Looking every bit of handsome and dangerous. You almost forgot who you were dealing with here, your legs starting to push you back up the bed away from him.
Dex grips your ankle, yanking you back down to him. You let out a weak squeak, helping him anyways when he goes to shuck your ruined shorts and underwear off you. His nostrils flare and pupils dilate as he takes in your lower naked half, his large hands gripping the back of your knees to lift and spread your legs, exposing your wet and fluttering sex to him. You blush, embarrassed by the unwavering attention from him, trying to squirm away from his hot gaze. He groans and presses your legs open even more, his clothed cock coming to rub against your soaking pussy. You watch as your wetness darkens the grey fabric and whimper when he drags his heavy cock against your sensitive slit. He curses at the feel of you, at the sight of you.Â
His fingers flex against your skin, letting go of his hold on you. He reaches up instead to strip you of your shirt, completely exposing you to the air. Your nipples peak with the temperature change and you blush, hands going up to cover over yourself. He growls with a frown tugging on his face, knocking your hands away from yourself.Â
âDonât hide. Do you hide with him? Huh?â He palms your breasts, spreading his fingers wide to catch all of you, his cock thrusting against you just once, letting you feel him through the pants.Â
You find yourself shaking your head. What were you doing? Why were you playing into this with him? You liked how anger spread through him, made him rougher. Made him act like he had something to prove. Made him possessive. Heâs angry with your answer, not necessarily at you, but angry with Matt. Angry that he gets you like this. The anger and jealousy heed inside of him, consume him. He yanks down the waistband of the sweats, not bothering to remove them all the way. His heavy cock smacks down against your soaked pussy, making you jump with the sudden stimulation. You feel him throb against your sex, hot and thick and heavy. Your eyes widen at the sight of him, his tip pink and leaking, twitching and pulsing with need.Â
He slides his tip up and down your sopping cunt, teasing your clit with every up motion he drags through. On his next down movement, his tip catches in your fluttering entrance, just barely pressing.
Your hips raise on their own accord, trying to catch him better inside you, a whine spilling out of your mouth. His hands squeeze your chest in response.
âFuck you better than him.â He mutters, more to himself, as heâs staring down at where you two are just barely meeting, entranced.
You answer him anyway, with a needy and whiny tone, âPlease, Dex.â
His gaze snaps back up at you, in shock, his lips parting with a pant. He looks fucked out already, his eyes glassy, hair a mess from your fingers, lips red and swollen from kissing you with abandon. He keeps eye contact with you, a devious smile splitting his lips as he starts pressing inside of you as slow as he can. You let a long whine, keeping your legs spread for him, grabbing onto the back of your thighs to stay open. He gets about half way before youâre panting and shaking, the stretch of him so much that itâs making you lightheaded. It hurts so good. When he bottoms out, your eyes almost roll to the back of your head as you let out a simpering moan.Â
âHe stretch you out like this?â Dex laughs, his length pulling back just barely before heâs pushing back into you, grinding his hips when he gets flush against you.Â
âA-ah. No, Dex,â you whimper out, head tipping back before heâs catching the back of your neck, tilting your head up for you, making you look down at where he meets you.
âWatch.â He hisses out. His cock moves back, letting you see how slick and shiny he is with you. Your pussy makes obscene noises around his girth, as heâs thumping his length back into you, making you watch the way your pussy clings to him and pulls him back in. He lets out a groan as he watches you take all of him, pussy warm and fluttering around him. It feels better than he could have ever imagined. Youâre tight and warm and slick. He bites back his own whimper as his hips start picking up.
You let out such perfect noises as his hips smack into you, the slap slap slap and creaks of your bed making music in your house. He feels drunk. He leans down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth, hearing a cry from you when he sucks and bites. He wants to mark you up everywhere, so the next time Matt sees you, he knows. Knows who you really belong to. Dex leans his weight onto you, his hands coming up underneath your hips, so he can use his strength to fuck you back onto his thrusts. He feels your nails dig into his back, your legs squeezing around his torso, sometimes knocking into his wound at his side, the pain and pleasure mixing something deadly inside of him.
You keen when he lets go of your skin with a wet pop, your chest littered with red marks and bites from him, the sight of you driving him insane. The feel of you. He can feel your pussy clench and tighten around him, more and more. You're getting close. One of his hands leaves your hips, to trail in between you, his fingers pressing and finding your clit. He rubs you in a way you like, by finding out how and where just by the hitches in your breath.Â
It does something devastating to you. The stimulation from his cock dragging back and forth, hitting and pressing against your cervix, his fingers on your clit. You moan out, saying something thatâs got to be a plead. You donât hear it though. All you can do is feel, feel the way your body reacts to him.Â
âIâm gonna â Oh, Dex. Iâm gâgonna,â you start to hiccup in a babble, holding onto him as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. He moans back to you, catching your mouth in his, like he canât stand not kissing you while you spill over the edge.Â
You let yourself go, body filling with hot plasma and euphoria, going away into that dark voided space as you black out while you cum around his thick cock. He pulls back to watch, his thrusts easing up while he fucks you through it, your pussy painfully squeezing around him. He almost chokes as you milk him, having to stop entirely, his hips twitching in need while you clamp down around him. He wants to fill you up so badly he can feel it in his bones. His cock throbs in need, the need heâs denying himself while you come back to him.Â
âCome back to me,â he whispers, lips trailing across your cheekbones as you gasp and heave for air. Body trembling. Itâs delicate and intimate, this space he has you in now, as he presses his lips against you just barely. Light kisses butterflying across your face and mouth as you come back to reality.Â
Dex is kind enough to let you adjust before heâs pulling out of you. You whine at the loss of him, weakly reaching out to him. He lets out an amused and breathless sound, before heâs picking your boneless body up, turning you over to lay prone on your bed. He hoists your hips up, stuffing one of your pillows under them. He braces one hand on the outside of your body, the other tangling into your hair, close against your skull, tugging your head up and back towards him. Your throat is exposed, the pressure making your moans throaty and deep. He shoves back inside you with a single deep thrust, not letting you adjust again before heâs slamming down into you. Your hips and ass tilted up to him with the aid of the pillow.
Dexâs free hand comes back to palm your ass, gripping and groping you as his hips slap heavily into you. He groans watching his cock being swallowed up by your pussy from behind. Youâd blush if you werenât so fucked out and delirious from him, his cock hitting you deep in an angle youâve never felt before, your animalistic moans struggling to leave your craned throat. He tugs your hair a bit, letting you feel the delicious pain from his grip. A sharp slap hit your ass, a surprised but greedy moan leaving you in reaction. Your pussy clamps down on him and gets even wetter, if that were possible. Dex growls with pleasure, his palm smoothing the pain out from his slap he delivered to you. Liking the way the red hand print started to show already. He plunges into your wetness over and over again, your hips fucking back onto his couch with such a greediness that makes him curse lowly. You cry out with a hoarse voice and he shudders with the sound.
"Let him hear it, let him hear you." He hisses out, tugging your head back after it falls forward.Â
You have no idea if Matt is anywhere near your place, if he can hear you, why Dex said that, but it puts a dark thought in your mind. It makes your cunt clamp down on him, thinking about Matt walking in and seeing Dex claim you as his. The thought picks you up and carries to the edge of your orgasm, a cry falling from you. Dex feels it, feels how tight you're getting around him and he almost laughs before he lets out his own devastating moan. That's all it takes before your cumming again around him, the wave of it brutalizing your body and senses. He doesn't slow down, dropping his grip from your hair, hands going around your hips to drag you back onto his cock and thrusts. You're moaning, whimpering, gasping, unable to keep any noise to yourself as you try to come back to Earth.
Dex grits his teeth as he keeps pounding into you, watching your ass bounce with every thrust. There's a ring of frothy white cream around the base of his cock and he has to tip his head back up to the ceiling at the sight. You feel so good, look so good. He doesn't want to stop. You're writhing and squirming around him, no doubt overstimulated, but he can't help himself. He moves over you, putting his torso flush against your back, arms wiggling up underneath you to trap you against him. He slides own of his arms around your throat, hand going to your opposite shoulder, caging you in a chokehold without actually choking you. He can feel your moans vibrating on his forearm, his other arm going around your torso to keep you as close as he possibly can. He cages your entire body, making you feel so small, so trapped, and so dominated that you know he's going to ruin you for anyone else.Â
His mouth drops to the shell of your ear, his face pressed just barely behind yours. His dark and low voice make you shudder, his hips still snapping something violent into your pussy. "He fuck you like this? Hm?"
You shake your head, voice tiny and weak, "N-no, Dex."
"He ever make this pussy feel this good?"Â
You cry out, tears starting to fill your eyes from how good he's making you feel. How overstimulated you are. His cock hitting a spot deep inside you over and over and over--
"Please," you whine out, not even sure what you're begging for.Â
He licks your ear from behind, wanting to get to every part of you. But his cock is throbbing, he's not able to hold back for much longer, his thrusts getting choppier, sloppier. The sound of your pussy squelching and cries filling the room. It fills him with some sort of pride, seeing how submissive he got you. How he marked you up. How he's made you come and cry like this before the end of the day.Â
"His dick fill you up like this?" It makes him angry even thinking about it. His arm banded around your throat just tightening briefly. He feels you try to shake your head no, and he loosens up.
"No--no one--no one ever--" you're gasping out, fingernails reaching up to dig into his forearm.
"Yeah? Good." He shudders, thinking about how you're taking him. Taking him so fucking good. He groans, balls tightening up to his body, but he can't stop. Can't stop fucking into you with abandon. With need. With possession.Â
"No one ever gets to,hear me?" He hisses out through gritted teeth, making sure you hear him loud and clear when he ducks his voice to your ear.
You'll do anything at this point, you're so high on him. You nod frantically, begging again, pleading and crying and whimpering. Pathetically wet and creaming on his cock just to hear how he claims you with no problem.
"This cock is yours." He fights back a whimper, so close so close. You moan lowly at his admission, starry eyes crossing as your belly starts to fire up again. You feel his head drop down to your shoulder, his teeth coming down to bite gently onto your flesh there. He had claimed you, physically, but he was giving you him. It made you dizzy. Made you hot, made you messy.Â
You cry out, gasping, "Fuck, Dex, I'm going to cum again, I--I'm going to--" you're trying to catch up with yourself, trying to stop it, trying to finish it, you're not sure.Â
He just slams into you with more force, his whines spilling out of his mouth as your cunt starts to milk him, his cock just hitting the right place inside you, again and again. The wave of your orgasm crashes over you, leaving you crying out in a near scream, his cock bursting inside of you, lengthening and strengthening the force of your orgasm. His hips still as your milk his cock, both of you making obscene animalistic moans and cries, your walls pulsing around him to take every drop of his cum. Dex lets out a broken sound as his weight crushes against you, letting the pleasure of cumming in you wash through him. You can hardly breathe though, so you start squirming and whining for a whole different reason before Dex groans like he's in pain, eases his weight up and off you.
He keeps his cock buried in you, so he can lean back and watch his length leave your perfect hole. There's cum all over your thighs, wetting his cock and matting his pubic hair down. It's so dirty and filthy, it makes him smile as he eases out of you, his cum dribbling out. He makes a soft and enamored moan, the image of your ass up, pussy wet and used with him, burns into his mind.Â
He playfully swats your ass before he's tumbling into the bed next to you, sighing out. Exhaustion takes ahold of both of you. You're fucked out, limbs heavy, eyes heavy. Dex leans over, helping you ease the pillow under your hips out, using it with a smirk on his face to prop his head up. You scrunch your nose at him, about to scold him and tell him to use a clean one when a knock sounds at the door.
Dex watches you with an amused smile, as you start to piece together what just happened. The knock sounds again.
Frantically, with panic surging through your sore body, you sit up. "Coming!" you shout out, and try to run a hand through your tangled hair. Dex can't help but laugh, as he puts his wet cock back into the sweats he never bothered to take off. He watches you try to put your shirt on, cum leaking down your thighs. You have bite marks on your back, on your tits, on your neck, really anywhere he could get his mouth on you. You pull your shirt on over your head backwards, and he doesn't bother to tell you the fact. You scramble for your ruined panties, but think better on it, just pulling your shorts on commando. He watches you stumble out of the bedroom, and he hears you open the front door.
"Matt!" You shrill out in a too cheery voice.Â
Dex can't help but feel more amused. More smug. He puts his hands up over his head, unable to wipe the smirk off his face. He hears Matt ask if you're okay with a concerned tone. You tell him you've never been better. Dex's eyes close as he takes it all in, victorious.Â
Matt can't see your state, but can hear your heart rate. Can smell the sweat on your skin. Can hear another and smell someone else's sweat too. "Is...this a bad time?" He asks you.
"Uh..." You're about to lie to him, he can tell. So he cuts you off.
"Listen, I'm looking for--"
Dex emerges out of the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe, that smug look on his face hasn't left. "Right here, buddy. Pretty girl over here was just telling me all about you."
Your face heats as both men turn to you.Â
"I really should thank you for sending me over, Matt." Dex moves over to you, looping an arm over your shoulder, tugging you in close to him. His head dips to smack a loud kiss on your lips. He pulls away before you can even react, his eyes dark as he looks down at you with mirth swirling in his eyes.
"And I should really thank you for your hospitality."Â
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter, monster to everyone else, is the only person who could keep your mind from falling apart.
Pairing : DDBA!Benjamin Poindexter x mind reader! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Angst, Fluff, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, panic attacks, sensory overload, mind reading, intrusive thoughts, trauma response, mentions of medical experimentation, murder, blood, protective/obsessive behavior, codependency, morally complicated love, hurt/comfort, domestic Dex, very brief mention of sex. Reader is mentioned to be an OXE medical experiment (Set in the last Episode of DDBA Season 2) (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 15.8k
Requested By : Anon
Notes : Please send me an ask if you would like to be added to the taglist, sometimes it gets lost in the comments. Enjoy!
Matt Murdock told himself it was a welfare check.
Which was stupid. Obviously it was stupid. Calling anything involving Benjamin Poindexter a welfare check was almost funny, if Matt had been in the mood to laugh at anything anymore.
Dex had shot Buck Cashman outside the Supreme Court and forced a makeshift siege. Of course heâd act like people were just moving targets. Of course, if the city was falling apart, Dex was probably the one person who could make it worse.Â
But the courthouse was done now.
Sort of.
Matt had stood there in front of God, Fisk, Karen, the cameras, all of New York, basically, and said it. He had torn the last piece of himself open with his own hands.
He was Daredevil.
There was no putting that back.
Fisk took the plea, and he was finally out of office. Fucking finally. The city had helped, and for better or for worse, the streets had bled because of it. Riots broke out, and sirens were everywhere. The whole city sounded like it was trying to crawl out of its own skin.
And Matt knew his days of moving freely were numbered.
It would not take long for the paperwork to be in order. It would not take long for the police to get their arrest warrant.
His name would spread through every system he had spent years trying to evade. Matthew Michael Murdock, Daredevil.
Whatever he was to people; Catholic boy, blind lawyer, vigilante, hero, hypocrite, all of it? That meant nothing. He was just a criminal who had to pay for breaking the law now.Â
So, fine.
But before all of that happened. He needed to tie up loose ends.
That was what he told himself as he put on a hoodie the morning after the courthouse, at 2 AM.Â
He crossed rooftops and fire escapes, ribs aching, lungs burning, sweat cold beneath his hoodie.
He was gonna check on him, thatâs all. Make sure Dex was not out there killing people for the love of the game. Make sure the city didnât have one more monster loose before he was taken away.
This better be quick, because would really rather spend his time with Karen before getting locked up.
By the time Matt reached Dexâs apartment building, the riot noise had thinned, like thunder moving farther away without ever really leaving.
Outside, New York still burned in fragments. Inside the building creaked. Old pipes ticked in the walls. Someone two floors down whispered angrily behind a locked door. A television murmured emergency coverage through cheap speakers. The exhaust fans gave a faint metallic complaint above him.
Matt climbed the stairs, knowing Dexâs apartment was ahead.
And then⌠Matt heard sobbing.
He stopped at the door.
It wasnât theatrical, not the kind of crying meant to pull attention from the other side of a wall.
It was smaller than that. It almost made it⌠worse.
It came through Dexâs door in little broken pieces, like your body had run out of strength before it had run out of panic. One shaky breath, then another, then a thin, wet sound you tried to swallow and failed. You were trying to be quiet, Matt could tell. You were trying not to make noise and still the hurt kept leaking out of you anyway.
Matt stopped dead and assessed the situation.
There was a woman crying inside Benjamin Poindexterâs apartment.
For one second, Matt thought about every horrible thing he already knew about him.
Foggy, Father Lantom, all the other bodies he left in his wake.
All of them were there in his head at once, not as memories, but as evidence. As proof against Dex. As a case already built and closed in his mind.
Dex had never been someone Matt could afford to give the benefit of the doubt, not after what he had done. Not after who he had taken. Not even after all that bullshit about one good deed, about evening out the scales, as if taking another life could balance out the lives he had destroyed.
So Matt listened.
And then Dex spoke. âBaby, breathe. Come on. Iâm here.â
Mattâs stomach tightened.
Baby?
From anyone else, maybe it would have sounded the way it was meant to: a soft comfort, words meant to soothe. Â
But coming from Dex, the words twisted in Mattâs ears.
Still, Matt knew it sounded⌠sincere.Â
Soft, but not fake-soft. Not mocking. Not cruel. Not even controlling.
It sounded⌠exhausted and careful. It frayed apart at the edges, like he had been kneeling there for hours, saying the same few words over and over because he was terrified you would disappear somewhere he couldnât pull you back from.
âIâm right here,â Dex murmured. âYouâre okay. Youâre with me.â
You made a small, broken sound.
It was this heartbreakingly helpless, breathless little noise that caught in your throat and dragged itself out anyway. It was as if your body was trying to keep crying after you had already run out of strength for it.
Your breathing was too fast; Matt could hear every jagged inhale scraping up short in your chest, every failed attempt to steady yourself. Your heartbeat fluttered, frantic and uneven, skipping over itself like it was trapped.
You were on the floor. He could tell by the way your sobs hit the wood first, the way it sounded low and folded down. You were curled into yourself, maybe.Â
And Dex was too close. He was close enough that his voice barely had to rise. He was close enough that Matt could hear the shift of his body beside yours, the drag of fabric against the floor, the way he moved like he knew exactly which sounds would hurt you and which ones would not.
Everything Matt heard told him Dex was not hurting you.
The care was there. The patience was there. The way he kept his voice quiet enough not to startle. The way he didnât grab at you, didnât bark orders, didnât crowd too fast. He seemed to be making himself smaller just to keep from adding to whatever was tearing through you.
Benjamin Poindexter soundedâŚ. kind.
Matt hated that. his senses were giving him one answer and his memory was giving him another.
His senses said Dex was helping you. His memory said Dex hurt people.
His senses said Dex was gentle with you. His memory said Dex had killed Foggy.
His senses said there was love in the room. His memory said Benjamin Poindexter didnât know how to love correctly.
His mind immediately assumed the worst.
Had he held you here? Kidnapped you? Had he convinced himself he loved you, and was he trying to convince you to love him, too?Â
Your sob hitched again.
âI canât,â you whispered, voice shredded thin. âI canât, Dex, I canâtââ
âI know,â Dex said immediately, and Matt could hear his skin on yours, rubbing gentle circles on your arm. You werenât pulling away. âI know. Stay with me.â
There it was, the softness again.
That was an almost desperate patience in his voice, and still, Matt couldnât make himself trust it.
Not with Dex crouched close enough for his voice to brush your skin. Not with you breathing like the room itself was killing you. Not with the door locked and the city screaming outside and no one else coming.
Then your breath snagged hard âDex.â
âIâm here.â
âNo.â Your voice thinned, almost terrified. âSomeone else is h-here.â
Matt went completely still.
Behind the door, the apartment changed.
It was just a shift in the air. Dex went quiet all of a sudden. Matt understood, somehow, that you knew he was there.
For one suspended second, no one moved.
Your breathing trembled in the silence. Then Dexâs heartbeat slowed as he turned.
That was what made Matt decide. The sudden stillness of a killer turning his attention toward the door.
Whatever comfort Matt had heard before, whatever gentleness had almost confused him, it collapsed under the weight of everything else he knew:
A woman was crying in Dexâs apartment. Dex was too close to you. Ergo, Dex was hurting you and Matt had to get you out.
So Matt stepped back once he kicked the door down, and it broke inward. The sound tore through the apartment, wood splitting against the wall.
Matt stepped, expecting you to recoil.
He expected you to scramble backward on the floor, away from Dex. He expected fear to pull you toward the farthest corner, toward the broken doorway, toward him.
Anything but what actually happened.
You moved toward Dex.
It was a clumsy, desperate little scramble, knees dragging over the floorboards, one hand slipping against the wood as you tried to push yourself up and failed. Your breath came in miserable pieces, your whole body folded around the panic like it hurt to exist inside your own skin.
âDex,â you choked.
Dex was already moving. He closed the distance before you could reach him properly, like he couldnât stand the sight of you having to cross even that little distance alone. His hands came out, open, and you clambered into him.
There was no other word for it.
You climbed into his arms like you were trying to get beneath his ribs. As if you pressed close enough, hid deep enough, the rest of the world might lose track of you. Your fingers caught the front of his shirt and twisted there, tight and frantic, pulling yourself higher until your face was buried against his chest.
Dex caught you with his whole body. One of his arms was wrapped around your back. The other came up over your head, shielding your face, tucking you under his chin. He bent around you so gently it was almost painful to process, all that deadly mass turned into cover, into shelter.
