lavender || andrew pope cody x fem! reader
hurt/comfort, probably ooc andrew at the end
divider by @/thecutestgrotto
there's something weird in the air today.
you don't know what it is or where it's from, but something smells weird and it's coming from-- oh.
andrew cody.
wearing a lavender shirt. spraying cologne on himself. he never wears cologne.
and your brain immediately thinks about things you shouldn't. he smells good. he looks damn good. fuck.
"what're you doing here?" he asks, a little sharp, and you sense his annoyed tone.
"craig asked for help with something," you answer nonchalantly, "more importantly, where are you going?"
andrew glances at you. "none of your business."
you knew he wouldn't give you a real answer. "that shirt... it's very..." you try to find the words, "lavender."
"i know what color it is."
"right. i just wasn't aware you owned anything that's not grey or black."
he sighs, turning to sip his coffee. "was there something you needed?"
"no, just," you pause, eyeing him from head to toe, "you look nice."
andrew's eyebrow twitches.
andrew's disinterest or annoyance with you is no secret. you're one of the few people who pushes his buttons and he honestly doesn't know why he puts up with you.
you're one of craig's friends who has become close to the rest of the codys, and you particularly like to spend time commenting on things andrew does.
"you're supposed to rinse the sponge once you're finished."
"i know. i'm not done."
"ok, i'm just saying... the sponge could use a bit of rinsing."
"andrew, can you stop staring? god it's like you're drilling a hole on my head."
"...maybe i am."
"well knock it off."
"you're annoying."
"he's going on a date." you hear deran say as he passes by.
"really, man?" andrew huffs, he doesn't want to make a big deal about it.
"oh." oh. you nod, feeling a twinge in your chest.
andrew sips his coffee and subtly glances at you, wondering why you're not making a snarky comment about it.
you fidget with your bag. "well, have fun then."
and then you leave to go find craig by the pool.
andrew frowns, something from your reaction not sitting right with him.
andrew's back by nine.
you're still at the house, ended up staying for dinner because craig ordered enough food to feed an army and it felt wasteful to leave. part of you is relieved he's back early, but you're still a little on edge.
"yo." craig nods his head at andrew, throwing him a can of beer.
he catches it easily, plopping down on the couch next to you.
and you can still smell his damn cologne.
"how was the date?" you can't help but ask, and then regret it immediately after.
"fine."
of course. not a drop of detail. you exhale quietly and eat your pizza.
andrew's gaze moves from the tv to you, wondering about your unusual silence. you'd normally bother him about everything, so technically you should be bothering him about this. you should be asking him a million questions by now.
was she your type? what did she wear? where did you guys go? was she nice? did she comment on the lavender shirt? was she funny? did you kiss her? did you...
and of course andrew doesn't know these questions are running in your head right now. you just don't want to ask. you can't. you don't want to know the answer to them. because deep down you're scared of the answer. you'd rather not know.
feeling that painful twinge in your chest again, you bite your lip and push yourself off the couch.
"alright, i'm taking off."
"what?" craig whines, "dude it's not even 10."
"yeah i got an early thing tomorrow." you lie. "see you guys."
you grab your bag and walk away, not even saying andrew specifically goodbye like you typically would.
andrew watches you leave. something's definitely wrong. he can feel it in his chest, in his head. he needs to get to the bottom of it.
he gets up from the couch and follows you out.
you're about to walk out of the gates when you hear andrew calling over you.
"what're you doing?"
"..leaving? duh." you cross your arms.
"i mean, why are you walking? where's your car?"
"oh," you lower your arms, "i sold it."
"you sold it?" andrew's brows raise.
you sigh, "yeah, i needed the extra money."
"jesus..." andrew sighs too. "come on."
"what?"
"what do you mean, what? i'm driving you home."
your face scrunches. "it's fine, i'll just walk--"
andrew calls your name sternly. "get in the car."
not up for debate. got it. you grit your teeth and walk towards his truck, climbing in. "...thanks."
andrew just glances at you before starting the engine.
the ride is quiet. your plan to walk home while sulking went sideways so now you have to hide the stinging feeling until you're home.
you already know what this is. you think you've actually been hiding the fact that you have feelings for andrew quite well and for quite some time. you dodge it with snide comments, slightly making fun of him to make sure he won't notice.
but you can't do it right now. you can't hide your sullen face. and andrew sees it clear as day.
"so, uh," he clears his throat, "what's wrong with you today?"
he gets right on it.
"what?"
he glances at you again. "you're all quiet."
"...i'm just tired."
"no, that wouldn't stop you normally." you roll your eyes at his comment. "you'd be making fun of my purple shirt and asking a thousand questions about my date and then some."
right. the date.
"so what's wrong?" he asks again.
"nothing is wrong, andrew." you sigh. "maybe i think you actually look good in that shirt. maybe i'm just not curious about your date that much. i did ask how it went, right? there. i asked."
"you don't want to know if she was rude to the waitress? where she's from? what she does for a living? how i met her?"
your jaw clenches and you close your eyes for a second. "no, no, no, and no. believe it or not, i don't care that much about you."
that lands a lot more meaner than you intended. it's actually not at all what you want to say. you want to tell him how much you do care and how much you want him and how he deserves the best in the world. but how can you tell him that?
andrew goes quiet.
