When Dex asks you out, it's not because he's particularly attracted to you or anything. Logically, it's the next step in your relationship. You see him around at work a lot, and conversation flows rather easily, even though you're the one instigating it most of the time. Not that he minds, however, it's nice to have someone to do most of the heavy lifting in a "normal" conversation. He thinks a part of you, consciously or subconsciously, is aware that he's not the best at holding those—but you still want to interact with him, for whatever reason.
Shared smiles turn into small talk, then coffee runs together, walking down the street to the tiny place you discovered on a slow day, shoulders brushing together. He doesn't mind the closeness when it's you. You text occasionally, which he finds himself looking forward to, and he's almost sure that your smile is different when it's just for you. You let him walk you home sometimes, his jacket 'round your shoulders like it was made just to be there.
It's kind of obvious you like him, and, well, this is what people do, right? Talk, go on dates, fall in love. That last part has never seemed quite real to him, but everyone does it this way. So—
He's standing in front of the steps leading up to your door when he asks; you're already halfway up. For a moment, you freeze in place and he wonders if he'd misread the situation, but you turn back, eyes lit up as you hurry down to him again. You're understandably nervous, far more so than him—because to him, it's more of a chore than anything else—when you say yes. And that's that.
The first date goes well; it's a nice little restaurant, nothing too fancy. At the end of the night, you press your lips to his cheek, the flowers he got you held to your chest, and his heart skips a beat, the new feeling a little unnerving to him. There's a glossy stain on his cheek now, one that you wipe at with a tissue to the best of your ability. You're both laughing then, but when he gets home, he notices there's still some residue left. Instead of wiping it off, he sits at the kitchen counter, fingers pressed to his cheek, enveloped in the lingering scent of your perfume. Something has changed drastically, he realises, and the scary part is he doesn't know what it is just yet.
It's after the third one—a fancy place, reservations only—that you invite him into your apartment. He's never actually been inside before, so it's new, vaguely disconcerting in the way unfamiliar things are with him. Dex thrives off familiarity, of knowing things. But it's not too bad, because even though he doesn't know your place, he does know you. That should be enough for now.
But then you close the door behind you, turn to him—you're so close, he can feel your breath on him, feel your hands ghosting up the lapels of his jacket. Your eyes flicker down to his lips, then back up again, a question. Naturally, he dips his head and kisses you.
He likes it more than he expects, knows why people do it so much now. When your hand comes up—the other still clinging onto his jacket like a lifeline—and threads through his hair, he thinks he sees heaven. You pull away, but you're not done yet.
"You're a good kisser," you breathe, which is funny considering it's been a good few years since he's done anything at all—it's never been a priority, in any case. Your lipstick is smudged, and for a moment he imagines it messed up further, smeared across his jaw and your mouth, you, wide-eyed and breathless, and he's left light-headed as his blood rushes south.
You notice the change almost as soon as he does, see the sudden stiffness in his posture, the new discomfort in the way he stands. He waits for you to be weirded out, disgusted maybe, but your touch brings him back to earth, gentle and wanting.
"My room's that way." You nod at one of the open doors behind you, then hesitate. "If you want to—"
His mind blanks. He'd never imagined he'd come this far with anyone, let alone you, not to mention this fast. The worst part is, he wants it so bad he can't think; he swallows thickly, throat dry. "I- okay, yeah."
"Cool," you say, and loop your arms around his neck and kiss him again. It's longer, more of everything this time, feelings and sensations, the duration, everything—you nudge him in the direction of your room, still kissing; he gets the hint, guides you back while his mouth is still on yours. You're eager, excited in your movements, as opposed to his controlled ones, the restraint that's hanging on by a thread. More than once, he stops you from bumping into furniture, an armchair, a side table, until he's pressed up against the wall outside your room, your teeth grazing his neck with his hands in your hair while he lets out sinful little whimpers, too far gone to care.
His jacket is on the floor somewhere; you're unbuttoning his shirt now while his head lolls back, exposing his pale throat further, impatient fingers fumbling until he moves your hands away to do it himself. You detach yourself from him with a groan, stumble into your room before Dex follows behind you, shirt half off to reveal his firm chest, a few scars scattered here and there. You turn around just in front of your bed, pull him in by the unbuttoned collar and press your mouth to his collarbone. There's a rosy blush on his cheeks as he brushes your hair out of your face tenderly, kissing the corner of your mouth. He takes a step back, pupils blown before he slips a strap of your dress off your shoulder; he kisses the newly exposed skin, reverent, before doing the same on the other side. His devotion makes you feel more vulnerable than you have all evening; it makes you feel naked, even though he hasn't unzipped your dress just yet—actually, he makes no move to do it at all.
Instead he pushes you back half a step so the backs of your knees hit the bedframe, and then he's on top of you, knees bracketing your thighs, kissing you again. You push yourself up on your elbows while he tilts your face further upwards, hand braced by your head as he moans shamelessly into you mouth before sitting up on his haunches; he looks down, hand brushing your thigh before he pulls back abruptly. You blink up at him through your lashes, wide-eyed. "Is something wrong?"
He shakes his head, embarrassed. "No, I just- I'm new to-"
He sighs, looking away. "I don't know what you like."
You grin, flushing. This is probably the most romantic thing he's said yet. "I like whatever you're doing, babe," you tell him, and you put his hand back where it was, and he hikes your dress up, fingers skimming along the lace of your underwear as you tilt your head back at the sensation, and his heart soars higher and higher.
1.2k words but 61% of it is not plot... lol ok this was not supposed to be written today but my inventory rn includes 1 suspicious dream 1 broken claw clip 1 broken heart (fic came to me in the suspicious dream) (im packing stuff rn) do you guys want a taglist for fics perhaps <3