Matt froze.
You⌠were not trapped.
Your cheek was pressed to his chest, hands fisted in his shirt. Your body shook against his, but the second he held you, your heartbeat changed. It was still too fast, still terrified, still broken up with panic, but it reached for his rhythm like a drowning man reaching for shore.
Dex lowered his mouth to your temple.
âIâve got you,â he murmured. âIâve got you, baby.â
You made a devastated sound and curled tighter.
Your knees drew up against his thigh. One of your hands slipped from his shirt to his shoulder, then to the back of his neck, gripping there like you were afraid Matt might pull him away from you.
âHeâs loud,â you managed.
Dexâs eyes stayed on Matt, who still hadnât said anything. âI know.â
âHeâs loud, Dex, heâs so loud.â
âI know, sweetheart.â
You shook your head against him, hiding your face harder in the hollow of his throat. âBaby,â you whispered, voice barely there. âHe thinks youâre hurting me.â
Dex went still.Â
âIâm not,â he said.
âI know.â Your voice cracked on it. âI know. But he thinks it and I can hear it and it hurts.â
Mattâs throat tightened. What did that even mean?
He heard it then, not just the panic and sobs. He heard the trust.
Your fear was everywhere, all over the room, spilling out of you in ragged breaths, but it was not aimed at the man holding you. Dex was the only place in the apartment your body seemed to recognize as safe.
You kept trying to disappear into him.
Every time Matt shifted, even slightly, your fingers tightened. Every time the broken door creaked behind him, your breath snagged and Dexâs palm moved slowly over the back of your head, as if smoothing you back into yourself.
âDonât listen to him,â Dex murmured against your hair. âListen to me.â
âIâm trying.â
âI know.â
âItâs too much.â
âI know, baby. I know.â
Matt took half a step forward. Dexâs head snapped up. âDonât.â
The word was quiet to not startle you, and that was enough to stop Matt anyway.
Dex shifted on the floor, turning his body more fully between you and the doorway. You followed without thinking, clinging to him as he moved, your face still hidden against his chest. He kept you tucked there, one arm firm around your back, the other curved protectively around your head like he could keep Mattâs thoughts from touching you if he just covered enough of you.
âPoindexter,â Matt started, and it was smaller now.
Dexâs expression did not change. âGet out.â
âI thoughtââ
âI donât give a shit what you thought.â
You trembled harder at the anger in his voice. Dex felt it instantly. His eyes flicked down, and when he spoke again, it wasnât to Matt.
âNot you,â he whispered, pressing his mouth briefly to your hair.Â
You made another broken little noise and pushed closer, like the words had gone straight through your heart.
Dex held you tighter, not possessively in a way that trapped, but just enough to tell your body there was he was around it.Â
Matt stood there in the wreckage of the door, listening to your heartbeat try to steady itself against Dexâs chest, and for one awful second he didnât know what to do with what his senses were telling him.
Because Benjamin Poindexter was still the reason too many people Matt loved were dead. But you were curled into him like he was the last quiet place in New York.
âHeâs still here,â you whispered.
Dexâs eyes lifted. âI know.â
Dexâs face changed, but not by much. Matt doubted anyone else would have noticed, but he did. He heard it in Dexâs breathing, in the shift of his weight, in the sudden burst of restraint. The city outside was loud. The riots were loud. Matt was loud. His suspicion was loud. His righteousness was loud. His judgment was loud.
And somehow, you could hear all of it.
âI donât want him here,â you said.
That was it. Whatever patience Dex had left for Matt died right there on the floor.
His hand stayed gentle on your back, but his voice didnât. âGet the fuck out.â
For once, he did what Dex told him to do.
Matt stepped back into the hallway and got out.
The ruined door dragged crookedly against the floor when he pulled it mostly shut behind him. The lock was useless now, broken out from the frame, hanging loose in splintered wood, but Matt still closed it as much as he could.
He stood there in the hall, one hand still near the broken door, breathing quietly through the dust and old paint and the faint metallic tang inside the apartment.
He should have left. He knew that.
You had wanted him gone. Matt had seen enough, heard enough, to know he had been wrong about at least the first thing: Dex hadnât been hurting you.
But Matt still could not make himself walk away.
Because Matt has convinced himself that love, in the hands of someone like Benjamin Poindexter, could become a locked room so easily.
Matt stayed.
Not close enough to push the door open again, but not far enough to pretend he wasnât listening.
Inside, your breathing was still ragged.
Dex was still on the floor with you.
Matt could hear the tiny, frantic movements of your hands in Dexâs shirt. The tremor in your inhale. The way you kept trying to tuck yourself into him like the world might stop finding you if there was enough of his body between you and everything else.
âHeâs still out there,â you whispered.
Dexâs answer came after a second of consideration. âIs he, now?â
Your breath hitched. âHe didnât leave.â
Fuck.
Matt stood very still in the hall.
âIâll take care of him,â Dex murmured.
Your breath snagged. âDonât hurt him.â
There was a pause. It wasnât long, but long enough.
Then Dex said, âI wonât kill him.â
âDex.â You didn't sound convinced.
âI wonât kill him,â he repeated, softer this time. âPromise.â
âYouâre mad.â
âI know.â
âItâs sharp,â you winced.
âI know, baby. Iâm sorry.â Inside the apartment, Dex went quiet in a way that felt less like guilt and more like being seen too clearly. âI wonât hurt him unless I have to.â
âDex.â
âI wonât hurt him,â he said, and this time there was no loophole in it. There was only surrender, because it was you asking. âOkay? I wonât.â
Your breathing shuddered as Dex shifted on the floor.
âIâm going to move you, okay?â he said. âJust to the bed. Iâve got you.â
You made a small sound, and Matt could picture it too clearly now. You curled in on yourself, face hidden, body shaking from too much of whatever it is you could sense.Â
Dex crouched slowly, though he was already close. Like even now, even with you clutching at him, he was careful not to startle you. He slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back.
You clutched at his shirt with shaking fingers. âIâm sorry,â you whispered.
âNo.â His voice went firm immediately. âNo, donât say things like that.â
âI ruined your night.â
âYou didnât ruin anything.â
âI came here and Iââ
âYou came to me.â Dex pressed his mouth to your temple, quick and fierce. âThatâs all. You came to me.â
You made a broken little noise against him.
Matt stood in the hallway, just outside the ruined door, listening to Dex lift you from the floor.
He heard the way your breath caught when your body left the ground. He heard your hands grip for a better hold. He heard Dex adjust instantly, pulling you closer.
âIâve got you,â Dex murmured. âIâve got you. I know.â
âYouâre going to leave.â
âNo.â
You sounded so small when you said, âYou are.â
Dex carried you to the bed like every step had been chosen before he took it. Like he knew which floorboards made noise and which ones didnât. Like he had learned how to move through this apartment in a way that made the least amount of noise for you.
âIâll take care of him, okay?â Dex murmured. âIâll make him go away.â
Your breathing hitched as you started to say something, but Dex shushed you gently.
âYes, I know,â he said, softer. âI know you donât like it when people see you like this. I know. Itâs just gonna be me and you, okay? Just me and you.â
The mattress dipped down under your weight.
âIâll close the door,â Dex continued. âIâll turn the lights off. Iâll come right back.â
Your fingers caught the fabric of his shirt again. âDonât leave.â
âIâm not leaving.â Dex let out a slow breath. âIâm right here.â
âYouâre thinking about going.â
âIâm thinking about making him leave.â
âI canât tell the difference.â
Dex went quiet.
Matt heard him sit beside you instead of standing right away. The mattress shifted again as the room settled around the two of you.
You cried a little, more exhausted now, as if the panic had torn through you and left you hollowed out behind it.
Dexâs hand moved over fabric in a slow, repetitive pass. Matt realised he was making the sheets smooth for you as he laid you down.
His hand slid up from your back to the side of your face, thumb hovering near your cheek, not quite wiping the tears away until you leaned into it first. âLook into my mind, baby.â
Mattâs head tilted from the hallway.
What?
Inside the studio, everything went still except for your breathing.
The room was not large enough for privacy. Not really. The bed sat pushed into the far corner. The broken front door was too close. Matt was too close. The whole world was too close.
But Dex bent over you like he could make distance with his body alone.
âGo on,â he murmured. âLook at me.â
You stared up at him through wet lashes, face blotched from crying, lips parted around breaths that still would not come right. Your fingers trembled against his shirt, twisted in the fabric so tightly the seams strained.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then your grip loosened by a fraction.
Your eyes fluttered.
A shaky breath left you, not calm, not even close, but relieved enough that Dexâs shoulders almost caved in with it.
The answer was immediate. No room for doubt. No space for the thought to grow teeth.
But then your expression crumpled again.
âYouâre mad.â
Dex closed his eyes for half a second.
He didnât deny it. He couldn't, even if he wanted to. Not to you. âI am.â
Your breath caught so suddenly it sounded like it hurt.
Dexâs whole face changed. The anger was still there, Matt could hear it in him, running hot under the skin. But with you looking at him like that, terrified because his fury had no color, no label, no clear direction once it got inside your head, Dex felt almost sick with it.
âIâm not mad at you,â he said, urgent in a way that made the words rough. âNever at you.â
Your mouth trembled and repeated yourself. âYou know I canât tell the difference sometimes.â It came out so pained Matt felt it in his own chest.
You said it like an apology, like you hated needing him to explain the direction of his anger because you could feel it anyway, and feeling it didnât mean understanding it.
Dex swallowed. His hand curved more fully around your cheek now, warm and steady, thumb finally catching one tear before it slid down to your jaw.
âI know,â he whispered. âIâm sorry.â
You looked at him for another second, searching his face like your own mind wasn't enough tonight. Like even seeing inside him had not made your body believe it yet.
Then he lowered his voice. âI have to make him leave.â
Your fingers tightened again, not as badly this time.
Dex did not pull away. He leaned in instead, pressing a short kiss to your forehead, then another to the corner of your temple, like he could nail the promise into place with his mouth.
âIâm going to turn off the lights, okay?âÂ
You nodded, barely, as breathing scraped in and out through your nose.
Dex shifted only when you let him. He eased you back against the pillows in the bed, not putting you down so much as arranging the room around your collapse. One hand stayed on you the whole time, a constant point of contact while the other reached for everything else.
He crossed the few steps to it and slid the window shut with painstaking care, catching the frame before it could knock. Street noise dulled at once.
Then he pulled the curtains together until the thin spill of city light vanished from the wall and your face disappeared into darkness.
As promised, he clicked the lamp off.
The studio fell dimmer, warmer, reduced to the weak strip of hallway light bleeding through the ruined front door.
The phone was next. He picked it up from the small table beside the bed and silenced it without looking, thumb moving from memory. He put it back, screen turned down.
A radio sat near the kitchenette, cheap and old, still plugged into the wall. Dex crossed to it barefoot and pulled the cord free. The plastic scraped faintly against the outlet, and even that made your breathing tremble.
Then, he opened a drawer near the bed.
Something rattled softly as he picked it up. A pill bottle, maybe? No, it could be earplugs in a little tin.Â
He came back with them in his palm.
You must have watched him through the dark because your breathing changed when he got close again, sounding less lost than before.
Dex sat on the edge of the mattress.
He tucked the blanket around you, drawing it up over your shoulder, smoothing the edge down like he was sealing the world out inch by inch. His hand lingered there after, broad against the blanket, feeling the shake of you through the fabric.
The apartment had become smaller. Every sound had been answered. Every light had been put down. Every little edge of the room had been softened, covered, turned away from you by hands that knew the ritual too well.
He had done this before. Like he had learned, piece by piece, how to make the world survivable for you.
At some point, you must have reached for him again, because Dexâs voice dropped inaudibly. âHey,â he whispered. âI know.â
The bed creaked as he leaned closer.
A kiss touched your skin. Your forehead, maybe. Then another, lower. Your temple. The damp line of your cheek.
âIâll be right back,â Dex breathed.
You made a small sound.
He stayed another second, maybe two. Long enough for your fingers to loosen.
Then he stood.
Dex walked to the other side of the apartment without turning on a single light. He made no wasted movement, not a single sound he didnât mean to make.
At the broken front door, he paused and looked back once.
Matt could hear the small turn of his head. The habit of making sure you were still under the blanket, still breathing, still there.
Then Dex slipped into the hall and pulled the ruined door mostly shut behind him.
It couldnât latch. But he cracked it closed as carefully as if it still mattered, leaving only a narrow gap of darkness between the apartment and the hallway.
He was keeping the light out. He was keeping Matt out.
When Dex turned, he stood half-shadowed in the corridor, eyes red-rimmed and flat with exhaustion. His face was calm in the way loaded weapons were calm. His voice stayed quiet, almost gentle, but not for Matt.
He did it for yous
âI told you,â Dex said, âto get the fuck out.â
For a while, Matt didnât say anything.
The hallway held them in the aftermath of what Matt had done. The door hung crooked in its frame, pulled mostly shut even though the lock was split and useless, the wood around it cracked open where Mattâs boot had forced its way through. It couldnât protect you anymore. It could barely pretend to be a door. Still, Dex stood in front of it as if his body could replace what Matt had broken, as if he could become the lock, the wall, the whole goddamn building if he had to.
Matt could hear the anger in him as clearly as he could hear traffic below: hot, contained, and viciously focused. Dex wanted to do something with it. Matt knew that, but he kept it buried beneath his ribs because you were behind that broken door, and if he let the rage rise any higher, you would feel it.
That was what Matt could not stop noticing. Not the anger. The restraint.
Inside the apartment, you shifted under the blanket. It was only a movement of fabric, barely anything, followed by the small uneven catch of your breath as you tried to settle yourself in the dark corner Dex had made for you. Dex turned his head at once. Not fully, not enough to take his attention off Matt, but enough that Matt realised that some part of Dex had never left the room with you. Some part of him was still sitting beside the bed, counting your breaths, waiting for the slightest sign that you needed him again.
For one moment, Matt didn't feel like he was looking at Bullseye. He was looking at a man furious enough to kill and still aching to go back inside because the woman he loved was trying to remember how to breathe without him there.
Matt swallowed. âI didnât know you had a girlfriend.â
Dex looked back at him and the answer was obvious. Matt had no right to know. No right to ask. He had no right to stand there in the hallway after frightening you and pretend the question was harmless.
âI didnât tell you.â
His voice was flat and guarded, the words set down like a barrier. Mattâs mouth tightened.Â
Behind the door, your breathing hitched again, smaller this time, like the sound of voices through wood was still enough to scrape against you. Dex heard it too. The anger in him shifted immediately, folding smaller, tightening down.
âWhatâs wrong with her?â he asked.
He knew it was wrong the second it left his mouth. The words were too blunt, too harsh, too clinical. He had meant, What happened? He had meant, Is she going to be okay? He had meant, What did I just walk into, and how badly did I make it worse? But none of that came out. What came out sounded like you were a problem.Â
âNothing is wrong with her,â Dex said, and Matt could tell he was trying his hardest not to snap.
Matt didnât move. Dex stepped closer by the smallest amount, and the entire hallway seemed to narrow with him. His face had gone hard, but not empty.
âNothing,â Dex repeated, each syllable harsh enough to cut. âSheâs perfect.â
Matt exhaled slowly through his nose. âI didnât mean it like that.â
âYes, you did.â
Dex didnât have to snarl. He didnât have to raise his voice. The accusation sat there between them, plain and ugly, and Matt couldnât defend himself from it because part of it was true.
Inside, you were quiet now. Not calm, but silent in the way people became when they were trying very hard not to take up too much space with their hurt. Matt listened to the small tremor and felt the pieces beginning to arrange themselves in his head.
You had known he was outside before Dex opened the door. You had reacted to him even before he even stepped inside. You had known Dex was mad but couldnât tell where that anger was aimed. Dex had told you to look into his mind with the ease of someone offering proof, not metaphor, not comfort dressed up as poetry, but a real thing he knew you could do.
Oh.
Matt looked back at Dex and stated the painfully obvious explanation. âShe can read minds.â
Dexâs expression changed only a little, but Matt heard the rest. The brief tightening of his mouth. The instinct to protect you by lying took over, followed almost immediately by the realization that lying to Matt Murdock was pointless.
Dex looked away, and said, âYes.âÂ
His voice had changed, still rough around the edges, but the explanation seemed to cost him a part of his soul. Every word about you had to be handled carefully because it belonged to you first. He kept his eyes on the door as he spoke, as if even describing your pain required him to make sure it had not worsened.
âShe hears thoughts, feelings. Most days she can keep it out, or keep it separate, or read one mind at a time. She knows how to get through the day.â His teeth clenched, and he looked down for half a second before forcing himself to continue. âBut when there are too many people, when emotions run too high, it stops being individual thoughts and turns into noise.â
Oh.
Oh shit, Matt thought as he realized that last night hadnât only been bad for you. It had been a disaster built exactly out of the things that hurt you most.Â
Last night, protests clashed with Fiskâs Task Force. Bodies were pressed shoulder to shoulder in the streets, voices raised, officers behind their shields, civilians furious and terrified and righteous all at once. Fiskâs fall had moved through the city like a shockwave. Matt Murdockâs confession that he was a Daredevil had made a home on every screen, in every mouth, in every disbelieving mind.
His confession had not stayed in the courtroom. It had spilled outward, turning into rumor and revelation and riot, and you had walked straight into all of it because you thought Dex was hurt. Because you missed him.
Matt felt his stomach sink.
He thought of you moving through that crowd, not just hearing the sirens and shouting like everyone else, but taking in the thoughts beneath them. Panic layered over rage layered over grief. Thousands of minds all pushing against yours with no space between them. A whole city losing control at once, and you were caught in the middle of it, trying to find one person.
Dexâs face tightened as if he could see the same picture and hated it more because he had already lived the end of it. He hated that he had found you like that.Â
Matt understood that without being told. Dex had found you shaking apart in this same apartment, or near it, or on the street outside, too overwhelmed by everyone else to find yourself. He had found you and brought you here and spent the night closing windows, killing lights, silencing phones, making the world smaller with hands that had done unspeakable things.
âShe came looking for me,â Dex said.
The words were almost stripped of anger now. Dex looked at the door again, and his body softened before he could stop it. But Matt heard it in the way Dexâs breath caught around your existence on the other side of the wall.
Benjamin Poindexter loved you.
Matt didnât want to know that. He didnât want to have to make room for it inside the shape of the man he hated. He wanted Dex to stay simple. A killer. Someone with a label simple enough to condemn without complication. But love was written through him now in ways Matt couldnât ignore.Â
Mattâs voice came quieter when he asked, âDoes she need a doctor?â
Dex scoffed. âDoctors are what made her like this.â
Matt went still.
Dex didnât explain. Maybe he wouldnât. Maybe Matt hadnât earned that part of the story. But still, he was opening just enough of a door for Matt to picture the white rooms, fluorescent lights and people calling pain research, behind him.
Dex looked back at the broken door, and for half a second, the rage in him gave way. âShe has good days and bad days,â Dex said. His mouth tightened, and when he spoke again, the grief in it was almost unbearable. âAnd she was having a good week.â
That mattered.
Matt couldnât possibly understand the full weight of that sentence, but Dex did. A good week meant sleep. It meant you could eat without feeling nauseous. It meant you had mornings where you didnât wake up already bracing against other peopleâs thoughts.Â
Youâve had several really good weeks, actually.Â
It mattered because Dex had met you on a bad day.
â
Twelve months agoâŚÂ
OXE hired him to kill you.
A freelance gig, really.Â
The file was from the private medical trial branch of the corporation. It said that you were a failed participant. You were a liability. You were just a woman whose condition had become unpredictable.
They sent Dex a name, a photograph, an address, and a warning not to engage longer than necessary.
The house they had sent him to had no security. It was an old, empty place with drawn curtains and stale air and dust gathered thick in the corners.
You hated it.
Dex found you in the attic under the slanted roof, sitting in the weak orange spill of late afternoon light, one wrist was handcuffed to an exposed pipe. Your knees were drawn up close to your chest. Your hair stuck damply to your face, and your lips were bitten raw, like you had spent hours trying to keep something inside your mouth by force.
The key was across the room.
It was kicked. Dex could tell from the scrape in the dust where it had skidded away from you, just far enough that your fingers couldnât reach it unless you pulled hard enough to tear the skin around your wrist. The cuff had already bruised a dark, ugly ring on your skin.Â
You looked at him once.
A small, breathless laugh left you. It wasnât happy, not even close. It was more like your body had mistaken despair for humor because it had run out of other ways to hold it.
âYouâreâŚâ Your voice cracked. âYouâre here to kill me.â
Dex didnât answer.
He didnât need to.
Your eyes moved over his face, and something strange passed through them.Â
Then you laughed again, barely. âYou think Iâm pretty, Dex.â
The attic went still as dust drifted in the light between you.
Dexâs finger rested near the trigger.
âHow do you know my name?â
You looked at him like the question itself was tired. âMind reader,â you said. âObviously.â
Dex stared at you for a long moment.
You didnât look like what OXE had described.
Dangerous, yes, maybe. But not in the way they meant. You looked exhausted, cornered, and afraid of yourself than of him. Your whole body was tense against the cuff, but you werenât trying to get free anymore.
Dexâs eyes flicked to the key, then back to you.
âWhy lock yourself up here?â
For the first time, you looked ashamed. âBecause itâs loud.â
Dex glanced around the empty attic.
You heard the thought before he could speak.