"i'm sorry," you apologize. "i didn't mean that."
"so what do you mean?" he asks, pulling over to the front of your house.
"nothing. it's nothing." you repeat. "thanks for the ride."
you immediately open the door when andrew shifts the gear to park and the door unlocks automatically, but andrew's faster to reach over and grab the handle, shutting it close and locking it again.
"andrew--" you gasp when you turn around.
he's so close. you can smell his cologne again and feel his breath on your skin.
"tell me." he almost begs.
you feel that tightness in your chest again, and your gaze drops down to his lips.
and then out of adrenaline, emotions running high, you mentally scream fuck it and kiss him.
andrew's taken aback. he goes rigid.
he wasn't expecting this, you can tell. and after a few seconds of you basically kissing a wall, you pull away, unable to look him in the eye, unlock the door manually and leave without a word.
you can't believe you did that.
why would you do that?
you rush to your door, but again, andrew's fast. he's climbing out of his car and racing to you. your hands shake as you fumble for your keys, and then you feel his hand wrap around yours.
"fuck. fuck. fuck." you curse out, trying to calm your nerves.
andrew turns you around to face him, cupping your face and searching deep into your eyes. he wipes the tears away.
and then he kisses you this time. he pecks you once. twice. three times. until your arms start reaching up for him too.
hours after, you're lying in your bed next to andrew, bodies tangled as you both catch your breaths. he pulls you into his arms, foreheads touching.
"something's on your mind." he states.
you really can't escape him. "not sure you want to know this one."
"try me."
you bite your lip before looking at him and asking; "did you.. sleep with her?"
andrew softens. he shakes his head. "no. left right after i finished eating. then i went for a walk."
you won't admit you feel glad hearing that.
then andrew pulls you in even closer, whispering by your ear. "kept thinking of you."
you look up at him, eyes sparkling with hope. "yeah?"
"yeah." he mutters, leaving kisses on your neck. "been thinking of you for a long time. but you keep making fun of me. thought you hated me."
"sorry," you sigh, "defense mechanism. for what it's worth... i thought you hated me too."
andrew pauses and looks at you, making sure you're looking right at him when he says: "i don't hate you. i can never hate you."
you smile at that.
"who knew andrew cody is such a sap?"
"shut up." andrew groans before kissing you again.
| summary: frank can't sleep so he shows up at your door, but he realises you need him much more than he needs you and basically you cry in his lap and then he comforts you and…. yeahh
I authors note: first piece I'm sharing guys, I hope yall like it because I’ll be honest this whole thing is just Frank talking you through it while he fucks you because he knows you need it.
I content: fem reader, smut, p in v, sad!reader, comfort, praise kink, crying!reader, selfless!frank, pet names, sitting on lap, body worship, talking you through it, thigh riding, angst, frank only has a soft spot for you, frank comforts reader, gentle!frank, lowkey yearning!frank
I word count: 6.7k
It's past midnight, and you're wandering around the kitchen, cleaning up after a long day, your long, soft hair flowing down your shoulders as you stand on your tiptoes to open a cabinet. It seems like the world just has it in for you lately, everything's going wrong, and on top of that, you don't have anyone to talk to.
Well, there's Frank. There's always Frank. It's like he can sense when somethings wrong. At times, he knows you better than you know yourself. But Frank's- well... Frank? Yes, he's there for you but he's never there. Not physically. No, he's always caught up in a fight, always saving someone or hurting himself.
You shake your head, drying your hands on a towel lying on the counter. It's not fair for you to expect anything from him. It's not like he's yours?
There's a knock at the door. You raise your head suddenly, someone's at the door? Confused, you walk towards it, moonlight lighting up the dark hallway of your house through the glass panes on the door. You open it, looking up, and of course it's him. The same comforting, distant man you can't stop thinking about.
"Frank?" you furrow your brows softly, you didn't expect it to genuinely be him at the door. The cold breeze brushed your bare arms as you stand at the door in your shorts and camisole. His eyes flicker up and down, taking your presence in. He doesn't say anything. Still, you're a kind woman, you're understanding, and so without questioning anything you tell him softly, "Come in" with a gentle nod of your head towards inside your house. You gesture him inside, shutting the door with a click behind you. He walks in with his broad figure, hands in his pocket awkwardly as if you're the one who's showed up to his house in the middle of the night. He's looking at the floor like a child being scolded and so you ask him, "Hey, is everything okay?"
He looks up slowly at your kind face, he doesn't want to disappoint you- or for you to think less of him. "I uh-just, couldn't sleep" he finally mutters, pulling his hands out of his pockets. "Just- wanted to hear your voice I guess." His voice is low, it's as if he hasn't spoken to anyone for a while. You watch him understandingly, not an ounce of judgement in your face, and you just nod. "Come. Sit down for a bit" you tell him, walking towards your couch, your own arms crossed, a natural sort of defence mechanism- though of course, Frank has never hurt you. He'd never dare lay a hand on you.
He sits down on the couch, the whole thing moving slightly lower with his weight. You hover near him, still stood up. "Want something to drink?" you ask him softly, and he shakes his head. Leaning back on the couch, he says softly, "Nah, 's alright, just came to see you."