âNot here,â you said, swallowing, then pointing to your head with your free hand, âbut here.â
Your hand then curled briefly around your own throat, not pressing, just remembering.Â
âI kicked the key away,â you whispered. âSo Iâd have time to stop myself.â
âFrom what?â
You closed your eyes. Your voice came out small. âStrangling someone.â
Dex didnât move.
You opened your eyes, wet and miserable, and looked past him because looking right at him was suddenly too hard.
âHe was loud. He wouldnât stop. He kept thinking and thinking and thinking, and I kept hearing it. I told him to stop to shut up, but they couldnât, because people canât just stop thinking, and I knew that, see, I knew that, but Iâ
Your breath broke as you looked down at your cuffed wrist. âSo I locked myself up here. Before I kill someone again.â
Dex should have killed you. That was the job.
OXE had paid him to remove a problem, and there you were, handcuffed beneath a slanted roof, bruised and filthy and shaking because the world had made you into something you were terrified of becoming.
He should have pulled the trigger. Instead, he lowered the gun.
Your face fell immediately, like mercy was its own kind of threat.
âDonât,â you whispered.
Dex paused.
âIf youâre going to kill me, just do it,â you said, voice cracking.Â
Dexâs mind went quiet.
He had no idea what to do with that. No idea what to do with you.
So he did the only practical thing he could.
He walked across the room and picked up the key.
You cried then, silently at first, tears spilling over without sound as he came back and crouched in front of you. Dex moved slowly. He set the gun down beside him, close enough to reach, far enough that you could see both his hands.
âIâm going to unlock it,â he said.
You stared at him.
âYou can read my mind,â he added, awkward and blunt because gentleness was not a language he spoke well yet. âSo you know Iâm not lying.â
Your breath shook.
You looked at him, really looked, and you squinted your eyes in the smallest, most painful disbelief.
Dex unlocked the cuff.
The metal fell away from your wrist.Â
You didnât move.
You only stared at your freed hand like it belonged to someone else. The skin beneath the cuff was swollen and angry, the bruise already darkening. Dex looked at it for too long.
Then he took off his jacket.
He draped it over your shoulders.
You were shaking so hard the leather fabric around you.
Dex did not ask if you could walk. He already knew the answer. He saw the way your legs failed when you tried to gather them beneath you, saw the way your hand went out blindly toward the pipe, toward the wall, toward anything that would keep the room from tilting.
So he picked you up slowly, one arm under your knees, one behind your back, no grip tighter than necessary.
You went rigid in his arms for half a second, then sagged, exhausted past the point of fear.
âWhy are you doing this?â you whispered.
Dex looked down at you.
He didnât know how to answer out loud.
Because I know what it means to be made wrong for the world, too.
Maybe, now that weâve found each other, we donât have to be alone anymore.Â
He said none of that. But you said, âokay.â
He carried you down from the attic and took you back to his apartment because he didnât know where else to take you.Â
You sat on the edge of his tub in his jacket while he ran the water warm.
Dex kept looking away, not because he was embarrassed, but because he understood, somehow, that being looked at was another kind of noise. He handed you a towel, found some soaps and put a clean shirt on the sink.Â
When you could not lift your hands without trembling, he helped.
He helped you into warm water and rinsed dust from your hair, cleaning blood from your bruised wrist. His hand was steady on your skin when you started crying again.
He didn't ask you to stop.
He only said, once, very quietly, âIâm not going to hurt you.â
And because you could read his mind, you knew he meant it.
Benjamin Poindexter had been hired to kill you.
Instead, he took you out of the attic and bathed you.
â
Over the next couple of days, you were mostly good.
Mostly.
Because Dex learned quickly that good didnât mean cured. It meant you slept more than you usually did. It meant you could sit by the window without pressing your palms to your ears. It meant you could make tea in his kitchen and smile at some thought he hadnât meant to give you.
Within the first week, his apartment changed because of you. He installed wall panelling first, because the building was old and thin and the neighbors came through the walls too easily when everything felt hollow. Then, he gave you thicker curtains, then rugs. Then a new refrigerator because the old one hummed at a frequency that made you bare your teeth and say it tasted wrong.
Dex didnât ask what that meant.
He just replaced it.
After all, your mind was already susceptible to being invaded by foreign thoughts, he didn't want you to be overstimulated by your senses, too.
That was how it started with him, really. Not with declarations. Dex loved in corrections, adjustments, and threat assessments. He noticed what hurt you, and then he removed it. He learned the signs of your bad days and built around them, one practical act at a time.
You fell in love with him so fast it should have scared you.
It didnât, but mostly because you knew he had already fallen too.
You could hear it.
He thought he was being subtle, which was almost funny. Dex, who could control his breathing to take a shot, couldnât hide wanting you to kiss him for more than a week.
You could hear his thoughts every time you came too close.
Not words, exactly. More like flashes of your mouth, your hands in his mind. The curve of your shoulder when you wore one of his shirts. The split-second image of him leaning in, followed by a disciplined thought-wall of donât, donât, donât, because Dex could kill a man without blinking but apparently touching you first was too much.
You let him suffer with it for six days, mostly because you were giving him time to change his mind.Â
He didnât.
On the seventh, he was fixing one of the new panels in the kitchen, teeth clenched because the wood refused to sit straight. You were sitting on the counter with one of his old FBI academy shirts that had since gotten too small for his bulk now, bare legs swinging, watching him pretend he was not acutely aware of your knees on either side of his ribs when he stepped between them to reach the wall.
You had laughed from where you sat.
He looked over at you. âYou think thatâs funny?â
You tilted your head. âYouâre thinking about shooting the wall.â
Dex stared at you, setting the screwdriver down too carefully.
âYou shouldnât go digging around in my head.â
âI didnât dig,â you said. âYouâre loud when youâre annoyed.â
That should have bothered him. It did, maybe a little.
But then you smiled at him like his mind was not a terrible place to be. Like you could look at all the terrible things in there and still find him underneath. Like understanding him did not disgust you.
Fuck, he thought, donât do things that make me want toâ
âYou want to kiss me,â you interrupted his train of thoughts.
Dex went so still it was almost sweet. Then he turned his head. âYou shouldnât listen to that.â
âYou know I donât mean to.â You hooked two fingers in the front of his shirt and tugged him closer.Â
His eyes dropped to your mouth, and that was answer enough.
So you kissed him.
Gently at first, just to see what he would do with it. Dex froze under your hands like his body had forgotten every instruction except stay. Then he made this small, ruined sound against your mouth and touched your waist like you were a fragile crystal he had been warned not to break.
After that, neither of you stood a chance.
Neither of you did anything halfway. Dex didnât know how to want normally, and you didnât know how to be wanted normally. Kissing turned into touching, touching turned to stumbling into his bed, and being in his bed turned into Dex curling into you afterward like he had found heaven and was furious nobody had warned him it would feel like this.
Sex with a mind reader should have terrified him.
But after the first time he understood what it meant with you. There was no pretending or hiding behind control. He couldnât pretend to be calmer than he was. He couldnât hide how badly he wanted to kiss you again, how much he liked your hands on him, how ruined he got when you said his name in that breathless sigh. You knew when he was overwhelmed and you adjusted. You knew when he needed to slow down. You knew when he was thinking too much and when he needed you to pull him out of his own head.
You kissed him through it. You talked him through it. You touched him like his wants were not shameful just because they were intense, like the inside of him was not too much for you.
And you loved him for it.
You loved the strange, violent tenderness of him. The way he checked your face before his hands moved. The way he liked when you told him what he wanted.Â
âYou love me,â you whispered after the second month, half asleep against his chest, your fingers tracing lazy shapes over his ribs.
Dex went still beneath you.
You smiled into his skin. âDonât panic. I love you too.â
He didnât say it back then because he didnât have to.
But his arms tightened around you like the thought of you leaving had become physically unbearable. His mouth pressed to the top of your head, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth, almost desperate.
He loved you with every ruined, desperate, loyal part of himself. He loved you like gravity, like a fixation, like a religion he had invented alone in the dark and then accidentally found living in your body.
You smiled up at him, eyes wet.
âI know,â you whispered. âI can hear you.â
Dexâs hand came up to the back of your neck and kissed you.
You heard it in him constantly after that, and not like a normal man thinking I love you in a normal way.Â
Still, there were rules.
You didnât care that he killed AVTF agents and assassination jobs. You had heard enough of their minds to know duty didnât make most men good. You didnât hate him for coming home with blood on his hands.Â
If anything, Dex loved that about you. Because for once, he didnât have to explain himself.
He didnât have to come home and build a careful human-sounding justification for the violence. He didnât have to say he had no choice, or they were a threat. You already knew. You reached into his mind, found his reasoning, and understood it before he even greeted you.
And you would look at him and say, âThatâs fine.â
Not because you were naĂŻve. But you knew exactly what he was.
You knew the terrible things he had done. You knew the sound of his mind when he decided someone had to die. You knew how quickly he could make peace with blood if the reason made sense to him. And somehow, you accepted it.
But proximity to killing was a different thing altogether. A hurt mind was a loud mind and a dying mind was worse.Â
You explained it after an agent got too close to the apartment.Â
Dex knew that he couldnât risk a search. He knew he couldnât risk him writing down the address. He couldnât risk OXE finding you again.
So he killed him outside, close enough for you to feel the pain.Â
By the time Dex came back in, you were on the floor beside the bed, hands pressed to your ears even though that never helped. Your face was pale, eyes unfocused, like you were still hearing dead thoughts long after the body had gone limp.
âA hurt mind tastes like TV static,â you whispered.
Dex stopped with blood drying on his sleeve.
You tried to explain because he needed to understand, and with you, Dex always listened like the answer might save your life later.
âI donât hear words when theyâre hurt. Pain turns everything white and icky. It buzzes behind my eyes.â You swallowed hard, breathing through it. âAnd dying is worse. A dying mind clings to anything it can. A face, a smell, a prayer. Some room they were in when they were little. Anything to stay. Itâs so loud, Dex. I canât filter it, I canât, I-I⌠canât.â
Dex didnât look sorry for the dead agent, that was not how he worked. But he looked⌠hurt. He was hurt because you were.
âI know why you did it,â you said, eyes wet. âI know he got too close. Iâm not mad.â
That was worse, because he couldâve handled anger. He didnât know what to do with forgiveness. âI just canât be near it,â you whispered. âPlease.â
It had never been easy for him to change rules, but just like that, because you were hurt, he changed it.Â
He promised no killing within half a mile of the apartment. He promised there would be no bodies in the building. If danger came near and you were close enough to feel it, Dex would send you away first.Â
And if he had no choice, if someone had to die and had to die fast, Dex dragged the body away before the mind finished breaking.
Heâd drag them down alleys, around corners, behind dumpsters, far enough that their minds could get loud somewhere it wouldnât reach you.
For a while, that was enough.
Then one day, Dex came home and you werenât in the apartment.
The door was locked. The curtains were drawn. The lights were low the way you liked them. The kettle sat cold on the stove, even though it was time you usually had tea. Your blanket was half-folded on the chair, one sleeve of one of his shirts hanging off the armrest where you had left it that morning.
But you werenât there.
Dex stood in the middle of the studio and listened.
He couldnât hear bare feet shifting against the floor of the bathroom. He could hear breathing from the corner beyond the bed, where you usually were when you were overwhelmed.Â
Nothing.
His body reacted before his mind did.
A bloom of panic opened behind his ribs.
âSweetheart?â
No answer.
He checked the bathroom, the closet, the fire escape. The bed, even though he could see you werenât in it. Then again, because panic didnât care about logic once it got its hands around his throat.
No.
No, no, no.
For one sick second, all he could think was OXE.
Someone had found you. Someone had gotten in while he was away. Someone had taken you from the little box he had built to keep the world out, and he hadnât been there to stop it.
Then he heard you.
You were⌠down the hall?
You let out a sob muffled through someone elseâs door.
Dex turned toward it so fast the room seemed to tilt.
He knew that sound. He knew every version of your crying by then. The small ones you tried to hide, the sharp ones that meant you were hurt, the breathless ones that meant too many minds had gotten in and you couldnât find your way back out.
This one was worse.
This one sounded like shock and the beginning of self-hatred.
Dex was already moving.
The neighborsâ apartment door was unlocked.
He pushed it open and found you on the floor.
You were curled up near the kitchen tiles, knees drawn tight, hands pressed over your mouth as if you were trying to hold the sobs in with your fingers. Your whole body shook. Â
You were barefoot. Your hair was a mess. One side of your face was wet with tears.
Then Dex saw the bodies around you, and it belonged to the couple who lived there.
The ones who screamed through the walls so often their voices had become part of the building. The ones whose arguments rotted into your apartment at night. The ones whose thoughts were worse than their mouths, according to you. They were bitter and poisoned all the way through.
He knew pieces of them because you knew pieces of them.
You told them they had a son who didnât live there anymore. The grandparents had taken him in because the fatherâs anger had become too physical and the motherâs neglect had become too easy to pretend not to see. The childâs room was now turned into storage.Â
They had been horrible people.
That did not change the fact that you had killed them.
You looked up at Dex. âIâm sorry.â
Your hands fell from your mouth to your throat, fingers hovering there like you could still feel what you had done.
âThey were so loud,â you whispered.
Dex stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Your eyes darted to the bodies, then back to him, wild and wet and ruined.
âI knew it would hurt,â you said, words coming faster now, tumbling out of you before you could stop them. âI knew. I knew dying minds hurt me. I knew it would be loud when they died, I knew it would get in, but they were already so loud, Dex. They were already in my head I couldnât think.â
Your breath hitched hard.
âThey were fighting again. Not just out loud outside, but inside. Inside was worse. He was thinking about what he wanted to do to her, and she was thinking about what she should have done to him years ago, and then they were thinking about the boy, and neither of them even missed him right. They justââ
You choked on it.
Dex took one slow step closer. You shook your head, frantic. âNo. Donât. Iâm awful right now. Iâm so loud.â
âYouâre not too loud for me.â
That made you sob harder. You curled forward, forehead nearly touching your knees.
âI tried to go back,â you whispered. âI tried to go back to our apartment. I tried to shut it out, but they kept going and going and going, and I couldnât tell what was mine anymore. I couldnât tell if I hated them or if they hated each other or if the whole hallway hated them, and then I was here.â
Your hands twisted in your lap.
âI was just here.â
Dex understood, because it was you.
Because your mind had been filled past the point of reason by two people who had made a life out of being loud, and by the time you understood what your hands were doing, they were already dying.Â
âI made it quick,â you said.
Your voice was so small it barely reached him.
Dexâs teeth tightened. You looked at him like you needed him to believe that one thing, if nothing else.
âI did. I promise. I didnât want them to hurt. I didnât want to hear that part for long. I just needed it to stop, and they were going to hurt each other anyway, and they were horrible, Dex, but Iââ Your face fell. âI killed them.â
There was no justification, no defence.Â
âI killed them,â you said again, and it sounded like you were trying to make yourself understand it.
Dex crouched in front of you, and your eyes flicked to his hands.
Dex knew too much about violence to be shocked by it. But seeing you like this, seeing the toll of it hollow you out from the inside, he understood one thing: The city was killing you.
It was simply too loud, too full for your mind.Â
âLook at me,â he said.
You shook your head. âI canât.â
âLook at me.â
Your eyes lifted.
Dex reached for you then, slow enough that you could stop him.
You didnât.
The second his hand closed gently around your wrist, you collapsed forward into him with a sound so broken it made his throat tighten. He caught you against his chest, one hand to the back of your head, the other arm locked around you while you sobbed into his shirt.
âIâm sorry,â you gasped.
Dex held you tighter.
âI know.â
âI donât want to be like this.â
âI know, baby.â
âThey were so loud.â
âI know.â
And he didnât mean it the way you meant it. He couldnât. He would never know what it was like to have a dying mind claw through yours, to feel someoneâs last panic splinter behind your eyes. But he knew enough. He knew you. He knew what this had cost you.
He looked over your shoulder at the dead neighbors, and there was no pity in him for them.
Only calculation. He was going to clean up this mess, maybe make it look like a murder-suicide, and make sure the investigation didnât even look your way.Â
You were crying so hard you could barely breathe.
Dex pressed his mouth to your hair.
âYouâre okay,â he whispered, more to himself than to you. âYouâre okay.â
That night, after he cleaned what needed cleaning and got you back behind your own door, after he tucked you into the bed and sat with you until exhaustion finally dragged you under, Dex stayed awake beside you and stared at the ceiling.
The panelling he put there was not enough. The blackout curtains he installed were not enough.
The quiet refrigerator, the rugs, the rules about killing, the way he had tried to make one studio apartment survivable â none of it was enough if the city could still get to you through the walls.
By morning, Dex had made up his mind.
He started taking bigger jobs after that, better paying ones.Â
All with one thing in mind: relocate you from the city.
â
After that, every job had one purpose.
You.
And Dex had always been better when he had a purpose.
Every payment, every account number, every envelope, every favor owed became a way out of the city, a way to buy air your mind could survive.
But money was never quite enough. Money could buy a place, maybe, but money left a paper trail. Dex needed a cleaner solution.Â
He got what he wanted when the property mogul came to him.
The man owned half a skyline and wanted another man dead over a development dispute he kept calling âa complication.â He met Dex in the private lounge of a building with marble floors and windows too high above the street for anyone inside to remember people lived below them.
He offered a number first.
Two hundred thousand dollars.Â
Dex did not react.
The mogul smiled like he thought he had accepted the offer.
Then Dex gave him his price. âTwo hundred thousand dollars,â he said, âand land.â
The mogul blinked. Dex leaned back in his chair.
âUpstate, and no close neighbors within half a mile radius. I want twenty acres at least. I want an existing cabin if youâve got one. If not, build one.â
The man stared at him for a second too long, like money had made him forget people could ask for things that werenât numbers. Dexâs expression didnât change.
âYou want him gone by Friday?â he tilted his head. âThatâs my payment.â
The mogul laughed uncertainly.
Dex didnât.
By the end of the week, the man was dead, the dispute was gone, and a plot of land upstate had quietly changed hands through three shell companies and a fake name.Â
There was a cabin on it already.
It was small and slightly weathered, far enough from the nearest road that the city couldnât reach it easily. It was enough from the nearest neighbor that even your mind would have to stretch to find another person.
Dex stood on the porch the first time he saw it and listened.
Nothing but birds and wind through the trees.
Perfect.Â
Dex wanted to surprise you, which was adorable, because he had been thinking about the cabin constantly.
Not just the cabin itself, either. He had been fixing and sanding and checking the locks. He had managed to put extra shelves in the kitchen and fixed the creaky steps. He was planning to replace the bedroom window before you ever saw it because the old one rattled when the wind hit wrong and youâd hate it almost as much as he did.Â
He wanted it perfect before he brought you there.
So you pretended not to know.
You let him come home with sawdust on his sleeve and plans tucked behind his eyes, let him sit beside you on the bed while thinking very loudly about the porch and curtain rods and whether the trees were far enough from the house to make you feel safe instead of watched.
âYouâre in a good mood,â you said.
Dex glanced at you too quickly. âNo.â
You smiled into your book. âOkay.â
Then, flatter, he realised, âYou know.â
You looked up, trying so hard not to smile because he looked genuinely upset. âI know.â
Dex sighed through his nose. âI wanted to surprise you.â
âYou did,â you said, reaching for the front of his shirt. âIâm surprised you thought you could surprise me.â
And poor Dex, murderous, meticulous, hopelessly in love Dex, let you pull him down into a kiss anyway.Â
Of course, when he took you there the week after for the first time with your duffel bags in tow, you loved it.
You loved the curtains. You loved the little fire pit he built after you told him fire felt like the good kind of white noise in your head. You loved watching him chop wood with unnecessary precision. You loved sitting on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders while he checked the perimeter for the third time that day, because Dex couldnât love normally. He loved like a security system with attachment issues.
And Dex loved that you knew.
He didnât have to explain the strange shape of his obsession. You could reach into his mind and find the answer before he ever opened his mouth.
Why did he reinforce the back door?
Because if someone comes through it, I want three extra seconds.
Why did he move the bed away from the window?
Because glass breaks inward.
Why did he buy six bags of birdseed?
Because you smiled at the cardinals.
That one made him glare at you.
âYouâre not supposed to listen all the time,â he said.
You sat on the porch railing, grinning into your mug. âYouâre not supposed to think so loudly.â
âI donât.â
You shrugged. âYou do sometimes.â
Your favorite part, though, was watching him practice.
He set up a target in the clearing behind the cabin, a clean round board nailed to a tree stump far enough away that any normal person would have missed half the time.
Dex never missed.
He would stand there in the cold morning air, sleeves pushed up, knife balanced between his fingers with that beautiful focus he had. Then his hand would flick, quick as a blink, and the blade would bury itself dead center.
Again.
And Again.
You sat on a log nearby, chin in your hand, trying very hard not to smile. âYouâre showing off.â
Dex did not look at you. âIâm practicing.â
âYouâre showing off because you know Iâm watching,â you said, âYouâre thinking, She likes when I do this.â
The knife hit the target with a sharp thunk.
Dead center.
Dex turned then, eyes narrowing.
You smiled sweetly.
Poor thing. He was terrifying to everyone else. To you, he was just your murderous little cabin boyfriend who would rather die than admit to liking your sweet little praises.
âYou know,â you said, âyou donât have to impress me.â
Dex pulled the knife from the target.Â
That one got him.
Dex walked across the clearing toward you, knife still loose in his hand, expression flat in that way that would have scared anyone who didnât already know his mind was doing the emotional equivalent of tripping over furniture.
âYou think youâre funny,â he said.
âYou love me.â
Dex stopped in front of you.
The woods were quiet around him. Birds were shifting in the trees. Firewood was stacked by the shed. Morning light caught in his hair and across the sharp line of his cheek. His mind softened before his eyes did, and you felt it bloom warm in your chest before he ever touched you.
I do, he thought. More than anything in the whole goddamn world.Â
You smiled up at him. âI know.â
Dex bent downs, caught your chin carefully between his fingers, and kissed you. It was ridiculously gentle for a man called Bullseye.Â
When he pulled back, your eyes were still closed.
âYouâre going to do it again,â you murmured.
âThe knife throwing?â
âNo.â You opened your eyes and smiled. âKiss me.â
Dex managed a smile. And because he never missed, he did.
â
Dex still went back to the city sometimes.
He had scales to level, as he put it. Important vigilante work, in his head. It was the kind of work that involved blood and ledgers and moral math only Benjamin Poindexter could make sound reasonable. You never argued with him about that part. You could read his mind. You knew his reasons.Â
Still, leaving you at the cabin always hurt him.
Not because the cabin was unsafe. It was practically a fortress by then, even with enough stored food to survive whatever apocalypse Dex had apparently been personally expecting.
But he still checked everything twice.
âYouâll call if anything feels wrong,â he said.
âIâll call.â
âIf someone comes up the roadââ
âI go to the back room.â
âIf the radio cuts outââ
âI use the satellite phone.â
âIf you hear something near the woodsââ
âI donât go investigate like a stupid horror movie girl.â
Still, he never left for more than three or four days.
Never.
By the second night, his thoughts would start turning back toward you. By the third, they got restless. Heâd think about whether you remembered to eat. Whether the firewood was dry. Whether the road was clear. Whether you were wearing his sweater because you missed him or because the house was cold.
Both, usually.
When he came back, it was almost always late.
You never waited inside.
You would be on the porch before he reached the steps, blanket around your shoulders, eyes bright from missing him too much. Sometimes he didnât even get the Bullseye mask off before you had both hands on him.
âMissed you,â you whispered, then youâd kiss the mask, right over where his mouth should be.
And his brain would go completely, embarrassingly haywire with love, relief, home, you, you, you.
You laughed softly against the fabric surface of it. âYouâre loud.â
Dexâs gloved hands found your waist. âI missed you too.â
âMmm,â you hummed, âI know.â
He would pull the mask off properly after that, just to kiss you properly. And when his mouth finally found yours, you could feel the city fall away from him.
â
This time, Dex was gone for seven days.
He didnât tell you why, and not because he wanted to scare you. Because in Dexâs mind, silence was kinder than worry. If he told you that he had played a part in killing the mayor's wife and had been injured, and now needed to do one last assassination before signing a contract with a government agency so he could start providing better for you, you would panic before he could get back to you.
So he kept quiet.
And that was worse.
By day five, the cabin stopped feeling peaceful and started feeling empty. By day six, you were sleeping in his sweater, radio in your lap, listening for a voice that never came. Thatâs when you realised his lines were non-active. By day seven, every crackle of static sounded like him dying.
He had never been gone that long.
So you left.
It took you hours to walk to the nearest train station, but you managed to do it.Â
The train, once you got on, was too crowded, and you suddenly were reminded why Dex had moved you away. There were too many shoulders, too many minds packed into one metal tube, all of them thinking too loudly at once. Fear about Fisk, about Daredevil. Anger at the Task Force. A woman was praying under her breath. A boy was trying not to cry. Someone was watching the footage of the protests on their phone.
You focused.
You filtered.
You had gotten good at that, hadnât you? Dex had helped you get good at that. One mind at a time. One thought at a time. Find the edge of yourself. Stay there. Donât let the fear become yours just because you can hear it.
And for a while, you managed.
Even with New York getting louder the closer you came. Even with every station spilling more panic into the train. Even as you got out, as the protests moved through the city like a fever, anger and terror and hope all tangled together until nobodyâs thoughts came out clean anymore.
You pressed your nails into your palm and breathed.
In.
Out.
Find Dex.
That was all you needed to do.Â
Find Dex and everything would be okay.
You could be overstimulated. You could be shaking. You could have the whole city scraping against the inside of your skull and still make it to him, because you had done hard things before. You had survived OXE. You had survived bad days. You had survived yourself.
You could survive a train ride and a trip to the city.
You were managing.
Barely, but managing.
UntilâŚ
Somewhere in the city, a Task Force Agent shot a man.
You felt it.
You didnât even see it.Â
But you felt the impact, the shock, the guttural animal panic of a mind realizing too late that the body was failing. His last thoughts clawed outward, grabbing at anything. He thought about a mother, a kitchen light, the taste of coffee, please, please, please â and it slammed through you so hard you thought you were the one dying.Â
Too much.
Too much, too much, too much.
By the time you reached Dexâs apartment, you could barely separate yourself from the city.
You stumbled up the stairs with his sweater twisted in your fists and let yourself in with shaking hands and a spare key he kept in the cabin. The old apartment still smelled like him. The wall panelling he had installed for you was still there. The bed you loved was still there.
So you crawled into it.
You curled up small in the old place where he used to hold you through bad nights, pressing your face into his pillow because it was the only thing close enough to a hug you could get.
And when Dex finally found you, you were shaking in the bed, sobbing like the city had followed you all the way in.
â
Present dayâŚ
For a while, neither of them said anything.
The hallway held the two of them in the weak yellow light, close enough to fight, close enough for Matt to hear Dex's slight chatter behind his teeth.
The anger was there.
It moved through Dex like a live wire, and viciously restrained. Matt could hear through his heartbeat how badly he wanted to do something with it. He could hear it in the slight shift of Dexâs weight, in the way his fingers flexed once at his side, in the careful control of his breathing.
But Dex didnât move.
He stood in front of the broken door like his body could make up for the lock Matt had destroyed.Â
Behind him, inside the apartment, you made a small sound.
Dexâs head turned at once, not enough to take his eyes off Matt. But enough for Matt to understand that half of him had never left the room.
It was awful, seeing that.
It was awful because Matt struggled to see past his sins. He didnât want to see past his sins.Â
But the man in front of him was standing outside a bedroom he clearly wanted to return to, choosing not to kill because you had asked him not to.
Matt swallowed. âDoes she need help?â
Dex looked at him. His face went cold enough that Matt knew, instantly, he had said it wrong. âShe has help.â
Mattâs mouth tightened. âYou?â
Dex stepped closer by half an inch. Not a threat, but rather a correction. âYes.â
Matt let out a slow breath. âIââ
âNo.â Dex cut him off. âYou donât get to stand there after kicking my door in, after scaring her half to death, and think youâre the reasonable one here.â
Mattâs jaw flexed. âI heard someone crying in your apartment.â
âAnd what?â Dex crossed his hand over his chest. âYou decided she needed saving from me?â
âYouâve given me plenty of reasons to think that.â
Dex almost smiled. It was a terrible thing. It was humorless, dead before it reached his eyes.
âYeah,â he said. âI have.â
Matt went still.
Dex didnât deny it. He didnât reach for innocence he had no right to hold.
âI know what I am,â Dex said, voice low now. âYou donât have to remind me.â
âI donât think you do.â
Dexâs eyes sharpened.
Matt took one step forward, careful, measured. âYou think because you think you love her, that makes this different.â
Dexâs face changed. Matt heard the hit land.
Dex didnât hide his agitation well, because in his mind he was thinking how dare you even fucking insinuate that I think I love her. I know I love her. How dare you?
Inside, you mustâve felt the frustration flare, because shifted again, sheets whispering under your trembling body, and Dex turned his head immediately, rage folding down so fast it almost hurt to witness.
His voice dropped toward the door, not Matt. âSweetheart, Iâm okay.â
You didnât answer, but your breathing slowed.
Matt listened until it settled by a fraction.
âYou hear that?â Dex asked with a sigh.
Matt said nothing.
âYou hear how she breathes when Iâm here?â
Mattâs throat tightened.
Dex leaned in slightly, voice still controlled. âYou heard her when you came in. You heard what happened when you kicked the door down. She didnât run from me. She ran to me.â
Fuck. He had a point.
Mattâs mouth pressed into a hard line. âIâm not trying to hurt her.â
âYou already did.â
The words landed flat in his chest and Matt flinched despite himself.
Dex saw it.Â
âYou came in here loud,â Dex said. âYou brought in your thoughts, your judgment, your anger. You dragged all of it into the room with you and dumped it on her while she was already drowning.â
âIââ Matt shook his head, turning it slightly down, âI didnât know.â
âNo,â Dex said. âYou didnât.â
The accusation wasnât loud. It didnât need to be.
Behind the door, you gave another small, broken breath.
Dexâs hand twitched once at his side, like every instinct in him wanted to turn around and go back to you.
âYou should go,â Dex said through gritted teeth.
Matt didnât, at least not right away.
You were quiet now.
Not calm, Matt could hear that much. Your breathing still came unevenly from somewhere beneath the blanket, frayed at the edges, worn thin from crying. But you were quieter than before, and every time Dex shifted even slightly away from the door, your heartbeat changed.
Matt wanted to believe he was looking at Bullseye. At the man who had turned a courthouse into a warzone. At the man whose name belonged on a tip line, in a police report, on every alert system New York still had running after the riots.
Benjamin Poindexter was standing right in front of him.
Matt let him go only a couple of days ago, yes, but hasnât he been pushing for transparency over the last twenty four hours?
He should believe in the law. Especially now. Especially after what he had said in front of the whole city. He had torn his own mask off for accountability. He had asked New York to believe there was still a line between justice and vengeance and was prepared to pay the price anyway.
So why was he standing here, letting a murderer guard a broken door?
Dex watched him think it.
His mouth barely moved.
âYou want to hate me?â Dex said. âFine. Hate me downstairs.â
Mattâs jaw clenched.
Dex stepped closer. His voice stayed low, but there was nothing soft in it now. âJust donât do it near her.â
Matt shook his head and Dex shifted towards the door, like keeping Mattâs attention off you was as natural as breathing.
âShe isnât yours to protect,â Matt said quietly.
Dexâs eyes went flat. âNo,â he said. âSheâs mine to take care of.â
The words should have sounded wrong. Maybe they were wrong. But behind him, your breath hitched at the sound of his voice, and some tiny broken part of it steadied after.
A year ago, Matt would have heard that and called it delusion.
But tonight, he heard the window shut. Dex silenced the phone. Dex killed the lights and unplugged the radio. Dex tucked the blanket over you. He heard love in all the small, practiced mercies Dex had done without needing to be told.
Mattâs hands curled slowly at his sides.
He could still do it.
He could leave the building and call in an anonymous tip. That Bullseye was here, and they could go non-lethal because you were here and there was no way in hell Dex would kill near you. Matt could tell Brent this address, this floor, this door.
He could do it because it would be right.
Because Dex was dangerous.
Because the law had to mean something.
Because Foggyâ
Mattâs throat tightened so sharply he almost moved.
But Matt understood, with a sick twist in his stomach, that if he took Dex away tonight, he didnât know who would be left to tend to you. Who would know how to keep you from drowning in a city full of minds.
Because Matt had heard what one broken door did to you.
If cops came into that apartment with radios crackling, boots pounding, fear and adrenaline spiking out of every mind, you would fall apart. And if they took Dex away, then you would be well and truly fucked.Â
He didnât know what doctors would want their hands on you. He didnât know who would look at you and see a woman before they saw a weapon.
Dex was dangerous.
But maybe that was exactly why he knew how to keep danger away from you.Â
âShe asked you to leave,â Dex said again, quieter this time. âSo leave.â
Matt stood there a moment longer. Long enough to feel every reason not to. Long enough to know he might regret it. Long enough to know he would think about this hallway again, maybe for the rest of his life.
Then he stepped back.
Dex didnât relax.
Matt took another step. Then another, until he reached the stairwell and stopped with one hand near the railing. His face angled slightly toward the apartment again, toward the woman he could still hear crying in the dark.
For a second, Dex thought he might come back.
Then Matt said, very quietly, âIf she ever asks for help from someone else, donât stand in her way.â
Dexâs fingers flexed.
The answer came immediately. âIf she asks, Iâll listen.â
Matt could hear that he was telling the truth. His fingers tightened once around the railing.
Still, he stayed there for one more second.
Dex waited him out, because if Matt needed to drag his reluctance down the stairs one breath at a time, fine. He could do that. Dex could stand there all night if he had to. He could become the door until morning if he had to.
Finally, Matt lowered his head and made his way down.Â
Dex stayed in the hallway until Mattâs footsteps disappeared down the stairs.
Only when the last sound disappeared down the stairs did Dex turn back toward the apartment. The door was ruined, the lock hanging uselessly from splintered wood, the frame cracked where Mattâs boot had forced it inward.
For one second, Dex stared at it.
His anger flared, then he swallowed it down.
Not now.
Not near you.
He stepped inside and pulled the door closed as much as it would go. It dragged wrong against the floor, crooked and broken, but he eased it shut anyway. Then he picked up the kitchen chair instead of dragging it, because the first scrape of wood had made your breathing catch from the bed.
Everything had to be quiet.
He wedged the chair beneath what was left of the handle and pushed once, testing it.
The door held, only barely. It hurt him that it was imperfect, but it had to be good enough for tonight.
Then he turned back to you.
You were still crying, but not like before. Not the full panic that had torn through you until you couldnât breathe. This was smaller, yet more exhausted. Like your body had run out of strength but your heart hadnât figured out how to stop breaking yet.
You were curled on his bed under the blanket, face wet, shoulders shaking in little miserable tremors.
Dex crouched beside you so carefully, like one wrong sound might split you open again.
âHey,â he whispered.
Your mouth trembled. âI wanted to hurt him.â
Dex went still as your eyes squeezed shut, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks.
âI wanted to,â you whispered, horrified by yourself. âAfter he scared me, after he thought those things about you, after he came in so loud, when he was outside with you and he upset you, I wanted to hurt him, Dex. I did. I did, Iââ
âShh.â Dexâs hand came up slowly, waiting.
You leaned into it before he touched you, and only then did his palm settle against your cheek.
âShh, baby.â
âI wanted to make him stop.â You shook your head, crying harder now, broken open by the confession.
Dex leaned closer until his forehead almost touched yours. âSo did I, baby,â he whispered, rough and aching, âso did I.â
You opened your eyes.
Dex looked at you like it cost him to be that honest and he would pay it anyway if it calmed you. âBut we didnât.â
Your breath caught.
âWe didnât,â he said again, softer. âYou stayed with me. I stayed with you. He left. Itâs over.â
Your face fell, and Dex shifted up onto the bed then, slow enough not to startle you, and gathered you carefully against him. You folded into his chest with a broken little sound, fingers twisting weakly in his shirt.
He held you like he was trying to put your body back around your soul.
âIâve got you,â he whispered into your hair. âIâve got you. I know. I know, sweetheart.â
You sobbed once, small and ruined.
Dex pressed his mouth to your temple. âWeâre going back to the cabin first thing tomorrow.â
Your fingers tightened. âTomorrow?â
âYeah.â His hand moved over your back, slow and steady. âYou can sleep the whole way if you want.â
Your breathing shook against him.
âAnd my new work doesnât start for two weeks,â he said, like he was offering you the only miracle he had. âSo thatâs two weeks, okay? Two weeks of nothing.â
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
Dexâs thumb brushed beneath your eye.
âJust me and you,â he whispered. âNo one else. No noise. No city. Just us.â
Your mouth trembled and he kissed your forehead.
âIâll chop wood. You can sit on the porch. Weâll keep the fire on. You can wear my clothes and sleep all day if you want.â
Another tear slipped down your cheek before you could help it, and he caught it.
âAnd I wonât leave,â he said. âNot for two weeks. Not for anything.â
You stared at him through wet lashes, searching his face first. Then, his mind.
He was thinking aboutâŚ
The cabin.
You sleeping in the passenger seat.
You on the porch.
You wrapped in his sweater.
You, safe.
And underneath it all, over and over, so constant it almost broke youâŚ
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
Your breath hitched.
His face softened. âThere you are,â he whispered.
You made a tiny sound and tucked your face back into him. âOkay,â you breathed.
Dexâs shoulders nearly gave out with relief. âOkay?â
You nodded against his chest. âOkay.â
He closed his eyes and held you tighter for one second, just one, like he needed to feel the word inside his own body. Then he kissed your temple again. âThatâs my girl.â
Your crying slowed after that.
It didnât stop, but it gentled into little exhausted shudders against his shirt while Dex kept his hand moving over your back, the way he knew helped. He stayed until your fingers loosened. Until your breathing stopped tripping over itself. Until your mind, still bruised and raw, found the steady line of his thoughts again.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
You could focus on it now.
Not the city. Not Matt. Not the broken door.
Just Dex and his thoughts, warm and obsessive and constant, wrapped around you from the inside out.
Finally, Dex pulled back enough to look at your face.
âIâm gonna clean up,â he whispered.
Your eyes opened again, instantly afraid. He shook his head before the fear could grow.
âIâm just going to the bathroom,â he said. âThatâs all.â
You swallowed.
âIâll be back in a bit,â he promised. âYou should go to sleep, okay?â
You didnât answer.
Dex kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then your lips, so gently you almost started crying again.
âTry,â he whispered, because he knew you were so, so tired. âJust try for me.â
You nodded, barely.
Dex eventually eased himself away, slowly and careful, leaving the blanket tucked around your shoulders and the chair braced beneath the broken door.
The bathroom light stayed off, and the door stayed open.
Water ran low in the sink.Â
You appreciated it more than you could say. The sound filled the little apartment gently, not enough to crowd your head, not enough to become another thing pressing at the inside of your skull. Just enough to give your mind somewhere simple to latch on to.
Dex didnât need to read minds to know that running water settled you the same way fire did. It had the same white-noise hush. It had the same clear, constant sound that didnât want anything from you. Fire and water didnât think. It didnât feel. It didnât ask to be understood.
It just moved.
And Dex knew that. He knew you.
So you laid there in the dark, still hurting, still broken in places you could not name, but now, you were present.
You took a shaky breath.
For a while, there was only the water running low in the bathroom sink and Dex moving quietly through the dark.
You could hear him in pieces.
You heard the careful pass of his hands under the faucet, the soft drag of fabric as he wiped his face. The small, practical thoughts he kept lining up for tomorrow.
Cabin first thing.
Full tank of gas.
No tunnel.
Back roads.
Blanket in the passenger seat.
Radio off unless she asks.
Two weeks.
Just me and her.
You focused on him. On the shape of his mind. On the tenderness he had no idea how to say without turning it into a plan, a route, a locked door, a fixed window. Even now, Dex was thinking about firewood and the bedroom window and whether the car heater would be too loud for you in the morning.
It made you smile.
Then⌠oh.
Something else reached you. Someone else.
It wasnât Dex; this thought came from outside.
It was a thought that came from out the street, clear and heavy through the thin glass:
I hope Iâm doing the right thing.
Your eyes opened. For one second, you lay very still beneath the blanket.
Dex was still in the bathroom. But outside, across the street, Matt Murdock had not gone far.
You got up slowly and turned your head toward the window.
The curtain hadnât been pulled perfectly shut. There was a narrow gap where city light slipped through, pale and dirty against the floor. You shifted, leaning just enough to see past it.
There he was, across the street, half-shadowed beneath a streetlamp, hood pulled up, face tilted toward the building like he was still listening to the apartments.
Matt Murdock stood there with one foot turned away and the rest of him refusing to follow.
He was hesitating.
His thoughts were still loud, but not loud like before.
It was no longer crashing through you with suspicion and anger and judgment. This was different. His thoughts now were coherent, almost. They came to you in pieces, clear enough to understand.
Benjamin Poindexter is still a dangerous man.
I shouldnât leave him with her.
But she asked me to leave.
But sheâs calmer when heâs near.
Your throat tightened.
Mattâs thoughts vibrated around the shape of Dex, for lack of a better word. There was still blood there, grief there, a wound so deep it had a name you didnât touch because it hurt even from a distance.
But there was something else in his thoughts now, too.
You.
Because you could read minds, you knew he had heightened senses, and you knew you didnât have to speak loudly to reach him. You only had to speak clearly.
So you turned your face toward the narrow gap in the curtain, toward the street where Matt Murdock stood beneath the weak glow of a lamp, and whispered into the dark, âI know what he is.â
Across the street, Matt went completely still.
You saw the subtle lift of his head, the tightening through his shoulders. His attention snapping back to your window because he could feel where you were.
He heard you. You knew he did.
You curled your fingers into the blanket.
âBut heâs not that to me.â
Matt didnât move.
You could feel his mind presently listening now. Not as Daredevil. Not as the man who had kicked down the door. Not as someone trying to decide what kind of danger you were.
âHe loves me,â you whispered.
Mattâs thoughts shifted.
He does. Even a blind man could see that.Â
The thought came so clearly it almost hurt.
You blinked, tears slipping sideways into your hair. âHeâs good to me.â
You remembered him now, when it was Dexâs hand that unlocked the cuff, how he put his jacket over your shoulders. You thought about the cabin and the chair beneath the broken door. That man was in the bathroom, washing up with the door open because he promised he wouldnât leave you alone.
You breathed in, shaky but steadier. âHeâs a good man for me.â
Across the street, Mattâs face changed.
It was a small, tiny furrow of the brow. But then you heard the thought that followed.
I believe you.