Of course he says that. And of course your stomach starts doing fucking backflips. You shake your head, walking into the kitchen anyway. He sits there alone for a moment, eyes following you, watching as you work your way through the kitchen like an angel, skin as soft as snow, biting your lip in concentration.
You come back with two glasses and some whiskey, placing them down with a clink. His puppy dog eyes follow your slender fingers as you let go of the glasses. They continue scanning over your body as you finally take a seat opposite him, pressing one of your knees to your chest and resting your chin there. You sigh softly as you watch him.
"Why couldn't you sleep?" you ask softly, watching him carefully.He throws his shoulders up softly, shrugging. It's not the first time he's done something like this. For years it's been obvious to you that he has a soft spot for you, but no action has ever been taken. And you curse yourself endlessly for it, but you feel something for him too-even though you can't tell what exactly. He shakes his head, grunting, "It doesn't matter, I'm used to it".
You continue watching him. Something about his presence as a whole just has a hold on you. You want to be there for him- to help him. So you ask him the only sensible thing in your head, "You wanna talk about it?" He watches you through half lidded eyes, shaking his head silently as he leans forward a little, his forearms on his legs, "Already said, just needed to see you."
You don't know what to do but nod. You breathe out a soft, "Okay" and sit there, still hugging your knee on your seat like a worried child. The truth is you're tired. Tired of begging, of trying to be there for people who clearly don't want you. Tired of being rejected and never understood. Your eyes start to wander around your living room, the warm glow from your fireplace lighting everything up, including Frank's eyes.
He tilts his head the slightest, watching your every move and of course, he knows somethings wrong. You continue sitting there, wondering what to say or what to do. You get chills from the way you can tell he's watching you closely. So why won't he just fucking say something? It's not like he has any trouble in the female department?
Except he doesn't want anyone who isn't you. Most people are shit scared of him, they think he's about to snap any moment. But not you. No, you see him for who he really is. A man in pain, who's always making mistakes to just help what he thinks is right. And you, you're kind and gentle and smart- everything that's the opposite of the world he knows.
After a few minutes of quiet besides the soft crackling of the fire, he chooses to break the silence. He can't watch you just sitting here, disassociating from everything. You're still hugging your knee, sitting in that position on the couch. Finally, he murmurs softly, "What's goin’ on?" And without really moving, your eyes flick to him and you shrug your shoulders. His heart patters softly at your dismissive tone.
He can't sit here and watch you suffer silently. Especially since you would never do that either. He frowns softly and rumbles out, "Hey, talk to me." And as if a light switch suddenly flicks in your head, you gain awareness and turn your head to him. Not entirely convincingly you tell him, "I'm okay, really." and drop your knee from beneath your chin, your feet both on the floor awkwardly.
You realise he's here because he was upset and so you look back up and ask him, "Tell me what's up then, why couldn't you sleep?" He watched you like you just spoke some foreign language and mutters, "That's not fair." You just stare at him confused.
God, why is he like this?
For some reason you're already infuriated, anger bubbling up inside you, threatening to spill out. "What do you mean that's not fair? You show up to my door past midnight and you won't even tell me what's wrong?" you spit out. Frank frowns, he hates seeing you like this, hates that he's caused you to feel like this. You see his face soften and instantly feel bad. That's the kind of effect he has on you. So you breathe out, "Look I'm sorry- I've just had a shit day." Which is a lie of course, every day is shit. Everyday that you go on, unsure of your feelings towards Frank, unsure of what you want.
He blinks slowly, giving you space, letting you get your feelings out. “Don't be sorry," he says gruff but softly, shaking his head. A quiet moment passes and he says "C'mere," gesturing to the empty space beside him. Hesitantly you get up, trudging towards him like a dog with a tail between its legs. You sit down next to him, embarrassed now that you raised your voice at him. And the worst thing is that he stayed calm, he let you yell at him. Because that's the kind of man Frank is.
You stare ahead at the floor, Frank looking at nothing but you. His eyes trace over your face, your soft hair- that little figure of yours that's so angry inside, your chest going up and down softly as you breathe. He hesitates, then parts his lips slightly and whispers, "Talk to me." You look up slowly, turning your head to face his weathered face which is full of concern for you, and you protest, "This isn't about me- you're the one who's upset."
Frank lets out a soft breath. "God you're stubborn" he huffs, and you can tell he’s genuinely annoyed. You don't say anything back and he continues watching you. "Just let me be here for you." he whispers, almost begging, like he needs to help you. Like he can't live knowing you're upset. You shake your head, voice shaking as you say, "For Christ's sake Frank, I don't need your help- I don't need you." Except you do. Your eyes begin to glisten as you ramble, threatening to start spilling tears and Frank frowns, repeating, "Hey hey, shhh" as he gently moves his calloused hand onto your forearm.
You shake your head, fighting back tears and trying to get out of his reach, "I'm fine- go away, I'm fine." You pull your arm away, voice quaking. The same way he let you shout at him, he's letting you use physical force on him. You keep spitting out that you're fine-you don't need anyone or anything, and all the while, Franks hand gently moves to the side of your face, holding it in his palm. You croak out once more with glistening eyes, "I'm fine" and then break down at his soft touch.