Your breath hitched
Above all the doubt, above all the grief, above all the things Matt Murdock would never be able to forgive, that one thought came through clean.
I believe you.
Not Dex.
You.
He believed you knew what you were saying. He believed you were not trapped. He believed you understood the man beside you better than anyone else in the city possibly could.
And maybe that was the most Matt could give.
You, behind the glass, exhausted and half-broken in Dexâs bed.
Matt, across the street, carrying a truth he didnât want and yet couldnât put down.
Because maybe Benjamin Poindexter was not only defined by violence. Maybe there was something else buried deep under him, warped and wounded and difficult to look at, but human anyway.
A person.
Someone capable of loving. Someone, somehow, worthy of being loved.
Matt didnât forgive him. But for the first time, he saw him differently.
Then he lowered his head and gave you a small nod.
Then Matt Murdock turned away.
This time, he truly left.
You watched until the dark took him, until his thoughts faded into the rest of New York and you could no longer separate him from the city.
But you knew.
You knew that Matt was starting to look at the man you loved differently.
â end.
Extra Note : Like the reader in this story, we all have good days and bad days. Please remember that needing help doesnât make you weak, broken, or too much. It just makes you human. If you are struggling, please reach out to someone you trust or contact a crisis/support service in your area. You deserve care, patience, and support on your bad days too, lovelies! đŤśđâ¤ď¸
Pairing: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x F!Reader
WC: 9.6k
Summary: Dex keeps using your apartment as a hideout.
Warnings: 18+, Stalking, Slow(ish) burn, Service Top!Dex, Controlling!Dex, Let's not forget Dex is manipulative and bad...and hotttt, Mentions of blood, Oral (AFAB receiving), Fingering (AFAB receiving), PIV, UNPROTECTED (wrap it up), Creampie, tiny bit of biting, No use of Y/N, Reader has a praise kink, Reader also has feeling of shame around this, 'This' being having sex with a dangerous man, lol Breaking and entering (should i tag that?), he's obsessive and possessive, calls reader: good girl, baby, sweetheart, dirty girl, He lowkey turns into a whimpering mess at the end
Your hands tremble as the tea kettle on the stove screams. How long had that been going off? Your thoughts are racing, skin cold but sweating, heart still pounding. Blood...you can't even think about the blood.
There's a masked man in your apartment.
You can feel his presence from behind you. It's strong, it's dangerous, it's consuming. His breathing is labored, jagged, like he's in pain. A part of you hopes he's in pain. His blood soaks into your couch that you seriously doubt you'll ever be able to get out. His legs spread out like he's getting comfortable, his hand clutching against the seeping wound. You couldn't tell how bad it was, only the amount of blood dripping gave you an indication it was more than a scratch. You wanted to turn and look at him more but you were frozen, staring at the clock of your oven. 3:03 AM. You were scared to turn and look at him, but you wanted to.
What was that saying, curiosity killed the cat?
"Turn it off." his voice startles you out of your thoughts, jolting your body into action. You pull the screaming kettle off the stove, and go straight into auto pilot. You make tea.
Maybe in a few months from now, if you survive this, you'll laugh at the absurdity of this situation. A masked man, a wanted and dangerous vigilante, had crashed into your apartment through the window. AVTF sirens blared down the street. When he'd crashed into your bedroom through the window, you'd let out a scream, tumbled out of your bed, your foot twisted in your own damn comforter, caught like a hare in a trap. He had the audacity to chuckle as you scrambled for your phone, only to throw your own stuffed animal at your hands, knocking your phone away before he hoisted you up from the ground. His blood smearing against your skin, his rough gloves gripped your wrists together, as he pulled your through your apartment like he knew the layout. He'd set you in front of your stove. Told you to make him a cup of tea. A cup of tea.Â
So here you were, pouring the piping hot water into a ridiculous looking cat mug. You didn't have any pets of your own, too much work for you, but that didn't mean you didn't enjoy animals and animal themed things. Why were you being self conscious of a mug? This was for a criminal, a murderer, a psychopath. You shouldn't care what he thinks of your interior or animal themed mugs. You should be tossing the scalding hot water in his face and bolting out the door right now --
Your name comes from the masked man, in low warning. He's reading your thoughts, he has to be.Â
You grip the handle of the mug, trying to control your shaking hands. It was a hard feat as you carefully tip toe towards him, hands trying to keep steady. He nods to the coffee table where he's got his dirty boots crossed on top. You set it down and take another careful step back. Steam rises in the dark from the kitten mug, the moonlight illuminating from your windows into the living room. It's just enough to see, but not enough to get a good enough look on him. Not that you can. He's masked. But you can tell how big he is. His broad shoulders rising up and down with labored breaths. His left hand clutched against his side, the dark blood you can see just fine.Â
With a dry mouth, you start with a creak, "I...I think you should go."
The man barely shakes his head, making no movement towards the tea. Just sitting there. Bleeding and watching. A flash of irritation shoots through you.Â
"Yes."Â you hiss out firmly, "Listen, I don't know what you're doing here, in my apartment of all places, but I can't help you. I won't...I won't tell anyone you were here. I don't know you, I can't even see your identity -"
"You know who I am." He lets out a breathless laugh and adjusts his posture, his feet coming down to the floor. He leans his back away from the cushions, getting a tad bit closer to you. It makes you take a step back, keeping the coffee table in between you two like that'll protect you.
Huffing, you start again, "Still. I don't have anything to fix you." You gesture to his wound.
"You wanna fix me?"
Shame and embarrassment burn your face, his tone shooting something liquid down your spine. What the hell was his problem? Fear was slowly being replaced with anger.
"No. I don't. Not interested, Bullseye." There, you said it. You knew who he was. There were only so many masked vigilantes in blue suits. Suddenly your heart ached for Daredevil, or even Frank. Not that you'd met either, but you would've felt safer if one of them crashed into your window late at night. Bullseye was a maniac, he was unhinged. Barely contained himself and didn't care who got in the way. He had no morale.Â
Fear started up again, the bravery and courage quickly shrinking as his name left your mouth, remembering exactly who you were dealing with.
"Dex."
"Huh?" Shock renders you dumb, your brain firing in so many directions at once.
"Call me Dex." he almost sounds amused, watching you try to keep up with him and your own thoughts, "Listen, I need a place to lie low. AVTF is crawling tonight. I'm hit. I'm beat."
Silence folds into the space as you assess each other. Worry swirls in your eyes, something Dex can see in the low light.Â
"I won't hurt you."
Your lower lip trembles, "I don't trust you." You glance at your front door for a moment, still trying to figure a way out of this mess.
"Good. You shouldn't. Go back to your room."
Despite your better judgement, you turn your back to him, awareness prickling into your skin, the weight of his gaze following you. It stays even after you close your bedroom door and lock the handle. You doubt a flimsy door lock could do much against a man his size, but it gives you the illusion of a touch of safety. Trembling limbs carry you back into your bed, burying yourself deep in covers like you used to when you were kid, scared of monsters in the dark. The difference from then and now is that you have one sitting in your living room, eyes glued to your bedroom door. And you hadn't even registered he'd said your name.
Balancing your phone in between your shoulder and ear, you sigh, "Well, no, I don't know what happened, but I just need someone to come by and look at it, please? It's been three days since it's been broken. You're the last company I could get ahold of." A hint of desperation seeps into your voice. Your keys jam into your lock and you groan in frustration. Ever since you'd replaced the locks, the keys have a habit of sticking. Finally, it clicks and your door is open. Tossing your keys on your counter, you hold your phone in a better position.
The window company on the other end explains that your apartment building should be providing a window, that you needed to call your maintenance department. Another groan of frustration escapes you.
"I hear you. I've tried, trust me. They can't get a new window in until next week. I can't sleep knowing I have an open area in my apartment where anyone could get in. Or anything for that matter! What if it starts raining?"Â
"I'm sorry ma'am, but legally we can't replace windows on any building without a permit or your apartment complex paying our company as a whole. We could fix your window if you were the owner of your apartment, but because you rent-"
"Forget it. Thank you for your time." You hang up and close your eyes, head tilting up to the ceiling. You knew it wasn't their fault. You weren't trying to be rude, but you could cry with how frustrated you were over the situation. You hadn't had a good night's rest in three days. Bullseye screwed that up for you. Opening your eyes, you immediately cringe at the stained couch. Still had to get rid of it. You had tried your best getting the blood out, but you weren't exactly equipped with blood destroying chemicals. Another thing Bullseye had screwed up. Moving into your bedroom, you assess the almost clear plastic you covered the window up with. It wasn't the best, but it kept enough of the outdoor elements out. Another thing Bullseye screwed up.
Anger stirs in your stomach. You can hardly sleep in your own bed because of the broken window, terrified anyone could get in. You can't sleep on the couch with how stained it is. You haven't been able to call a friend over to help you remove the couch, for fear of having to explain this entire thing. What would you even say?
Bullseye, one of the most wanted men in New York City, smashed your window, bled all over your couch, and left early in the morning? You can imagine the questions. Why didn't you call the Task Force?Â
Well, you see, you answer your imaginary detective, I was scared he would kill me before I got to the phone.
Why did you make him a cup of tea?
Because he asked for it.
Why did you just go to bed?
Because he told me to.
You smack your hand against your forehead, cringing at the thought of arguing with yourself and over the events of the other night. Seriously, what had you been thinking? You blame the shock and adrenaline. Rolling your shoulders, you snap yourself out of your thoughts. Something you had some issues with lately, obviously. Staring across your room at the plastic-barricaded window, you let out a breath. A shower sounded nice, but that was another thing you'd been too nervous to do. What if someone came in while you were in there? Chewing your bottom lip, you decide you'll be fast and bring a change of clothes in the bathroom with you. Gathering your stuff, phone included, you step into your bathroom and lock the door.Â
The water pelts down onto your skin and you wish with a passion that you could just relax. But you can't, not with what happened a few nights ago and certainly not with that window. You're in and out of the shower in under ten minutes. Clean, but not refreshed. You pull on your sleep shorts and tank top before leaving the barely fogged up bathroom. Stepping into the plush carpet of your bedroom, a slash of fear crosses you. The plastic window has a cut straight down the middle. Your heart crawls up your throat as you freeze at the sight, phone clutched in your hand. Dusk is settling in, the last rays of sun leaving you like the last bit of security and safety before the night.
Trying not to hyperventilate, you press 911 in your phone. Two rings before an operator answers, and you quickly rattle off your emergency, that you think there's an intruder in your house. You step back into the bathroom, trying to be silent as you shut the door and lock it. The operator stays on the line with you, but you can hardly process what she's saying. You're trying to listen to the sounds of your apartment, ear pressing against the wooden door.
"Why is your window not fixed yet?" A deep masculine voice says from right outside, like he's standing the same way you are.
You barely catch a shrill in your throat as you scramble away from bathroom door and in your startle, you drop your phone. You race after your phone, picking it up and almost cry when you see it somehow hung up on the operator.Â
You hear him sigh lowly, "Are you going to answer me?"
A multitude of emotions race through you, so many you can't settle on a single one or know how to feel. A part of you feels relieved that it's him, and another is scared. You have no idea what his intentions are with you. The operator had said the police were fifteen minutes out. Fifteen minutes of this, whatever this was. It feels like it'll be eternity.Â
"Bullseye-" you start, your voice wobbly with fear and adrenaline.
"Dex." He interrupts you, still right outside the door.
"Dex." You start again, this time a little bit more confident, "The police are on their way."
"So?"
Shock again, renders you speechless. So? You bite your lip in worry and frustration. Oh God. What if he kills them all? And then you? What will the cops do against someone like him? Someone who can't miss a target. They don't even know who they're up against. You hadn't known either so you couldn't warn them.
"I hear your brain working a mile minute, sweetheart."
Gritting your teeth and steeling your nerves, you practically seethe at the door, "What are you doing here? If you wanted to kill me you shouldâve done the job the other night.âÂ
âIf I wanted you dead youâd already be. I need a place a lie low again.â
Anger sears through your veins, âMy apartment isnât a damn hotel and if it were youâd owe me a lot! Look at the state of my window and couch!âÂ
âIâll buy you a new one.âÂ
âMy window?â You grind out, incredulous at this conversation. You get closer to the door.
âYour apartment complex should take care of that.â
Your brows pinch with frustration. No one can help you with the window. It must be the build up of anger, from lack of care from practically everyone youâve spoken to about your window, the lack of sleep, the lack of safety, whatever it is, it builds up and pours out in this single moment.
Without thinking, your brain turned off from your anger, you rush through the bathroom door, not registering how you unlocked the knob so quickly or how fast you seem to be moving. Your hand knocks in the wounded side of Bullseye, his shocked and pained groan rushing out of him with the hit. You push against him further, using the momentum, making him stumble back until you shove him hard enough that thereâs space between the two of you.
His eyes are filled with surprise and mirth, his scarred face unmasked. A flash of surprise and attraction rush through you as you glare at him, his lips turned up in a mischievous and smug smirk. His smugness quickly squashes your temporary emotions, back to anger you go. You donât falter.
âItâs your fault that itâs broken! Your fault I canât sleep at night, I donât feel safe, I canât take a shower longer than ten minutes, Iâmââ
A hard knock on the door causes panic and doom to shoot down your spine and in your stomach. Worry etches across your features and you rush towards Dex, hands pushing him gentler, towards the plastic window.
âYou have to go,â you whisper to him, urgency filling your voice. Heâs letting you push him towards the window until you get just right in front of it.Â
âNYPD open up!â
You look back towards your bedroom opening, âJust a minute!â Turning back to Dex you gesture to the window hurriedly, âGo!â
You wonât have the lives of these men just doing their job in your hands. Or more blood stains in the apartment. The thought makes you nauseous.
Dex makes a noise of amusement, a smile teasing his lips, âIâll be right outside. Make sure they donât get too close to the window.âÂ
You nod frantically and basically push him out as he climbs through the plastic onto your balcony. Running through your bedroom, you shut the door behind you and rush to the front door, opening it up for the three policemen. They look at you in question, and then past you into your apartment. You stiffen. You hadnât even thought about the bloodstained couch, adjusting your posture to hide the room behind you.
âIâm so sorry, it was a false alarm.â you start, sweat gathering along your brow as you lie to the officers.
âI thought you said someone had cut into your window? That it was broken?â The first officer starts, his hand resting on his gun at his hip.
With a dry throat, you shake your head. Lying is not your best suit and you try to keep a blank face, âNo, Iâm so sorry, I checked it and it was just torn from the wind.â
The cop gives you a once over, not buying it. âWhat wind?âÂ
"Well regardless," the shorter cop in the back starts with a much calmer demeanor, "We'll need to sweep your apartment. To make sure you're safe, we can't just leave without checking."
You swallow and stare at them before stepping aside. If you argued, you're sure it'd look even worse than how you're acting now. Suspicious. You stay at the front door as the walk cautiously inside, shutting the door behind you. You pray Dex has left the window, that he's still not out there. Trepidation fills you as the officers get to your couch, the one who was more suspicious of you, turning to look at you for an explanation.
Sweat rolls down your back, "Uh, that was my paint. I've been working on a project."
"A project?" He turns and looks back at the stained couch with slight disgust. It was gross. You needed to get rid of it.
"I don't have a shampooer." You try.
"Hm." He returns to sweeping the living room, looking out at the dying light outside your windows. His gaze settles on the bedroom door, "Is that where your broken window is?"
"I, um, yes. It is. In my bedroom. But really, I just came out of there, you don't have to go in. There's nowhere really for anybody to hide in this apartment." It's true, it was small. New York was expensive to live in.
"Why'd you shut the door?"
You surprise yourself with a calm shrug, "Habit. Trying to keep the elements and bugs to one room."
The officer gets closer to the door, looking back to his two coworkers. They nod, hands on their guns as the officer opens the door, and this is when panic really settles in you. You follow him in, trying to stop him suddenly as he starts towards the damned broken window.
"Wait! Really, it's okay, you don't have to check!"
Your words are useless as he nears closer to the window, hand reaching out to part the plastic, you heart beating in your ears. He pokes his head out and you brace yourself, waiting in dread.
He turns back around. "All clear." He steps away and notices how relief sags your entire body. "You really need to get that fixed."
"Tell me about it," you grumble, keeping an eye on the window. Where had he gone?
Moments later, the officers have left after giving you a long talk about calling and wasting time, but to be assured that you were in good hands if something really did happen. You know, the whole mansplaining thing men did in positions of power. You couldn't wait to be rid of them now for more reasons than one. And that one reason, was gone.
You'd checked the window and the small balcony you had that you'd imagined he would have been standing at. The night air met you and you shudder, quickly ducking back into bedroom. Turning to your bed, you grab the big kitchen knife you had grabbed earlier and a pillow. You yank off your comforter and go back into the bathroom, making a not-so comfy makeshift bed in the bathtub. You felt safer this way, with door being able to lock. Sleep hardly comes.
A week later your window's been fixed, giving you a sense of security back. Though something else has been nagging your mind.
You haven't seen Dex since that night the cops came. Haven't heard a thing on the news. A large part of you is worried, which concerns you in itself. Why would you care about someone like him? After all this trouble he's given you.
There was something that had happened, though. To know that he was maybe still alive. A furniture company had come knocking on your door right after you got home from work, the day after the cop incident. They were called to remove your old couch and replaced with an even better one. Something way too expensive for your own accounts. You'd asked who called and the men frowned, confused at your question, answering with an obvious, 'your boyfriend.' That had put color in your cheeks. You didn't doubt who it could have been, knowing you'd never told anyone about the couch. Remembering his words, 'I'll buy you a new one.'
You close your front door, exhausted with the work week. You were glad it was Friday. Reaching up in your kitchen cabinet, you grab a bottle of wine saved for special occasions. It wasn't really special, but you felt like you could relax for once. Your new couch was something you enjoyed sitting on, despite it reminding you of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Showered and in your pajamas, you slink down onto the couch, glass of wine and TV on. You make it about thirty minutes with the glass half full before you're out like a light.Â
Something tickles you awake. If you can call it that. You're drifting in between that soft spot of sleep, hardly conscious, fading in and out. It trails along your collarbone, causing you giggle and stir away. You sigh as it moves down your bare arm, back up, tickling your skin into goosebumps. It feels good. It feels overstimulating in this sleep state you're in. You want more. You want it to stop. Your head rolls to the side, the tickling moving to your cheekbone, dusting over your skin, down your face to your lips. It makes you part them, your tongue dipping out to chase the movement. A suck of breath above you jolts you awake. Your eyes part to see a dark figure above you, shrieking, you scramble up on the couch, feet kicking under you.
Dex watches your reaction to him with amusement, staying still, frozen in time. His hand still lingering in the air from where he was touching you. Oh God, you licked him. Embarrassment stains your face.Â
"Wh-what the hell are you doing?" you hiss at him, hand pressing against your chest where your heart threatens to burst.
"I see you like the new couch."
You're dumbfounded, really. You hardly know what to do or say with him. You look down at the couch under you and you nod, glancing back up at him. "I was going to say thank you, but it was your fault my couch was ruined in the first place." Speaking of, your gaze trails along him. He seems fine, like he's unharmed, in regular clothes of all things.
Since he hasn't hurt you, yet, you find your confidence. There needs to be some serious boundaries set in place with this man. You stand, a little too close to him, expecting him to move back to accommodate you. He doesn't. Like he likes standing that close to you. You clear your throat and take a small step back, giving yourself some distance from him. He watches you with an unwavering gaze, like he's studying every moment you make. It makes you feel like prey. A shudder racks through you, causing you to look down at your attire, similar to the last time you saw him, you're in small tank top and shorts. You practically feel naked. Crossing your arms over your chest, you look back up at him with a little more conviction.
"You cannot stay here."
"I was just going to ask for some tea." He raises a shoulder in passive shrug.
Pressing your lips together in irritation, you ignore how his gaze flicks down to your lips. "I'm not making you tea."
"Why not? You listened so good last time."
You refuse to acknowledge that.
"You stole my mug. Don't think I didn't notice."
"I wasn't trying to be sneaky about it."
"So, you just stole it without caring?"
"I didn't say that. I cared about it too much, which is why I took it." Dex's smirk comes to life. It makes you want to smack him.
"I liked that mug."
"I know."
You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing out slowly. Changing the subject, you gesture around the apartment, "How did you even get in? Don't tell me you broke my window again, or I'll be severely upset."
A chuckle releases from him as he shakes his head, "No broken windows. The newer version is much easier to unlock."
You're still. Speechless.Â
He uses it to his advantage, stepping closer to you, his hand slowly reaching out to pinch a lock of your hair between his fingers.
"Why are you here?" you whisper, watching him watch you.
"Missed you." Another shrug as he twirls the lock of hair in his fingers, inching closer to you. Unease and...something else you refuse to admit burns in your belly. "It's getting harder to stay away. I didn't mean for all this to happen, not like this."
You wet your lips and Dex watches the movement like a hawk. "How would it happen, if you could change it?" Your curiosity burning inside of you. His darkness calling to you like a moth to an open flame. The consuming way he's staring at you. It makes your skin prickle with a whole different reason, heat beginning to crawl under your skin, spreading through your lower belly.Â
"I'd make sure we met in public. Somewhere you like. That cafÊ down the street," his fingers drop your hair, moving to your collarbones, trailing lazily against your skin. You shudder. "You'd order your regular. Hot vanilla latte. With whipcream on top. Light cinnamon dusting. I'd get the same. I always do." You don't know how to process all of this as he's touching you. Your brain turning off with his touch, his breath hitting you as he whispers softly, closer and closer to you, until he's close enough to kiss. He doesn't stop. Two hands on you now like he can't help himself. Your skin burns with want. It's wrong but so good. You're entranced.
"I'd say something about it. Spark the conversation. You'd tell me things about you, things I already know. Your name. What you do for work." his head dips to your throat, an inhale of your scent makes him shudder, his breathing getting heavier, "I'd make you tell me where there's a good pizza place. I already know your answer. I'd ask if you wanted to join me. You'd say yes because why would you say no to me?"
You shiver as his nose brushes up to your ear, his hands just barely grazing against your sides. Like he's still testing if you're going to pull away from him or not. When you don't, he presses his hands into you, fingers spreading like he's trying to touch enough of you all at once. He groans lowly at the contact. You're trembling now, not sure if your body is reacting to the fear of his admittance, or to the burning want of him. Perhaps both.Â
"How...how is it going to happen now?" your voice is small, breathless.Â
Dex takes a long inhale, like he's trying to control himself. He raises his head, away from where he was breathing you in, to catch your gaze. His pupils are wide, his hands squeeze you slightly when you look up at him with need. Something he's been fantasizing seeing on your face for a long time now.Â
His voice is rough, husky, full of want and desperation, it rakes up your body hearing it. "I'm going to sit you on the couch I bought you. You're going to take your shorts off." as he's painting the scene, he's turning you back towards the couch, keeping you facing him. Two small steps backwards and the back of your legs are hitting the cushions. You sit. He watches you darkly as he slowly hooks his fingers under the band of your shorts, pleased when you lift your hips to help him take them down. You're blushing now, watching him with bated breaths.Â
"You're going to spread your legs and I'm going to kneel." His grip is surprisingly gentle, for such dangerous and calloused hands. It makes you shiver, the contrast of it. The contrast of him. His hands part your thighs, his gaze never leaving yours even as you try to dip away from it as he spreads your legs open. Shame and desire eat at you, the fabric of your underwear doing nothing to hide how wet you are. He kneels.
The sight of this broad shouldered man kneeling in front of you makes you a little light headed. This isn't right, but it feels so good. Dex is reading your expressions, the hitch of your breath, the pink dusted on your cheeks, like he's saving it away. Keeping it in a file in his mind for later. You try not think about it, what he said. Try not to let it talk to you in a way that a part of you likes it, likes that he has an obsession with you, that he's so carnal. That he wants to know everything little thing about you, even the ways you react to him. Especially the ways you react to him. You start to feel yourself want to back out and he knows it already. The palm of his hands petting down your thighs, closer to where you're aching and wanting him to touch. It distracts you again.Â
He needs you to not think about what's right or wrong. Like he does. He could be a little bit more like you. But you need to be a little bit more like him right now.Â
Dex tilts his head in a way that feels like a predator pinpointing a weakness. You feel weak to this attraction, this want, this need. Good. It's how he's been feeling about you lately. You bite down on your lip as his thumb gently brushes over the waistband of your ruined underwear. Your core clenches.Â
"You're going to let me take these off," the way he says it, it's not a demand. It's not even a command. He states it like it's a fact, something that's just going to happen. He isn't reveling in it, he isn't being pushy, he's being honest. And you know that you will. You're going to let him do whatever he wants to do you. You're going to listen to him, because when haven't you?Â
You nod and he hums, that familiar smirk coming back to his lips. He mocks your nod back to you. "I know, baby. You're going to let me eat you out. You're going to cum on my mouth. And you're going to make a mess."Â
He hooks his fingers under your panties and you lift your hips again, aiding him without a word. What do you even say to that? You're worried anything you say will sound like begging. He does it slow, and you're not sure if he's doing it to torture you or to give you one last chance to back out. Your hands grip the cushions underneath you, breath quickening as he reveals the evidence of your desire. He sucks in a sharp breath as he lays eyes on you for the first time. You bite back a whimper at his reaction, like he's enamored and in disbelief. You're soaking, pussy painfully clenching with want.Â
"Fuck." And that's the last you hear from him before he's dipping his head down, latching onto your clit so quickly and precisely that you startle with a cry, hands coming down to grip his head, unsure whether you want to pull him in or push him away from the hard contact.Â
You try to squirm, but his large hands hook under your hips, holding you to him. He yanks you down close to him. Heâs licking you up like heâs starved, heâs firm and unashamed when he groans loudly against you, the vibration of it adding to the stimulation. You let out a loud moan in response, fingers flexing in his hair. His grip tightens on your hips, your reactions causing him to react in fervor.Â
His tongue flattens to lick up as much surface of you as he can, his tongue coming up your clit, circling around before heâs adding a sucking pressure to it. Your gasp comes out sharp and in shock, fingers flexing against the strands of his hair. He doesnât stay on your clit for long, drifting his mouth to lick a slow and vicious lick along your slickness. He dips his tongue back down, slipping inside you, nose bumping up against your clit while you grind down into his mouth. You fight a whimper, which catches pathetically in your throat as you rock your hips.Â
Dexâs dark eyes gaze up at you, the moment causing your thoughts to catch up to you. The weight of his eyes were heavy, you can tell how he's cataloging every moment, every movement, every sound you make. How long has he been watching you? God. What were you doing?Â
He seems to notice you falter, his tongue dragging back up slowly to your clit, done with teasing and tasting you. He wants to make you cum. Wants to turn your brain off, defy the logic and the fear still inside of you. He latches back onto your clit so accurately that you almost blank out for moment, your hips coming up to squirm away from him. He lets out a groan deep in his chest, as his arms come up to wrap around your thighs, sealing your fate to him.
"Oh, God-" you let out on a broken moan and that seems to encourage him even further. His mouth keeps the pressure around your clit, his tongue adding a flicking motion, up and down, side to side, until he hears which one you like best. Until you're sitting still in his grasp, letting him consume you. That's when he knows he has you.Â
And you have him. You're so close, his mouth hurling you towards the throes of your pleasure, body subconsciously clinging to him, trying to get what it wants. Your hands are tangled in his hair, like a part of you thinks he's going to lift his head and stop. You're ensuring he'll stay there and finish what he started. Your back arches, your moans eating away at the silence, louder, longer, breathier. Your head tips back before it falls forward, catching his never ending gaze again and that's when you fall apart.Â
You come hard, vision spotting, the last that you saw clearly was Dex's dark eyes leveling yours right between your thighs. The image burns into your mind as you come down, heart beating through your chest as you heave for air.Â
He pulls back from your clit, the missing contact makes you want to cry out. His weighted gaze is still on you, never left. Never will. It makes you shy, starting to close your legs on impulse, causing a quiet but sharp, tsk, from him. Reprimanded, you blush, holding your legs open, letting him see the aftermath of your soul crushing orgasm, pussy still pulsing with the aftershocks of it.Â
"Good girl," he breathes quietly and the praise goes straight through your stomach to your core. The pleasure spiking in your blood. He notices and smirks, his lips coated in your shine. Maybe that's all you needed, some encouragement.
His fingers swipe down the core of your pussy and you bite back another cry. He pushes them back up against you slowly, just missing your throbbing and sensitive clit, parting the lips of your cunt. You watch his eyes grow darker at the sight and his jaw clench as he takes the sight of you in. You can feel the slick of your pleasure and want drip out of you, onto the couch. His other hand comes down to barely brush against your fluttering opening. You suck in a breath as you watch him.Â
"You made a mess." his fingers coating in your cum as he traces your hole.
Shame paints your face and you fight yourself from shutting your legs again. You start to say something to defend yourself, lips parting, and he shakes his head. He looks happy, lips tipping up in a sharp and dangerous smile.Â
"I said you would." His fingers push inside of you, making an obscene squelching noise with how wet you were.Â
Your remark dies, whatever it was you were going to say, and he loves watching your brain go blank for all the right reasons. You don't need to talk or think. He'll do all the decision making from here. All you had to do was listen and be good. And you were good, you were so good. You were good like this, like he knew you'd be. His fingers hook up in you, his weapons against the world now turning into extensions of what he wanted to do to you. He fucks them up into you while his thumb swipes your sensitive clit. His fingers stretch you out in a way that you know will do nothing to prepare you for the real thing. His stature is large, you can only imagine what he has down there, something you haven't seen with his kneeling posture.
Your head tips to your shoulder, like you hardly have the energy or care to keep it up, eye lids drooping. Though, you're still looking at him. His chest swells with pride. You're moaning without thought, pleasure drunk eyes on him, nipples poking through the flimsy fabric of your tank top. The sight of you makes him feel crazy. How long has he pictured this exact scene in his head? Imagined the noises you'd make? The way you'd look with his fingers deep inside of you, legs spread open for only him. His fingers fucking up into you with deep thrusts, thumb still swiping gently on your clit. He can feel your wet pussy clenching around him, pulling him back in and he fights a moan, thinking about it wrapped around his cock. His thoughts about you turning darker as he watches you take what he gives. Your perfect lips fall open to tumble out another moan, his free hand going up to cup your chin. Sharp shock rings through him as you dip your chin to catch his thumb in your mouth, cheeks hollowing, tongue slicking against him. The shock turns into straight primal need.Â
"You're a dirty girl, aren't you?" his voice is just barely above a whisper, keeping the conversation close, like the two of you are sharing a secret. His other hand still fucking a steady rhythm up into you, each thrust he swipes that thumb harder against your clit. Your hips twitch and you nod, moaning with your tongue and mouth still wrapped around his thumb. His nostrils flare. He didn't expect this. But he likes it. He's corrupting you, he's turning off your logical part of your brain and he's making you into something entirely his.Â
He keeps fucking his fingers into you with a steady rhythm, each thrust his thumb delivers a swipe against your sensitive clit. He can feel your cunt clench more and more around him, and he is starting to see the telltale signs of when youâre getting close. A flush in your chest and across your cheeks, your moans getting louder and airier, thighs and hips twitching with the stimulation. Your hot mouth lets his thumb go to breathe out his name in a plead.Â
He groans hearing it, almost whimpering back to you. It makes him feel insane, he has to make you stop chanting his name like that or heâs going to yank the waistband of his pants down and give it to you. He has to make this night last, has to study you more, touch you more. He leans forward, catching your mouth to consume his name and your moans.Â
You immediately embrace him, something that makes him shudder with need. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, pulling him close to you as your lips part to swipe your tongue against his. He whines into your mouth, the sound going straight to your core, pushing you right to the edge. You cling to him as his fingers keep pushing up into you, hitting a spot that makes a pathetic noise fall from the back of your throat. Dex swallows it, his hand cupping the back of your head to keep your mouth against his as he kisses you senseless while you fall apart.Â
Your thighs tremble as you come back to your body and reality, heavily aware of Dexâs mouth on your skin. He gently eases his fingers out of you, causing a loud whine to leave you.Â
An airless laugh leaves him in response as his mouth trails down your neck, âItâs okay, baby. Iâll give you more.â
You shiver at that, not sure how much more you can take. Youâre weightless, thoughtless, overstimulated. His hands snake under your back and hips, pulling you to him as his mouth latches onto that sensitive spot on your neck. You moan lowly, rolling your head to the side to give him more room, goosebumps ticking on your skin. Heâs lifting you up now, arms wrapped around you, keeping you against him as tight as he can as he stands. Your weak legs wrap around his waist, shaking arms around his neck. You feel where youâre moving, back into the bedroom. His lips move back to yours, catching another kiss from you as he gently eases you down to your mattress.Â
His fingers grip the hem of your tank top, slowly pulling it up and over your head, exposing you to him fully now. He breathes out, taking you in. Naked and sprawled on the bed just for him, unwound from the orgasms heâd given you. His knees dip onto the bed, and you reach up to touch his shirt. Â He shakes his head once and you frown.
âI canât see you?â you ask in a small voice.
Dex stares down at you, your nipples tight in the exposed air. He wants them in his mouth, wants to make you cry out. His gazes goes back to yours. âNot right now. Itâs not about me right now.â You didnât understand, he didnât want to be distracted when he still had so much to discover about you. Didnât want your hands and eyes all over him while he was supposed to be mapping your entire body. He wanted his hands, eyes, and mouth on you instead.Â
Youâre not used to this intense amount of attention. Youâre feeling shy again, almost like a bug under a microscope. His features soften, realizing heâs losing you again to that logic in your brain.
âI need to see you. I need this. Please understand.â His hands move to either side of you, caging you against him and the bed as he hovers over you, his head dipping down close.
You bite your lip, brow dipping in question. Youâve trusted him this far, though the post orgasms and reality of the situation were weighing into you. Especially now, as you lay naked and vulnerable under him, no doubt in your mind where this was going to end.Â
You wet your lips, a movement yet again tracked precisely by the man over you. âHowâs it going to happen?â
Heâs gaze flicks back to your eyes, pleasure and mirth filling his. He knows what youâre doing. Giving him the go ahead while asking for reassurance. He likes this, this game youâre playing, like you were playing earlier. He leans back down to you, mouth just brushing above yours.
"I'm going to kiss you again." His lips capture yours, pulling you in a kiss that leaves you dazed and breathless and wanting him all over again. Your hands come up to grasp his broad shoulders, causing him to shudder. It was strange, he wanted you touching him but it was so distracting. He wanted it too much. So he leans back, breaking the kiss, grabbing your hands gently, easing your hands and arms down over your head. He's got them pinned with one of his. You test his grip, with a pout on your face. He laughs again, want and need making his voice darker, "Later, sweetheart. Later." He likes this too, having you manhandled onto the bed, pinned with nowhere to go, looking up at him with such need.Â
"You're going to keep your hands there like a good girl." He watches with slight amusement as your keen with the praise. He hardly has the patience anymore when you buck up your hips to grind against his length. He hisses out at the contact, his own hips twitching in response, rolling forward to grind down into you. You let out a small moan and Dex shudders as he stares down to where you're connected against him. His free hand goes down to cup one of your breasts, earning him a gasp and your back arches, trying to give him more of you. He swipes a thumb over your nipple before he's dipping down to suck into his hot mouth with searing lick.Â
Dex's grip on your hands leave you, but you keep them where he left them. For fear of disobeying of him. You hadn't tried it yet, maybe you never would. Listening and obeying him felt so much better. But you did ache to touch him, to pull him into you, to dig your fingers in his hair and keep his mouth against you. You didn't. You were good.Â
His hands roam and grope you, mapping your body like he's trying to memorize every inch of your skin. How you feel against him. His mouth switches to your other peaked nipple, giving it the same attention. His fingertips trailing down the sides of your ribs, making you squirm, his clothed and hard length still pressed against your naked and sensitive pussy. The texture of his pants is almost too much, too harsh, but you can't get enough. It's just like his attention on you. He rocks into you, groaning at the stimulation. He's been leaking and throbbing since he first broke into your apartment. Months ago. He remembers the night he finally made contact with you. A miscalculation on his part. He hadn't meant to broke the window. Hadn't meant to scare you. But he liked it. Liked how you trembled in fear and still listened to him. That's when he knew. Knew you were perfect.
He moans against your skin, his mouth trailing down your sternum now, licking, sucking, kissing. His hands roaming still. You feel dizzy with the overstimulation, arms trembling over your head as you grip your own hands together to keep them there. Dex eases up, lips puffy and red, eyes glassy and dark with lust. If he had his camera he'd take a picture of you right now, to remind him of this moment. Skin flushed, hair a mess, sprawled out on your bed just for him. Staying still just for him. He takes a breath to steady himself.
"I'm going to fuck you now."
It's soft, the way he says it, like a part of him can't believe it. Again, like earlier, he delivers it in such a way where it's not demand. Not a threat. Not menacing, or dark. It's a soft fact. Like there's nothing you can do change it, and like he knows there is nothing you'd do to change it.Â
But you answer him anyway.
"Please, Dex." you breathe out, the raw unfiltered need for him showing through your tone in such a way that makes his eyes grow dark.Â
He makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat before he's tugging his shirt off and over his head. You watch with curiosity and awe, his muscles moving with his body, reminding you of just how dangerous he is. Scars litter across his torso as his muscles flex and move with every moment he makes. The wound that got the two of you in this mess, still healing at his left side. A dark yellow bruise surrounding it. He leans back, his fingers hooking at his waistband, his focus zeroed in on your expressions. He wants to see how you react to him. Wants to see the way you look at him for the first time. The evidence of his desire pressed harshly against the seam of his pants, doing nothing to really show you just how big he is until he peeling away his pants. No underwear. The fact makes your mouth dry and heartbeat quicken. You see a light dusting of his happy trail as your eyes travel down lower, lips parting as you take him in. He's rock hard, thick and throbbing. Precum dripping from his pink tip. You subconsciously wet your lips and Dex makes another pleased sound. He'll get your mouth on him later.Â
He doesn't let you take the sight of him in for long, before he's parting your legs and crawling on the bed in between them. Your thighs shake with anticipation, hips jolting when his skilled fingers swipe through your slick once more, like he's still making sure you're ready enough for him. He takes a steady breath, as he looks down at your exposed cunt, catching a groan at the sight of you, cock jumping with need. He hitches his hips up, sliding the tip up against you, teasing the both of you while getting himself wet with you. He groans at the contact, his length spreading you open, dragging his cock against you. You moan, hips raising to meet him as you feel just how long and thick he is. You would shudder at the thought if you weren't aching for him. Dex braces his hands on either side of you, head hanging low so he watch where you two meet. He lifts his hips, catching his tip just barely at your entrance as you rolls your hips down. Your breath catches and he starts to ease in slowly, the stretch and the burn beginning. A whimper escapes you as he keeps pressing, the pressure pulling noises out of you that you didn't know you had.Â
"Easy, baby. Relax." his voice is shaking, like he's trying to hold himself back, his gaze coming back up to catch your expression. Your brows are furrowed, mouth parted, chest stuttering with the air you're trying to pull in. He keeps shifting forward. He drops down to his elbows so his upper body is pressed more against you, his mouth coming to catch yours. You let out a whimper into his mouth and suddenly he shoves forward, done being nice about it at all. You let out a shrill, hands coming down to grip his shoulders, nails digging in. He lets out a devastated moan against your mouth, breaking the kiss with pleased hiss.
"Fuck. I'm sorry, sweetheart. Fuck." His hips stutter, his forehead coming down to press against your shoulder as the initial shock and pain turn into burning desire. "I couldn't hold it anymore, you feel so fucking good." his hips roll deep into you, pulling a sharp gasp from you as he hits your cervix, fingers digging into him again.
His mouth bites down into your shoulder, as he whines into your skin. This wasn't going according to plan but he couldn't stop. Your pussy clenching around him so tightly, so slick and warm and perfect. He could cry. He drags his hips back before he's snapping them back up into you, your moans quickly turning into something he needs to hear, to feel. To have. His pelvis grinds against your clit before he's snapping his hips back and forth, his own mouth spilling obscene noises and things he can't believe he's saying to you.
"So good. So good, fuck, I'd never thought - never imagined how good," he whines, mouth leaving kisses and licks across your skin, anywhere he can get as he fucks into you, loving the way your nails dig into him, how you touch him. "How good you'd be."
His words make you moan and clutch to him, hands digging into his hair now as his cock drags inside of you, stretching you out and filling you up. He's heavy on top of you, keeping you pinned against him and the bed, his thrusts taking the air out of you with each push. You can hardly catch up with what happening, how he's talking to you in such a whimpering tone, it makes your skin burn with desire. How long had he thought about this? His mouth catches yours to steal your breath and kiss, before he pulling back, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you down to meet his thrusts. Your vision nearly goes black as your eyes rolls back.Â
"So pretty, baby. Taking my cock. God. F-fuck." he growls out into your ear before he's looking down at you, watching you take him. He licks a stripe up your throat, nipping your jaw before he soothes it with a kiss. Hands and mouth and cock branding you in a way that you know you'll never escape the feelings from. Even his words.
You can't say much of anything with the way he's delivering his hips into you, the pleasure ballooning in your belly as he drags you closer and closer to the end. "Dex," you whine, his name the only thing your brain can settle on.Â
It spurs him into a furious snap of his hips, the slap of your skin and obscene slick coating him filling the room with your moans and cries. His arms wrap around your torso, pressing you close against him, bear hugging you while he keeps fucking you into oblivion. He's unhinged in the way he fucks you, like he can't stop, can't help himself. His own brain finally turned off, debased into a creature of need. Not a creature with everything under control, you under control. Himself under control. This is his most human form and you've brought it out of him.Â
His gaze captures yours, his brown eyes glassy with unshed tears, the sight shocking you before you're pulling him into a kiss. He whimpers into it, hips stuttering. He pulls back with a begging voice, "Tell me you need me." his lips just barely leaving.
You moan out, legs wrapping around his hips to keep him against you. You're so close, the pleasure and pressure building deep inside you with every thrust he delivers.
"Tell me." he whispers again, fingers gripping onto you in a way that you know will bruise later.
"I need you, Dex." you have your own form of whine in your voice now, panting as you get closer, "Dex-"
He interrupts you, "Tell me to never leave. That you won't leave me."
His admittance makes your breath stutter, heart flutter. The obsession he has on you is clear enough to you now, and you don't hate it. You're curious by it. Morbidly so. You know you shouldn't want it, but it makes your blood yearn and want with such force that it turns out the logic and the fear of it out your mind. Your pussy clamps down on him and he almost chokes.Â
"I won't-" you gasp, fingers digging into his back, "Dex, don't leave, please don't. Don't stop."Â
He revels in your begging, his voice dark, "Good girl. Now give it to me."