Tears run down your face as you shake your head, trying to stop crying. Frank watches you heartbroken, his brows are furrowed and it looks like he's only a few moments away from crying too. "Oh poor baby" he whispers, pulling you close to him, his big arms wrapping around you warmly. "Let it out, I'm here" he says, voice barely above a whisper. He wants to protect you from everything, from everything that hurts you, but he can't, and that's what bothers him. He needs you to need him.
You try wiping your tears with the back of your hand, but they continue streaming down your face. You make the mistake of looking up at Frank because as you lift your head slowly- your, big sad doe eyes break him. A soft gasp leaves his lips and he whispers, "Oh, sweet girl," as if he's in pain watching you cry. Effortlessly he pulls you onto his lap, his big hands wrapping around you as if he can shield you from the world. He tilts back his head to get a better look at you, leaning back on the couch and adjusting you to make sure you're comfy. "I know you’re hurtin’, just let it out" he breathes.
His broad chest presses against yours as he holds you, one hand on your back, the other caressing your hair. You cry your endless tears and he gently lifts your head with his hand beneath your chin. "I'm here, just talk to me, please." he says softly, eyebrows knitted together in concern. Eyes puffy and cheeks stained with tears you stutter, "God I'm just so alone. I'm so alone Frank- I don't have anyone." He looks like a sad little puppy at hearing that.
"That's not true baby, you have me" he frowns, tilting his head to get a better look at you, resting his hand on the side of your face. His other hand runs up and down your back soothingly, and you nuzzle your face into his hand. But he’s not yours, you remember. "Don't call me that Frank" you cry, pulling your head back and shaking it.
God, his heart aches watching you cry.
He watches your quivering lip, waiting for you to explain, and you glare at him, your words drowning in tears. At last, your voice breaks when you say, "Not when I'm not yours."
Oh.
He shakes his head silently, sitting up a little more and adjusting you in his lap. "Don't say that." he whispers, taken aback and heartbroken. “Just- don’t-” he mutters, unsure of what to say. He wants to be yours. God knows he does. But it's not that easy, he can't bring you into his life, because he knows that anyone he loves gets hurt.
He moves his palm across both sides of your face gently, wiping off the tears that are leaving salty, hot trails on your skin. Your voice breaks, barely holding together as you try to speak. "Frank," you cry shakily, your breath catching in broken, wet gasps. He barely blinks, just taking in this sight of you- broken and defeated. "Yeah i know, I'm here."
He doesn't bother wiping away the tears that soak his collar, he just needs to be there for you. As he holds you close and roams his hands up and down your back, you hiccup a little, your violent sobs much less now. "That's it, you're okay" he whispers sweetly, his touch gentle and caring. You sniffle in his chest as he reassures you, your stomach fluttering. Oh how you hate the way he makes you feel, as if you're not in control of your own body.
"Frank," you whisper again, breathlessly, the only remnants of your crying being your puffy eyes. "Yeah sweet girl? talk to me" he murmurs, moving a strand of hair that's stuck on your wet face behind your ear. You don't say anything, just let yourself melt back into him, your face in the crook of his neck, legs on either side of him. He lets his hands fall to your sides again, but lower this time- on your hips. He holds them with both hands, as if you'd disappear if he let go.
Your lips part slightly at his touch, you’re aching all over for him. Franks big hands stay there carefully, burning through the fabric of your shorts. Gently he rubs your sides and your breath hitches. Of course, any noise that slips out of your mouth almost kills him. His brows are furrowed as he tries to absorb every reaction you’re giving him. He needs to make you feel good. So, he takes your little gasps as a sign that it’s okay, and gently trails a hand lower, till it meets your thigh. As if his life purpose is to make you feel good, he applies a little more pressure to his touch, watching your face carefully, waiting for another reaction. Waiting for a sign that you want this too.
"This okay sweet girl?" he asks, hands tracing over your thighs reverently. You whine "mhm", leaning back into him. His lips part in awe at your little noises- he needs to hear more. You gasp softly at his hands kneading your hips then moving to your thighs. "Frankk" you whine desperately, core pressing into him a little. This is what you meant, how you can't control yourself when you're with him. He nods understandingly, whispering with his rich voice, "What is it sweet girl?”
Your head lolls to the side, brain turning into mush as your core heats up on his lap. As if doesn’t already make you lose control of your own body- he’s whispering these sweet names in your ear. You can't help it, but your hips rock forward ever so slightly, trying to satisfy that blooming need between your aching thighs.
The moment your hips move, his breath hitches. His entire body goes still as he feels that tiny movement against his lap. He senses your need, and it sends a bolt of desire through him. But he doesn't rush. Instead, his hands stay still for a second on your thighs, then slowly slide up to press against the curve of your waist. The gentle pressure of his palms keeps you right there in his arms, needy and warm. Then his voice drops lower and he whispers against your ear breathily, "Attagirl, let me know how you feel, okay?”
His sweetness is making you melt, and all of your senses are being blinded by pure need right now. You whimper desperately, almost panting as you buck your hips again and Frank says softly, “Take what you need.” You let out a small moan at that, and he realises just how much you need him. You grind your hips against his a few more times, needing to soothe the white hot ache between your legs, but nothings working and you’re getting frustrated. Your eyes begin to water again, but out of desperation now, not sadness. You throw your arms behind his neck, looking for something to hold onto and keep bucking your hips onto his, desperate for anything that will give you friction.
“Frankie,” you moan helplessly, frustrated at yourself, at not being able to feel good. He watches you reverently, as if you’re an angel on his lap, rough hands still moving gently on your sides. “I know baby, dyou need my help?” he coaxes, slipping a hand near the edge of the waistband of your shorts. When he calls you baby again, your heart clenches. He doesn't want to push, or overstep with someone as sweet as you. You lifts your head just slightly, eyes glassy and vulnerable and then nod, slow and shy, but honest, “Please, I need you”. Your eyes start watering again with need, you’ve never felt so alone- so desperate for Frank to just take care you.
“Hey, hey don’t cry doll” he coos, frowning as you pout sadly. You stare into his solemn eyes, desperately waiting for him to take action, but instead, he softly presses his forehead to yours. “I’m here, you’re not alone.” he whispers, his tone as sweet as honey. He moves his head back a little, enough to see you clearly and wipes away another one of your tears with his thumb. “You’re my girl and I’m gonna take care of you, okay?” he reassures as his hand creeps beneath your waistband now.
Of course- he’s still a gentleman with morals and so he asks with the utmost respect, “Can I take these off?” as his fingers creep under your sleep shorts, brushing past the soft lace of your panties. You all but moan, “Yes- please” in desperation, and that’s enough for him. He instructs you firmly, “Lift your hips f’me,” and carefully holds you up with one arm, the other one working at your waist, pulling your shorts down your thighs. “Can I take these off too?” he checks, his pointer finger hooked under the soft lace. You nod your head urgently and with that, the scraps of fabric are at your ankles, then discarded on the floor. He has a job to do.
His breath gets lost in his throat, mouth almost watering at the sight of you, but he tries to be as respectful as possible. “There you go doll, what else dyou need?” he asks adoringly, his hand moving to hold the back of your neck. He stares at your face, all sweet and vulnerable, and has a violent urge to kiss those soft pink lips of yours. You part your mouth to speak, but before any words can come out, Frank leans forward, and presses his lips to yours with such care, you’d think you’re made of glass.
You don’t remember your eyes shutting, just him pulling back tenderly from the kiss and your eyes opening to see his. Like you’re the most valuable thing ever, he leans back in and places a kiss beneath your ear. You gasp as he peppers your neck with soft kisses that eventually turn into hot, desperate ones when he can’t control himself. He nibbles at your neck, leaving little marks, then soothes the pain with his tongue, licking at your neck like he’s never felt a woman this sweet before. “You taste so sweet,” he groans, and the heat between your thighs aches as you sit bare on his clothed lap. Your cunt is dripping at the thought of him inside you. His fingers, his dick- anything as long as he’s in you.
You press your hips down on his lap urgently, marking his jeans with a visible wet patch where you’re sat on his thigh. Desperately you start rocking your hips back and forth, searching for the friction you so badly need. Frank groans in awe at how beautiful you are when you’re in need, and he groans, “That’s it, get yourself off on my thigh baby,” as he busies himself with kissing your neck. His hands scramble at the lace of your pyjama top, itching to pull it off. His eyes flick to your scrunched up face as you chase your pleasure, the fabric rubbing on your clit deliciously, and since you don’t protest, he helps you out of your thin top. Hastily, his manly hands search for the clasp of your bra on your back, and with a click, that’s also off and thrown to the floor.
His hands are urgently on your back, covered by your flowing hair as he runs them over your skin desperately. His eyes scan over your angelic body, skin soft and so so beautiful. He has to stop himself from kissing every square inch of your body, but he can’t help himself entirely, so he presses his face between the valley of your breasts and inhales, trying impossibly to be closer to you. Both his arms are wrapped around you protectively, helping you move back and forth to chase your high as he inhales that warm, sweet scent of your skin. He moves his head back to meet yours and pants, “That’s it dollface, keep going f’me.” You let out a lewd moan, signalling how close you are to him and he mewls softly, his dick bulging in his jeans as you ride his thigh. “That’s my girl, you’re almost there.” he praises as you continue writhing back and forth.
Your breathing’s irregular and your vision is blurry from pleasure, and fuck you’ve never needed him so badly. You squirm, so close yet so far, but when his stubble brushes your breast as his lips clasp around your nipple, you’re gone. An obscene moan leaves your mouth as you quiver on his thigh, legs twitching, mouth wide open- and then you can hear Frank praising, “There she is, that’s a good girl.” as you come down from your orgasm, his mouth still pressed to your tit as he holds your body to his. “You’re so beautiful sweetheart,” he pants, relieved that you feel good, ignoring the bulging ache in his jeans. You sigh tiredly, chest heaving as you come down from your high. “mmm thank you Frank,” you murmur, hair stuck to your forehead, eyes puffy from crying, and he answers, “Anything for you doll.”