It's like he already has your body trained, already knows it's tells. Already knew how close you were. Knew what would send you off the edge. Your body seizes up as you let out a cry, hands gripping him tightly against you as you break on a moan. Pure euphoria rips through your body, cunt convulsing around his thick cock, making his hips stutter with a cry of his own, your orgasm pushing him over the edge. His head drops into the crook of your neck, both your bodies trembling as you come down from the white hot explosion inside of you. Your chest heaves, limbs boneless as you feel his cock pump inside of you. You feel full and peaceful. Not worried about the consequences of your actions just yet.Â
Dex lets out a pleased sigh, holding you still against him, making no move to remove his softening cock out of you. He nuzzles his nose up your neck, breathing you in as you both settle into this new time and reality. Your fingers find themselves drawing swirls and meaningless things on his back, earning goosebumps on his skin. He shudders against the stimulation, enjoying the feel of your hand on him.Â
You're the first to speak after a few minutes of this bliss, "I want my cat mug back."
"You're not getting it back." He smiles against your skin, "Unless you come back to my place."
ÝÝâ pairings: nerdy!roommate AU dex poindexter x roommate!freader
ÝÝâ summary: Your friends keep laughing it off whenever you swear your shy, roommate Dex is secretly a total catch under the oversized clothingâthey just can't see it like you do and you're finally determined to confirm it for yourself.
ÝÝâ [18+] themes: implied stalking, perverted roommate, dex acting pathetic, ooc dex, size kink, praise kink, teasing/seduction, body worship, msub, foreplay, oral (m & f receiving), dick slaps, face-riding, mating press, dirty talk, unprotected piv(pls use protection), creampie. Porn with plot. No use of y/n.
Author's Notes: Inspired by Need To Know by Doja Cat. Another fucking self indulgent fanfic. May or may not make a part 2 depending on how this goes lol.
Dex was right in the middle of staring at the same stubborn line of code for the third damn time when the loud clatter echoed from the living room, followed immediately by your very loud, very frustrated âOh fuck!â
His hands froze on the keyboard. He was already half out of his chair before his brain caught upâbecause thatâs what roommates did. They checked on each other. They didnât just sit there spiraling through every worst-case scenario while their heart tried to punch its way out of their chest. Especially not when it was you.
He shouldâve knocked. He knew the rule. But the door was already cracked open, and the only rule that actually mattered in his head (the one heâd invented the day you moved in) was simple: make sure youâre okay. Even if his palms were already clammy. Even if heâd spent the last six months pretending he didnât notice you in anything less than full-coverage pajamas.
He pushed the door open a little wider with his shoulder, glasses sliding down his nose, and the sight hit him like a truck.
You were on the floor.
Legs splayed, one knee twisted at a weird angle, that thin white cover-up clinging to your skin thanks to the humidity and doing exactly zero to hide the tiny bikini underneath.
His gaze flicked down, then up, then anywhere that wasnât you, but it was useless. The way the bikini bottoms sat low on your hips. The cover-up slipping off one shoulder. The sunscreen is still shiny on your thigh. He felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, felt his glasses fog slightly at the edges because apparently his body had decided this was the moment to overheat.
âAreâare you okay?â The words came out gravelly, like heâd just swallowed a handful of sand. He hovered in the doorway, one hand still gripping the frame.
You looked up at him, lips parted in that sheepish little smile. âYeah,â you said with a soft, embarrassed laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. âI just slipped on sunscreen like an absolute genius.â
Dex swallowed hard. He should leave. He should turn around right now and go back to his room and pretend he hadnât seen any of this. But his feet were glued. And you were still sitting there, looking up at him with those eyes, cover-up slipping further down your arm, and every single fantasy heâd ever tried to bury came roaring back in high definition.
He took one careful step closer, then another, until he was crouched beside you. His hand hovered for a second before his fingers brushed your elbow. The skin there was warm, still a little slick from lotion, and the contact sent a jolt straight through him.
âHereâlet meâŚâ His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. âC-can I help you up?â
You nodded, still wearing that small, knowing smile, and when you slipped your hand into his, Dex felt it in his ribs, his stomach, everywhere. He pulled you to your feet a little too quickly, until you were standing right there, inches away. The sheer fabric brushed against his hoodie. The smell of strawberries filled the space between you.
âYou⌠you should probably lather up on the couch,â he managed, voice low and rough. âSitting down to avoidâŚslipping.â
âThatâs actually a really smart idea,â you said, laughing softly, that same knowing smile still in place as you let go of his hand. You stepped past him toward the hallway.
Dex inhaled sharply before he could stop himself. Your hair swung close and that strawberry scent hit him full force again. His eyes actually rolled back for half a second, lashes fluttering. God. He was pathetic. Completely, irreversibly pathetic.
He followed you down the hall at a careful distance, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets so you wouldnât see them shaking, eyes locked on the floor.
âYou heading to the beach today?â he asked, even though he already knew the answer. Heâd watched you check the weather app three separate times during dinner. He knew your plans better than his own.
You glanced back over your shoulder with a little shrug. âNah, just the rooftop pool.â
Dex rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to look surprised. âR-right. I forgot the apartment even had a poolâŚâ
You dropped onto the couch and gave him that sweet little âMm-hm.â
âWell,â he said, already taking a jerky step back toward the hallway, âIâll be in my room if you need anythââ
âActuallyâŚâ
Your voice stopped him cold. Dex turned halfway around. You were standing by the couch, sunscreen bottle in one hand, fingers playing with the tie of your cover-up.
âCan you help me put sunscreen on?â you asked, all soft and sweet. âMy backâs impossible to reach and I really donât want to burnâŚâ
Dexâs mouth went completely dry. Every alarm in his head went off, but his feet were already carrying him toward you anyway.Â
âYou⌠you want me toâ?â His voice came out cracked and embarrassingly breathy.
You tilted your head, biting your lower lip in that soft, innocent way that wiped every rational thought clean out of his skull. âOnly if youâre okay with it,â you said sweetly, eyes wide and guileless. âI donât want to make you uncomfortable or anything.â
Uncomfortable. Right.
He was already half-hard in his sweatpants, cock twitching at the mere idea of his hands on you. His glasses slid another inch down his nose.
âNoâno, I donât mind,â he blurted, then winced at how desperate he sounded. âI mean⌠yeah. Sure. Definitely.â
Your whole face lit up. âThank you!â you chirped, bright and happy, and before he could brace himself you reached up and tugged the tie of the cover-up. It slipped right off your shoulders and you held it
Dexâs brain flatlined.
Holy shit.
New material, his mind supplied instantly, already filing every detail away for later. For when he was alone in his room tonight, door locked, hand wrapped tight around his cock, biting down on his wrist so you wouldnât hear him falling apart through the thin wall. He was so unbelievably fucked.
You dropped the cover-up over the arm of the couch and sat down, patting the cushion beside you. âCâmere then.â
Dex nodded like a bobble head and lowered himself onto the couch on shaky legs, the cushions sinking under his weight. His hands trembled as he took the sunscreen from you and squeezed way too much into his palm. A thick white pool sat there like evidence of how badly he was failing at playing it cool.
He rubbed his palms together slowly, the wet sound loud in the quiet room, warming the lotion between his fingers. Then he scooted closer and placed his hands at the top of your back, right below the delicate knot of your bikini strings.
Fuck.
His thumbs pressed into your warm skin and he started rubbing careful circles, spreading the lotion down the smooth line of your spine. He was trying so hard to stay respectful, but his brain was already ten steps aheadâimagining taking the string with his teeth, tugging it loose, watching the strings fall away so he could finally see everything heâd been fantasizing about for months.
Dexâs breath caught. He kept his hands moving anyway, trying like hell not to let you feel how badly they were shaking.
âMmm⌠your hands feel really good, Ben,â you said, low and a little breathy. You even used his first name, and it hit him like you knew exactly what it would do to him.
His whole body jolted.
âS-Sorry?â The word came out too loud and cracked right in the middle. His hands froze on your skin, palms pressed flat against your back, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his fingertips.
You let out a soft, knowing laugh and twisted on the couch. Before his brain could catch up, you swung one leg over his lap and straddled him. Your warm thighs settled around his hips, your ass pressing right down against the front of his sweatpants where he was already half-hard and completely hopeless.
Dexâs back hit the cushions hard, body stiff as a board. Every muscle locked up tight. His lotion-slick hands flew up in the air.
âWh-whatâyouâIâWhat are you doing?â
You settled your full weight on his thighs, hands resting lightly on his shoulders, and smiled down at him with that sweet, wicked look that wiped every coherent thought from his head.
âYou want to touch them, donât you, Benjamin?â you asked softly, tilting your head. âI know youâve wanted me for a long time. I see the way you look at me when I walk around in my sundresses. When I bend over to grab something. You think I donât notice?â
Dexâs mouth opened, then closed. Words failed him for a second.
âIâI didnâtâfuck, okay I did, but I swear I wasnât trying to be creepyâ Jesus Christ youâre so pretty and Iâm such a fucking loser but yes pleaseâyou can sit here foreverâIâll do anythingâIâll buy you all the sunscreen in the storeâIâllâfuckââ
His hands stayed hovering uselessly in the air, trembling, eyes wide and glassy behind his glasses as he stared up at you.
You giggled, clearly loving every second of his meltdown, and traced one finger slowly down his forehead, over the bridge of his nose, then across his bottom lip. Your fingertip caught on the way his mouth shook.
âItâs okay,â you whispered. âI donât mind. I like it when you look at me like that.â
Dexâs breathing turned ragged, chest heaving under you. Every exhale fogged his glasses a little more. His cock was fully hard now, throbbing against your ass, and he was mortified and turned on beyond belief.
You slid your fingers into his brown hair, messing it up and tugged gently until his head tipped back with a shaky gasp. Then you plucked his glasses off his face and set them neatly on the couch cushion beside you.
âYouâre already so hot with these on,â you murmured, brushing his hair back from his forehead, nails scraping lightly over his scalp, âbut you shouldnât hide that handsome face all the time.â You leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear. âCan you still see me?â
Dex blinked hard. The world went soft and blurry without the lenses, but you were right thereâwarm, soft, and practically naked on his lap, tits inches from his mouth. His hands finally settled on your hips, thumbs brushing the edge of your bikini bottoms.
âY-yeah,â he breathed, still panting. âI can still see you.â
âGood,â you said with another soft laugh, palms sliding down his chest, over his shoulders, feeling every tense line of him like you were marking what was yours. âThen you wonât mind taking off your hoodie right now, will you?â
Dexâs brain blue-screened, âY-You want me to do what?â
You rocked your hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding right against the obvious bulge in his sweats. He choked on air.
âTake off your clothes, Ben.â
âR-really?â
âReally.â
His voice cracked embarrassingly high. âThis is a joke, right? Youâre fucking with meââ
You didnât bother answering with words. You just stood up, reached behind your neck, and pulled the bow. The knot came undone with one easy tug. The pink bikini top slipped down and you tossed it onto the couch.
Dexâs eyes went wide and inhaled sharply. âOh my godâŚâ
Your breasts were right thereâbare, nipples already tight from the way he was staring. He couldnât look away. His cock throbbed hard against his sweats. His hands fisted the couch cushions so tightly his knuckles went white.
You planted your hands on your hips, completely at ease. âDo you want to get off or not?â
That snapped him out of it. Dex yanked his hoodie up and over his head in one jerky motion, then stripped off the white t-shirt underneath. He sat there shirtless, and holy shitâhe was ripped. Broad shoulders, defined chest, abs flexing with every shaky breath, that sharp V-line disappearing into his low-slung sweats.
You drank him in like youâd been waiting years for this exact reveal, eyes darkening, lips parting. A slow, hungry smile curved your mouth, like youâd always known the shy, glasses-wearing roommate was secretly built like that under the hoodies. Like youâd been imagining peeling him open just as much as heâd been imagining you.
âFuck, Dex,â you breathed, stepping between his spread thighs. âI knew you were hiding all that.â
Dex swallowed hard, throat bobbing. A tiny, shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He still couldnât believe any of this was happening to him.
âWhat⌠what do you want me to do?â
You hummed, dragging your gaze over every cut line of his torso while you decided. âWhy donât you get on your knees and make me come? Then Iâll let you play with my breasts.â
His eyes blew wide, like a kid who just got told Christmas came early. âReally? Youâyou actually want me toâ?â
You laughed, low and fond, cocking your hip. âAre you going to ask me that every single time? Yes, really. Taste me.â
Dexâs breath stuttered out in a shaky exhale. He slid off the couch in slow motion, knees hitting the floor with a soft thud. He knelt between your thighs, looking up at you with those big hazel eyes, glasses-less and wrecked.Â
âIâm just⌠surprised you want me to,â he mumbled, adorably earnest. âI mean⌠me?â
You combed your fingers through his messy hair, nails scraping his scalp, and his whole body jolted like youâd shocked him. A tinybwhimper slipped out before he could swallow it.
âWell, I really need to know what that mouth feels like,â you murmured, still petting him like he was yours.
He leaned in and caught the left tie of your bikini bottoms between his teeth (exactly the way heâd just fantasized) and tugged with a desperate little groan vibrating in his throat. The knot slipped free. He moved to the right side, teeth grazing your hip bone, pulling harder this time, eyes fluttering shut as a muffled âmmphâ vibrated against your skin.
The pink bottoms fluttered to the floor.
He was inches from your bare pussy, that sweet strawberry-and-you scent flooding his lungs. He looked up at you one last time, cheeks flushed.
âFuck⌠youâre so pretty,â he whispered. He looked up at you so intently, those beautiful hazel eyes blazing through the haze of his glasses-less blur.
For the second time this morning his brain is laggingâthis gorgeous, confident woman gripping his hair, looking at him like he was the most beautiful man sheâd ever seen. As if he wasnât just some awkward, hoodie-wearing loser whoâd jerked off to the image of you in his head for six straight months. It couldnât be real, could it? He was going to wake up any second, cock in his fist, alone in his cold bed againâthen he lowered his lips to your pussy and he knew it was real.
The first touch was so delicately gentle, just the soft press of his open mouth, a shaky, whimpery kiss right against your folds. A savouring hum caught in his throat the second your taste hit his tongue. The sensation tore through you like lightning, and you arched hard, knees buckling with a startled cry that made his cock twitch painfully in his sweats.
âOh wow,â you moaned breathlessly, gripping his bare shoulder. âYouâre⌠surprisingly really good at this.â
You tried to steady yourself on one foot as he brought your other leg up, easing it over his shoulder with trembling hands. His tongue dragged flat and worshipful from your entrance to your clit, then swirled lazy, needy circles, moaning into you the whole time that vibrated straight through your core.Â
âMmmphâfuck, you taste so good,â he mumbled against you, voice muffled and desperate. âI donât deserve thisâmmhâso sweet, Iâm sorry Iâm so greedy but I canât stopââ
He closed his mouth over your swollen clit and kissed it like it was the love of his life, lips sucking and smacking wetly, moving exactly like he was French-kissing your mouth. His tongue swirled in huge, sloppy circles, groaning loud and shameless right into you as he gripped your hips with those strong hands, yanking you harder against his face so he could grind his nose against your clit.
He pulled back just enough to stare up at you with those worshipful eyes before his tongue started flicking your clit in rapid, frantic little strokes. His gaze never left yours, drinking in every gasp and twitch like your pleasure was the only validation heâd ever need. His hips jerk pathetically against nothing, completely lost in the taste of you, groaning and begging between messy licks.
âOh my, g-god. Dexâslide your tongue in again.â
You bucked hard towards his nose, a muffled cry slipping through your bitten lips as his tongue pushed deep inside you, thick and wet and pulsing like he was trying to fuck you with it. He groaned into your pussy, the vibration rolling straight to your clit, and your fingers twisted tighter in his messy hair. The second you yanked him closer, he let out the cutest, muffled little laugh against your soaked folds then drove his tongue even deeper, curling, licking, devouring like heâd die if he couldnât taste every drop of you.
Dex pulled back just enough to drag in a shaky breath, lips glossy and swollen, spit and your slick shining down his chin.
âPleaseâfuck, please keep pulling my hair like that,â he begged. His hips still rolled helplessly against nothing, the fat outline of his cock straining obscenely against his sweats, a wet spot blooming darker where he was leaking for you. âI love it when you doââ
âYeah?â You gave his hair a sharp tug, watching the way his whole body jolted like youâd electrocuted him. A wicked smile curved your lips. âYou like it when I get a little rough?â
âYesâyes, fuck, I love it,â he groaned, eyes fluttering.
âOh, baby,â you cooed, nails scraping possessively over his scalp again. âYouâre so fucking sweet when you beg. Almost makes me want to be nice to youâŚâ You yanked harder, and his moan cracked into a needy whimper that made his thighs shake. ââŚbut itâs way too sexy when you fall apart like this. I also like my men strong, Benjamin. Are you strong?â
âOh fuckââÂ
He surged up from his knees without warning. Big hands grabbed your hips and spun you around with barely an effort. You barely had time to gasp before he lifted you and tossed you back onto the couch. Your back bounced against the cushions, and before you could even speak he was right there again, down on his knees between your spread legs.
His palms shoved your thighs up and back, folding you neatly in half until your knees pressed to your chest. Your pussy was completely open, glistening and dripping right in front of his face.
Dex dove back in like heâd lost his mind. His tongue dragged up to your clit, flicking and sucking with fresh, desperate hunger. Just when you started missing the stretch of him inside you, he pushed two thick fingers deep, thrusting slowly at first, then harder, curling them exactly where you needed them.
âOh my god,â you moaned, head falling back. âYouâre such a good boyâI donât even have to tell you what to do.â
He was devouring you now. Every time he sucked your clit between his lips he made wet, filthy slurping sounds, humming deep and greedy in his throat.
âMmmphâfuuuck,â he groaned right against your pussy, the vibration rolling straight through you. âYou know this pussy owns me now, right? Owns my face. Owns my mouth.â His tongue lapped messily through your folds, slurping noisily at every drop, chin already shiny and dripping. âI could kneel here and lick you all fucking day. Youâve made such a mess out of me.â
He hummed louder, eyes squeezed shut in pure bliss, fingers pumping faster, curling hard against that spot that made your back arch clean off the couch and stars burst behind your eyelids.
Pleasure slammed through you hard enough to rip a loud cry from your throat. Dexâs tongue kept dragging those slow, filthy circles around your clit, savoring every twitch, while his fingers drove deep inside you in that steady, ruthless rhythm that had you trying to grind down on his face even though he had you folded in half.
And fuck, you thought with a dazed little smirk, itâs always the quiet ones who turn out to be absolute freaks.
âThatâs itâown my face,â he whimpered desperately against your pussy, voice wrecked and needy. âFucking own it. Come all over your good boy. Come all over your obedient little servant. Thatâs me. Thatâs all me.â
âFuckâDex, Iâm coming,â you whispered urgently, as he rocked your hips against his face. âYouâre going to make me comeâŚâ
Dex let out a groany laugh, eyes squeezing shut for a second like he couldnât believe his luck. âYes, give it to me,â he begged, lips trembling against your pussy. âCome in my mouth, flood my tongue, Iâll drink every fucking dropââ
His fingers drove deeper, faster, curling hard against that perfect spot while his tongue licked you quick and greedy, groaning low and filthy the whole time. He slurped and sucked like he was starving, humming desperately because you tasted so good he couldnât get enough.
You cried out as the orgasm hit you, sharp and overwhelming. Your pussy clenched tight around his fingers, gushing all over his eager mouth and chin while he kept licking and sucking through every single pulse, moaning like he was coming right along with you.
âOh fuck thatâs itâthatâs it, give me everything,â he mumbled between messy swallows, voice thick and grateful. âFuckâthank you.â
When you finally started to come down, Dex pulled back just enough to press soft, reverent kisses to your inner thighs, lips trembling against your slick skin. He looked up and found you staring into the void, dazed and breathless, lips parted like youâd forgotten how to form words.
His hands itched. God, they fucking itched to slide up and cup those beautiful breasts but he didnât dare move without permission. He was still your pathetic little servant, still on his knees, still terrified; this was all some cruel dream that would vanish if he got too greedy.
âUm⌠c-can I touch them now?â he asked, cheeks burning hot. âPlease?â
That snapped you out of it. Your lips curved into a naughty little smile that made his cock twitch hard in his sweats. You sat up, cupped his chin, and tilted his flushed face up to you, thumb brushing the mess heâd made of his mouth.
âOf course you can, baby,â you said sweetly.
You pulled him up, swapped places, and pushed him back onto the couch. Then you opened his knees wide and swung a leg over to straddle his lap again. The heat of your bare pussy settled right over the massive bulge in his sweats and he whimpered, hips jerking up helplessly.
âHow can I say no after you made me come like that?â
You took his shaking hands in yours and guided them slowly up your sides, over your ribs, until his palms were cupping your breasts. Dex gave them a tentative squeeze, thumbs brushing over your tight nipples.
You laughed softly, eyes sparkling. âYou like them?â
He swallowed hard, throat working. âYes,â he breathed, voice completely wrecked. âTheyâre⌠theyâre perfect. Fuck, youâre perfect.â
His lips closed around one breast with a loud, wet, noisy suck. He moaned against your skin, eyes fluttering shut, tongue swirling as he pulled you deeper into his mouth.
You grinned, threading your fingers through his messy hair and holding him there while he made those shameless, hungry noises. Only then did you reach down between you and palm the thick, heavy outline of his cock through his sweats. Your eyes widened. A delighted little gasp slipped out as you felt exactly how big he wasârock-solid, fat, straining so hard the fabric was barely holding him in.