You watch his broad figure beneath you, and find it amazing how someone this manly can be so soft with you. You love it about him. As you watch him pant selflessly, not wanting to take anything from you, you almost lunge at him. Quickly, you connect your soft lips to his own, wanting to taste his mouth properly now. His tongue slides between your mouth, your lips clashing as you try desperately to feel eachother even closer. You kiss the corner of his mouth, licking at his stubble, imagining how it’d feel between your thighs- how his warm tongue would work between your folds as you moaned, pushing his head lower in desperation. Frantically, you lean back and moan, “I need you Frankie,” as you move your hands over his shirt, on his chest. It’s not like he isn’t yearning to have you too, because he is. There’s nothing more he needs right now than to feel you sucking him in, to feel your walls flutter around him as you cum for the second time, but he needs to hear you say it.
“Use your words sweetheart, what dyou need?” he coos softly, like he’s talking to a child, rubbing your inner thighs. You fall into him, soft tits pressing into his chest as you whine. “I need you inside me- please.” you beg, and he purrs admiringly, pressing gentle kisses to the underside of your breast. “Is that it baby? You need me to take you?” he coaxes, hand cupping your breast, covering it entirely. He kneads it carefully and you moan, barely able to get out an “uh huh” at his touch. “Good girl, that wasn’t that hard was it?” he teases, tapping you on the side of your thighs, signalling for you to lift them.
As you hold your hips in the air, he undoes his belt, pulls down the zipper of his jeans and swiftly tugs them off. He nudges your hips back down and the soft flesh of your ass meets his muscly thighs again, but without clothes between you this time. Need overflows your senses and you moan as his glistening dick hits the sensitive skin of your thigh. You claw at his shirt, and the side of his mouth lifts into a smirk as he pulls it over his head effortlessly. “You’re so needy ain’t ya sweet girl?” he coos, massaging your hips, moving his hands to the roundness of your ass. “Fuck- so soft” he groans, eyes closing for a second to compose himself.
“Please, Frankiee” you wail, pressing your tits to his broad chest, your nipples like mountain peaks. “Shhh, I know” he murmurs, leaning forward and flicking his tongue under your ear. “I’m gonna take care of my girl.” he whispers into your neck, and that makes you swoon. His chunky fingers trail down between your thighs, and he runs his middle finger through your slick folds, holding it up as a string of wetness hangs from it. “Oh, you’re dripping baby,” he coos with adoration, “Don’t even need my fingers”.
He moves back, cupping your cheek with one calloused hand, the other reaching for his aching dick. He pumps it a few times, face scrunching up in desperation to enter you. His eyes flicker to yours hopelessly and his voice cracks as he says, “Let me make love to you sweetheart.” You nod, a painful need blooming in your body, your heart aching at his softness. As needy as ever, he moves your hips with care, nudging your dripping entrance with his swollen tip. You gasp at the contact, needing more, although he hasn’t even had the chance to enter you fully yet. He groans, eyes closing as he bites his lip, pushing himself deeper inside you. “Oh god- you’re so tight f’me,” he shudders, stretching you out painfully as his breath hitches.
So gently, he pushes your hips down until you sink on him fully, and he bottoms out in you with a shuddering groan. “Ahh fuck, is this okay sweetie, does it feel good?” he asks, considerate of you. You nod rapidly, eyebrows furrowed in despair, needing him to move. You moan, hips twitching, desperate for some friction. “Frankie I need you to fuck me,” you moan, hands on his chest. He growls at the way you say that, hands holding your hips as he whispers “Shit, I know baby- I’m gonna take care of this pussy so well.” You can feel yourself getting even wetter around him, if that’s even possible. “I’m gonna make you feel so good.” he reassures, pressing another wet kiss to the line of your jaw.
Slowly but surely, he does start moving. He lets out deep groans as he holds your waist, grinding you on his lap. You can’t wait, you start urging your hips back and forth faster and he tuts at you, whispering dirtily, “Oh, I didn’t know my girl was so needy f’me.” But he understands you need it- need him, and so he starts to buck his hips faster for you. He wraps his arms around you like a human shield, and with his hold on you, starts lifting you. You moan, not wanting to leave, you haven’t even had anything near enough and you can already feel his thick cock sliding out of you. But as you’re about to protest, he quickly slams you back down with urgency. A vulgar noise leaves your mouth as your skin slaps back down onto his. He groans, desperate to make you feel good, he wants to be here for you. He needs to show you you’re not alone, show you that he lov-
You gasp, head thrown back in ecstasy, you can’t think about anything but his arms around you, his breathy whispering into your ear. “Frank,” you cry, emotions pouring out of you. He’s like heaven, he’s your heaven. He feels like home, gives you stability, makes you want to live, to start a family even. You wanna be his, to give him everything and love him till you’re dead. You moan as your tits bounce up and down; Frank worshipping your body, unable to say anything with how pussy drunk he is.
He groans as you clench around him, coating him with slick as you move up and down. He feels different when he’s with you. He feels capable of- change? Capable of being soft and sweet unlike how life has treated him the last few years. He wants to love you forever. At every sound of your skin slapping, a different stage of your lives flashes past his eyes. Watching you walk down the aisle with tears in his eyes. Moving into your first home together. Remodelling your kitchen as you laugh, faces covered in paint. Having a baby together.
“I-” Frank gasps, the words he wants to say sticking his mouth together. “Fuck,” he groans, so close to the edge, “baby- fuck, I love you.” Your arms are around his neck while he makes love to you, desperately holding onto him. You’re scared you’ll drown if you let go, especially when those words leave his mouth. Your heart stops, your eyes glisten and you whine out, “I love you too Frank.” He presses gentle kisses to your neck once you say that, scared that he’ll start crying if he looks at you. He holds onto you like you’re his anchor, and finally, tilts your head so his eyes can meet yours.
“I’ve waited so long to hear you say that,” he whispers emotionally, voice breaking. “You’re my whole life baby” he tells you, every word leaving his mouth dripping with love. He helps you lay on your back on the sofa, still connected with you at the core and continues making love to you. With every thrust of his hips you moan into his neck. He pants in your ear as his chest hovers over you, and he mutters sweet nothings into your ear incoherently. You can tell he’s close because he’s not making sense anymore. “Fuck- I’m so lucky to have you baby,” he grunts, jaw clenching together as he stutters, “mm I’m so close.” Your legs are stiff too, and you realise you need to cum again. Frank sees it too and like the gentleman he is, he makes you his priority. “Oh babydoll,” he coos, moving a hand from your side to the sensitive skin between your legs. He smiles endearingly and says, “Let me see that pretty face,” as he tilts his head.
You meet his gaze, but you’re in despair, needing release. He slips his middle finger just below your dripping folds, feeling his dick slide in and out of your drenched pussy. “I’m g’na make you feel so good.” he utters, pulling his hand away from where you’re connected. Your stomach flips when he brings it to his face, spits into it and lowers it back down to your throbbing cunt. He wipes the glob onto your clit, looking up to see your screwed up face. “You okay sweet girl?” he pants and you nod urgently, trying to urge yourself closer to him as his dick tortures your gummy walls. His saliva drips down your pussy as he checks on you, but once you nod, his hand is right back to work. He moves his thumb over to your sensitive nub and starts rubbing gently.
You shudder, pleasure overflowing out of your body as he rubs your clit, his length still dragging in and out of you. You move your hands onto his back, desperate for something to hold onto, to anchor you. Frank shudders at you clawing at his back- your grasp is so desperate, it makes him feel cherished in a way he's never known. Your breath hitches as your mouth falls open, and Frank starts talking you through it, knowing you’ll fall apart any minute. “That’s it, I’m right here, let go,” he encourages while he continues rubbing quick circles. Your moans become increasingly louder, your breathing irregular and you’re on the verge of coming undone. Franks groans at the sweet sounds you make, struggling but managing to get out the words- “Fuck- I’m g’na cum.”
He hasn’t made a fuss about himself, hasn’t been doing this to make himself feel good. Never- you’re always his first priority, and tonight was about making you feel good. About showing you that you’re not alone- no, you’re cherished and loved by so many people. By him. He groans in short gasps, his breathing uneven as he reaches the edge. “Frankie- I’m so close” you whine, your hands trailing down to the nape of his neck. Your fingers are slipping through his short hair as he moans, both of you looking like a desperate, sweating mess. His cock keeps drilling into you and finally you shriek, hips bucking and thighs shaking as you come apart around his dick.
As your head falls to the side while your drenched pussy convulses around him, he groans into your hair, asking for permission as if you’re his goddess. “Doll, I’m so- mph, fuck- I’m right there,” he starts, unable to get a whole sentence out straight. “Please- umph- please let me fill you up.” he stutters, throbbing as his thrusts become sloppy. You breathe out, “Please,” into his neck and with a vulgar groan, his hips stutter and you shudder at a warmth filling you up.
There’s something about you that makes him want to be good. As he holds you like there’s no tomorrow while his hips twitch into yours, filling you, he realises how much he needs you. You’re his angel, his salvation- and there isn’t a thing he wouldn’t do for you. Not a single thing, just so he could see you smile, see you feel good. “You’re okay baby, I’m here.” he groans in ragged breaths. He caresses your tits as you both come down from your high, both of you trembling messes. Your breathing steadies slightly as he kisses you, shows you how much he cares. His spend seeps out of your pussy, which is stuffed entirely, and dribbles down his length. Franks eyes trail to where you’re connected, and with a raspy voice he says, “You look so beautiful like this baby.” The corner of his eyes crinkle as he smiles softly, rubbing soft circles on your cheek with his thumb. He adores you with his whole heart. He’s in no rush to go or to leave you. Instead, he holds your warm body close, and skims his mouth up and down your neck. Not kissing, not licking, just letting his lip brush over your skin.
He links an arm beneath you, pulling you off your back to sit up straight and straddle him again, still keeping you plugged with his length, all while his rough hands move to your hair and he runs his fingers through the soft, silkiness of it. “You did so good f’me doll, so good” he purrs, nudging his nose against your jaw, “My good girl.” God, everything he does is so intimate, so sensual. Doing this; for Frank anyways, isn’t about fucking. He wants to make love to you. He wants you to feel comfortable enough to fall apart right there in his lap. And fortunately, he succeeded at that, which means you did feel cherished. “Feel okay sweetheart?” he asks, holding you head with his large hand, the other running along your jawline. You nod sheepishly, cheeks flushed as he smiles at you.