âOh my word,â you murmured, giving him a slow, appreciative stroke that made his head fall back with a moan, your nipple still caught between his lips. âYou just keep getting better and better, donât you?â
Dexâs hips bucked hard into your hand, a pathetic little whine escaping around your breast because your touch was the first real one heâd felt in months.
You squeezed him again, loving the way his ripped abs flexed under your thighs. âNo wonder you always walk like thatâŚâ Another stroke, thumb circling the wet spot at the tip until he gasped. âPoor babyâs been carrying this around the apartment every day and I never knew.â
Dexâs eyes locked on your hand, watching every lazy movement like it was the hottest thing heâd ever seen. âOh Godâoh my Godâfuck,â he gasped, hips twitching up into your palm without any control left. âYeahâyour hand feels so goodââ
You gave him a firmer squeeze and his whole body jerked, those perfect abs clenching hard.
âHoly shitâuhâoh God. Fuck, you squeezing me like thatâoh Godâohââ His head tipped all the way back, eyes half-lidded behind the blur of pleasure.
You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. âPoor baby⌠already leaking all over my hand and Iâve barely touched you. Bet this feels a hell of a lot better than fucking your own fist thinking about me every night, doesnât it?â
Dexâs whole body jolted. His eyes flew open, wide and stunned. His breath hitched while a shy, embarrassed little laugh caught in his throat as he stared at you like youâd just punched him in the chest with pure affection.
âOh, itâs just⌠no oneâs ever, uh, talked to me like this before,â he stammered, flashing that sheepish little smile that made your chest do something stupid. âNo oneâs ever said stuff like that to me. IâIâm sorry, I sound so stupid, I justâfuck, keep talking to me like that, please? God, itâs so hot I donât know what to do with myselfââ
You smiled against his ear and gave the shell a soft, wicked nibble that made his hips jerk again. âWell then,â you whispered, âhas no one ever played with this fat cock the way Iâm gonna?â
Dex opened his mouth to answer, but the words died the second your hand slipped under the waistband of his sweats. Your fingers wrapped around his bare, throbbing length and gave one long, slow stroke from base to tip.
âYouâre so⌠Mmâyouâre soâfuckââ His sentence crumbled. He tried to keep going, tried to tell you how no one had ever touched him like this, how heâd jerked off in the shower every single morning just so he wouldnât walk around the apartment hard for you, but every drag of your hand wiped his brain clean. âI was gonna sayâI meanâno oneâsâJesus Christ your hand is so softâI canâtâI canât even think when youâmmphââ
His head fell back against the couch while he kept trying anyway, lips moving, desperate to finish a single coherent thought, but every slow pump of your fist stole another piece of him. His abs clenched, thighs shaking under you, cock twitching hard in your grip as you stroked him nice and luxurious, spreading all that pre-cum until the wet sounds filled the room.
âIâve neverâno oneâs ever touched me likeâfuck, like thatâslowâoh my god, please donât stop, I sound so pathetic but Iâ Iâve dreamed about your handâevery nightâand itâs so much betterâI canâtâI canât even finish aâfuckââ
You watched him with adoration in your eyes, tilting your head and shut him up with your lips, kissing him so eagerly it stole the rest of his broken sentence right out of his mouth.
You swallowed it instantly, tongue sliding past his lips like you already owned every sound he made. He tried to kiss you back, clumsy and desperate, but you took control so completely that all he could do was whimper into your mouth while you explored him with strokes of your tongue that promised exactly what that same mouth could do somewhere much lower.
âMmâfuckâmmphââ he tried again, the words vibrating against your lips, but you just kissed him deeper, twisting your wrist on the upstroke until his whole body jerked and another moan spilled straight into your mouth.
You pulled back just enough to reach for his glasses on the cushion beside you. With gentle fingers you slid them back onto his face.
âThere,â you murmured, sweet as sugar. âI think you need to see me suck this dick in high definition.â
Dex blinked hard behind the lenses, the world snapping back into sharp, perfect focus around your wicked little smile. Before he could even try to form words, you slid off his lap, dropped to your knees between his spread thighs, and settled in.Â
He watched, completely helpless and shaking, as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweats and boxers and dragged them down his hips in one smooth tug. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, and your fingers curled right around the base.
Dexâs hands flew up to cover his face, glasses knocked crooked. A muffled, delirious little laugh slipped out between his palms. âFuck⌠Iâm the luckiest man alive right now.â
You gave his cock a slow, appreciative stroke, then looked up at him with that firm, commanding glint in your eyes. âLook at me, Ben. Never take your eyes off me. Got it?â
Dex nodded so fast his glasses slipped down his nose again, eyes wide behind them, locked on your face like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.Â
You leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to the flushed, leaking head of his cock. Then lower. And lower. Before you smacked the heavy length against your cheek with deliberate, filthy slaps.
âGod, youâre so heavy,â you teased, rubbing the thick shaft along your cheek while your eyes stayed glued to his. âHow the hell do you think this is supposed to fit anywhere, huh? Youâre gonna have to split me open, arenât you?â
Dex let out a long, wrecked groan, thighs trembling on either side of you. He couldnât look away. Not when you stuck your tongue out flat, laid his cock across it, and started smacking the shaft against the warm, wet muscle in solid, teasing taps.
He was going to die. He was actually going to die right here on the couch with his glasses on and your pretty mouth teasing the absolute hell out of him, and heâd thank you for it with his last breath.
âG-go choke on it first,â he blurted in a sudden rush of bravery, then immediately looked mortified. âI-I mean⌠if you want toâŚâ
Your eyebrow snapped up, a wicked little grin spreading across your face as you nodded like you were proud of him for saying that.
Dexâs heart slammed against his ribs so hard he felt dizzy.
You leaned in closer, lips brushing the leaking tip as you looked up at him through your lashes. âIs that what you fantasize about when you jerk off in your room at night?â you purred. âMe choking on this fat cock? Gagging all pretty for you while you watch?â
Dexâs mouth fell open, hips twitching helplessly toward your face. âY-yesâfuck, yes. Every night. Every single nightââ
You didnât let him finish.
The second the words left his lips you took the head of his cock into your mouth, and Dex gasped so hard it felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs.
It was too much. Too good. Velvety and hot and so fucking lucious that his whole spine lit up like a live wire. A strangled groan left him as pleasure streaked through every nerve ending at once. His hands flew to the couch cushions, knuckles white, because if he didnât hold on heâd probably float straight out of his body.
You sank down slowly, taking more of him, tongue pressed flat underneath as your lips stretched tight around his thickness. Dexâs glasses fogged at the edges. His abs clenched hard, thighs shaking on either side of you.
You licked your way back up to the head, suctioning hard, then swirled your tongue over it, dipping into the slit to taste the steady leak of pre-cum like you were savoring him. Dexâs head fell back for half a second before he remembered your order and forced his eyes back down to you, chest heaving.
God. How many times had he imagined you on your knees just like this; sucking him slow and deep while you looked up at him with those pretty eyes?
Every single one of those fantasies paled. They were pathetic little shadows compared to the reality of you. The intense, electrifying heat that scorched every nerve ending as you lowered yourself again, sliding your sweet, wet mouth further down his shaft until he felt the back of your throat flutter around him. His hips jerked involuntarily, a choked âf-fuckââ ripping out of him before he could stop it.
Pleasure surged through him and he arched back sharply, the feeling so intense he nearly yanked out of your mouth. But he rode those waves, blood pounding hot through his veins as his cock throbbed with incredible bliss. You sucked him hard and sensually, lips stretched tight around him and cheeks hollowing as you milked more ecstasy from him than he'd ever felt in his life.
When you came back up you let him go with a wet pop and smiled up at him, eyes sparkling like you were enjoying the hell out of wrecking him. Your smile made his cock throb and jerk, and you chased it with your tongue and laughed, taking it back in with that delicious, silky warmth.
âJust like thatââ Dex moaned, voice tight with ecstasy. He slid one hand into your hair, caressing first, then gripping the back of your neck like he needed something solid to hold onto.Â
âIt feels so good holy shit.â he breathed as you gradually increased your pace. You wrapped both hands around the base of his cock and started stroking in time with your mouth, faster now. Dexâs head dropped back against the couch again before dragging his gaze back down. He couldnât miss this. Not for a single second.
His hand gently cradled and guided your head, fingers weaving through your hair as the overwhelming desire to lock you in place and thrust into your mouth consumed him.Â
His free hand joined the first, sinking in and tightening his hold as the raw sensuality left him dizzy and breathless. He started rocking his hips slowly, testing, mesmerized by the way your eyes fluttered as you took him deeper.
But then you smiled around his cock and sucked harder. That was all it took.
Dex drove in faster, deeper, his cock slick and shiny with your spit as he thrust up your throat. You took him beautifullyâuntil he forced just a little too far. Your throat fluttered, then clenched like a fist as you choked, the sloppy, gagging buzz shooting down his entire cock.
He froze for a second, glasses slipping down his nose, panic and lust warring on his face.Â
âS-sorryâfuck, thatâs so hot, Iâm sorry, Iâm so sorry but donât stopâplease donât stopââ He was panting, glasses fogged, hips still rocking again and again, savoring the way your throat squeezed every time you gagged softly around him. He couldnât help it even while apologizing.Â
You just hummed around him like you owned every inch, eyes watering but never breaking that locked-in stare, taking him even deeper on the next thrust, letting him fuck your throat raw.Â
He was going to come. God dammit, he was going to explode like a firework in your mouth any second now.
But nope. You pulled off with a wet, filthy pop, lips shiny and puffy, a shiny string of spit still linking you to his throbbing tip like a naughty little bridge.
âW-whyâd you stop?â he blurted, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. âDid Iâdid I do something wrong? Fuck, Iâm sorry, I got carried away, I justâ I was so close.â
You shook your head, flashing that wicked little grin as you crawled straight up his body and swung a leg over, straddling his lap like you were claiming the throne. One hand cupped those full, heavy, aching balls, rolling them nice and slow while you dragged your soaked pussy along the underside of his cock, slicking him up marking your territory.
âIâm not wasting a single drop of this,â you whispered, all husky and low, thumb stroking that crazy-sensitive spot right behind his balls. âYouâre spilling every bit inside me.â
Dex looked like his brain had officially powered off. âI-inside you? Holy shitâarenât you scared you mightâ?â
You chuckled and ground down harder, sliding all over him like you owned the ride. âGot any condoms stashed somewhere, cutie?â you asked, all innocent and sweet while your hips kept rolling.
Dex just gaped, fish-mouthed and speechless. â....no.â
You let out a bright, delighted little laugh and climbed off his lap, âGuess weâre doing this raw then, huh?â You flopped onto your back on the couch, hair fanning out across the cushions, and hooked your knees up high, feet planted on the edge.
With zero shame, you reached down and spread yourself open for him, two fingers parting your slick, puffy folds so he could see everything. Your little hole clenched visibly under his stare, shiny and dripping from how much youâd enjoyed choking on him.
âLook at what you did to me, Benjamin,â you purred. âSee how fucking wet I am? Itâs because of you. My poor little pussyâs been clenching around nothing the whole time I was sucking you off, just thinking about how youâre finally gonna stuff me full.â
Dex made a strangled noise, eyes glued to the way your fingers teased your entrance, dipping just the tip of one inside before pulling back to circle your clit. You were so ready and glistening and open for him it hurt.
âMmm, you like the view, donât you?â you teased, tilting your hips up a little more so he could see even deeper. âLook how this little hole keeps fluttering. Itâs so empty, Dex. Been waiting months for this fat cock to stretch it open. You gonna give it to me? Gonna give me all that cum youâve been saving for me every night? Or are you just gonna sit there staring like a cute little pervert while I play with myself?â
Dexâs glasses slipped down his nose again, âNo, Iâm going to give you anything you want.â
You just grinned wider, âThen come here and take whatâs yours, nerd.â
He scrambled between your spread thighs like a man on a mission and a panic attack at the same time, knees sinking into the couch cushions. His hands shook as he gripped the backs of your thighs, lining himself up. The fat head of his cock nudged against your slick entrance and he actually whimpered at how hot and wet you felt.
âOkay, okay. Look, Iâll just⌠m-maybe, maybe you should be on top, you know?â he blurted. âS-so youâre, um⌠yeah, so y-you can, like, control it? I donât wanna hurtââ
You laughed softly, reaching up to tug him closer by the back of his neck. âItâs fine, Dex.â
âI donâtâI donât wanna squish youââ he tried again, eyes wide behind his glasses, cock throbbing against your pussy like it had a mind of its own.
The head slipped inside you, stretching you open in one smooth glide. Dexâs eyes dropped to where your bodies met and he forgot how to breathe entirely. You threw your head back and moaned as your pussy parted for him, taking every thick inch until he was buried to the hilt, heavy balls pressed against your ass.
âOh shit,â he groaned, voice wrecked. âIâm inside youâyou feel so fucking good.â
He pulled back slowly, and your pussy clenched around him like it didnât want to let him go. Then he drove back in until his tip met a dead end, stretching you open all over again. You grabbed his right wrist and slapped his big palm straight onto your breast. His fingers squeezed hard on instinct. At the same time you caught his left hand and pressed his thumb against your bottom lip.Â
The second he felt the wet heat of your mouth close around it, Dexâs eyes flew open wide behind his glasses. You sucked on his thumb like it was his cock, matching every thrust, moaning around it shamelessly.
âJesus Christ,â he whimpered, voice cracking. âYouâreâfuck, look at you. Iâm not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that, baby. I swear Iâm trying but you feel too good and youâre sucking on my thumb and Iâoh my godââ
You just smiled around his thumb and sucked harder, never breaking eye contact, letting him feel exactly how much you wanted every desperate, awkward, perfect inch of him.
Dex couldnât stop staring down between your bodies. His thick cock was sliding in and out of your pussy in these dragging strokes, shiny and glistening with how wet you were. Every time he pulled back he could see the way your folds stretched around him, clinging tight, and every time he pushed back in he watched himself disappear inside you until his hips met yours. He was completely obsessed with the sight, breathing hard through his mouth like heâd never seen anything so hot in his life.
Without thinking he slid his hand down from your breast and pressed the heel of his palm firmly against your lower stomach, right above where he was buried deep. The sudden pressure made everything feel impossibly tighter. You whined loud around his thumb, the sound vibrating against his skin as your pussy fluttered hard around his cock.
âFuckâdid that feel good?â he panted, eyes still glued to the spot where you were joined, pressing down a little harder as he thrusts.
As if guided by that lust alone, he began to thrust into a deep, forceful rhythm, his rigid cock stretching you each time. You moaned hummingly with each stroke, feeling the power of his hips as they slapped against you, imagining the strong muscles of his thighs flexing and straining to drive his cock into you deeper and harder every time. He crashed against you, his short breaths matching his pace, his moans of pleasure spiking as senseless words spilled from his lips.
You pulled his thumb from your mouth with a wet pop, grabbed his wrist again, and swapped it for the two fingers he'd buried inside you earlier, sucking it until your cheeks hollow.
Dexâs rhythm faltered for half a second, then slammed back in even harder.
âHoly shit I don't think I canât take it,â he panted, voice cracking high and desperate. âI canât take it. Ugh, you have to come soon. You have to come soon. Oh, fuckââ
He was panting and groaning as he thrust and bucked, hips snapping forward like he was chasing something he couldnât quite catch. His eyes brightened with this wild, pleasure-pain look youâd never seen before; glassy, almost frantic, like he was right on the razorâs edge and hanging on by a thread. His glasses were crooked, hair sticking to his forehead, mouth open on every broken moan.
âIâm so closeâ Iâm so fucking close but I need you to come first, please, I need to feel you coming on my cock before I fill you up, I canâtâ I canât hold itâ fuck, please come for meââ
He was so close. You could feel it in the way his cock swelled even thicker inside you, the way his thrusts turned sloppy and urgent. He needed your release, your surrender, and he would detonate the second you gave it to him.
You reached up, grabbed his face with both hands, and pulled him down so your foreheads touched. âYou can take itâkeep going,â you gasped, voice shaky but firm. âPut your mouth on my neck, babyâright now.â
He obeyed instantly like the good, desperate boy he was. A quiet, âo-okayâyeah, fuck, okayâ tumbled out of him as he dipped his head. You gasped and swallowed hard, tilting your chin back to give him more room, your whole body shaking with the force of every thrust. One of your hands slid between your bodies so you could rub tight, frantic circles over your clit, chasing that last spark.
Dexâs lips found your throat first, kissing the throbbing pulse there, then his tongue dragged up the side of your neck in one long, wet stripe. When it danced along the shell of your earlobe you shivered hard, a full-body tremble that made your pussy clench around him. And when he dipped the tip of his tongue right inside your ear you sobbed.
âF-fuck, I love it when you moan like that.â he whimpered against your ear.
You grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged, forcing his mouth back to your neck while your fingers kept rubbing faster. âSay dirty things to me, Dex,â you panted, voice husky. âTell me how good I feel. Tell me what youâre gonna do when you come inside me. Donât stop talking.â
âYeahâfuck, Iâm trying,â Dex panted against your skin, hips snapping forward in these desperate little thrusts. âIf I talk to you, youâll come, right? Yeah? I want that. I want you to come so fucking badââ
You nodded hard. âYesâfuck, yes! Just say all the nasty shit you say to yourself when you jerk off thinking about me.â
âFuck, listen to you,â he groaned, suddenly finding his rhythm. âSucking my cock earlier like you wanted to steal my soul, choking on it like a greedy little whore, and now youâre begging me to pump you full?â He slammed into you hard. âYou want this fat load in your pussy that bad?â Another brutal thrust. âAfter months of prancing around in those tiny dresses, bending over right in front of me just to watch me lose my goddamn mind?â Slam.Â
âGod, youâre such a dirty fucking slut for your nerdy roommateâs cock, arenât you?â He licked into your ear, hips pounding harder. âThatâs itârub that clit faster, baby. Iâm gonna flood this sloppy little cunt until itâs dripping down your thighs. Come on my cockâcome on, come onââ
âOh fuckâDex!â Your whole body seized in a convulsive orgasm, pussy clamping down around him, milking his cock as you screamed against his shoulder.Â
He cried out and flooded into you, bucking and thrusting as your pussy drained him. Slick with sweat you writhed together, your voices echoing through the room, your cries and moans mingling as you milked him, drained him, sucked every drop of cum from his pulsing cock as he emptied himself into you completely.
His rhythm finally gave out and he melted into you, still shuddering deep inside while the last of his cum spilled free. Every twitch was met with your walls hugging him tight, like they were determined to wring him dry and keep him foreverâthe same way youâd just been completely his. Both of you panting hard, bodies flushed and shiny with sweat, you lay there pressed together, still connected, floating in that beautiful, ageless after-sex haze.
You were heaving, chest rising and falling under him. âHoly shitâŚâ
Dex lifted up on shaky arms, glasses crooked, hair a sweaty mess, and gazed down at you like youâd personally hung the moon. His hazel eyes were soft and dazed and so full of wonder it made your chest ache. He leaned in slowly, lips parting like he was about to kiss you for real this timeâ
âand then the unmistakable sound of a key sliding into the front door lock echoed through the apartment.
Both of you froze.
âShitâshitshitshitââ Dex whisper-yelled, scrambling off you so fast he nearly fell off the couch. While you both snatched up whatever clothes you could reach.
âMy roomânow!â You hissed, dragging Dex who is clutching his sweats and hoodie like a lifeline as you yanked behind you as fast as your shaky legs would go. Your room was closest and didnât face the front doorâthank god.
You barely made it inside, slamming the door behind you just as the living room lights flicked on. Dex pressed himself flat against the wall right behind the door, stark naked, cock still half-hard and glistening, one hand clamped over his mouth so he wouldnât breathe too loud.Â
You snatched your short silk robe off the chair and threw it on, barely tying it beforeâ
Knock knock knock.
âHey, whatâs taking you so long?â your roommate called through the door, voice bright and clueless. âWeâre all waiting for you at the pool!â
You cleared your throat, trying to sound normal and failing spectacularly. âSorry! Couldnât find my swimwear. Iâll be there in a sec!â
Dexâs eyes were huge behind his glasses. He looked like he was one second from passing out.
You heard her footsteps start to retreat...then stop, âUh⌠your bikini top is literally on the couch out here.â
âOh really?â you called back, somehow managing to sound breezy even though you were standing there in nothing but a barely-tied silk robe with your very naked, very well-fucked roommate hiding behind the door. âI mustâve dropped it. Iâll grab it soon! You should go ahead, I wonât be long!â
You heard your roommate laugh under her breath, something that sounded suspiciously like "okay weirdo.â before her footsteps finally padded away down the hall. The front door clicked shut behind her.
Dex let out a huge, shaky breath, shoulders sagging like the weight of the entire universe had just lifted off him.
âYou⌠you should go,â he mumbled, voice all hoarse and uncertain as he rubbed the back of his neck. âTheyâre waiting for you at the pool and Iâ I donât wanna get them suspicious of you or anythingâŚâ
You didnât answer with words.
Instead, you walked straight up to him, rose onto your highest tiptoes, and pressed your body flush against his. The thin silk robe did almost nothing to separate your skin from his.
You cupped his face with both hands and kissed him onceâsoft and sweet, tasting the leftover desperation on his lips. Then again, a little slower. And a third time, lingering like you were promising more.
When you finally pulled back just enough to speak, your lips still brushed his.
âI wonât be long,â you whispered, smiling up at him with that same sweet, knowing look that always made his stomach flip.