“Ain’t nothing to be embarrassed about baby.” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. You love this about him, the fact that he’s actually taking care of you. “Feel better baby?” he asks, brushing his thumb beneath your eye, as if to catch a tear but you’re not crying. “Mhm, so full.” you whine, glancing down and he nudges your head back up, desperate to see your perfect face. “That right?” he smiles teasingly. “My girl feels all filled up?”. Your cheeks flush pink and he watches you lovingly.
“That’s how I wanna see you baby. Not sad, not talking down on yourself”. He watched you thoughtfully, tone a little more serious then before and you nod. “Okay?” he asks, and you nod, a small smile on your lips, “okay.” He presses a soft kiss to your forehead as you close your eyes, and whispers, “Good girl”. As your heart flips, he leans back and says, “Let me help you clean up baby”, rubbing a hand over your thigh. You nod, knowing he’s gonna have to pull out, and after a few more gentle kisses, he helps you onto your back again, his calloused hand over your stomach as he says, “okay, you ready?” You bite your lip, nodding and he starts to pull out- a grimace on his face. As his dick pulls out with a wet pop, his load oozes out of your hole and onto the couch. “You did so good baby, I’m so proud of my girl.” he says in his raspy voice, moving away from between your legs, standing up. He watches your perfect figure lying back on the couch, and tells you, “I’ll be right back.” before walking out of the living room.
He comes back after a few moments, holding one of your shirts, a glass of water and a cloth. You smile in awe, heart aching at his attempt to give you aftercare. He leans down, sitting on his knees on the cold floor, setting the glass of water onto the coffee table with a clink. “Can I help baby?” he asks softly, holding up the cloth. You smile giddily and say, “Yes, please”, and then his paws are on your legs again and he whispers, “Spread your legs f’me sweetheart”. If he hadn’t already just fucked the life out of you, you would’ve been needy again, but instead you open your legs for him, revealing your glistening cunt. He raises the damp cloth, moving it between your thighs and starts gently rubbing at your pussy. “There you go” he whispers, one hand pushing your thigh down to have access while the other holds the cloth. Carefully he cleans you up, electricity running through you when the cloth rubs on your sensitive nub. He places the cloth to the side, not breaking eye contact as he presses the softest kiss to your clit. You shudder, still having aftershocks from your second orgasm.
“Thank you,” you whisper and smiles, placing his hands on knees, and getting up. He moves back onto the couch, pulling you close to his side and tells you, “Lift your arms for me”. You do as he says, and ever so softly, he pulls a clean shirt over your head, gently pulling your arms through the sleeves. He kisses your forehead and wraps an arm around your waist, breathing softly into your hair. A sigh of relief leaves your mouth and he whispers your name sweetly, before breathing out, “I love you”. You nuzzle your face into him as he holds you and you tell him, “I love you too.” His manly hands stroke your hair as you cuddle and he sighs in content. Somehow, he managed to change your night that started out with tears and despair into a night filled with love.
“I’m sorry you felt alone baby. But just know I’m here for you now. I’m yours, and I’d do anything and everything for you.” You listen to his deep rich voice as he holds you, trusting his every word. “Oh Frank,” you whisper, closing your eyes against him. He smiles softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss against your bare shoulder.
“I’m never going anywhere again baby. You’re my life.”
check out my masterlist with several other dex works :)
author note: every time i think about how lonely dex must be, i get unbearably sad :( so i wrote this about sort of inducting him into your social circle
cw: fem!reader, implied age gap, brief intimidating behaviour from a stranger
your friends love dex. they didn't know it, but he was weary of them at first; he didn't like how often he called you to check up on his girl and you told him that you were "clubbing with the girls", or "at dinner with the girls", or "sleeping over with the girls". he was your man! didn't that count for anything?
he tried to coax you into taking a break from being such a social butterfly. "baby, you know it's not safe to be out at night", "i'm just worried. you know drinking too much isn't healthy", "there's been girls like you going missing in the neighbourhood. i'd never forgive myself if that happened to you". sure, there was no evidence of missing women, but he needed to try something. he was desperate.
you had finally relented and agreed to let dex meet your friends and personally keep you safe. at first, you were apprehensive. you didn't want to be that girl who never went anywhere without her boyfriend, who always had to check in for permission from him and always let him crash girls' night. you knew it was annoying to be around. but dex had been worried sick! you knew how much he cared about you, and his intentions were (mostly!) good. you owed it to him to put his mind at ease.
you soft launched dex's presence in your friend group by bringing him to the club; the girls would be dancing on other guys anyway, so coming equipped with dex wouldn't be too disruptive.
you walked hand in hand with him and met up with your girls in line and you beamed at them. they smiled in confusion as they looked at dex next to you. sure, he was dressed more appropriately for a late night stalking than dancing, and the scar on his cheek indicated a life of violence, but that was just dex!
in the club, you danced and dex kind of just stood there. his arms slung around your waist as he watched you with hearts in his eyes. he was mesmerised by the way you moved, the way you turned in his arms and pressed your back to his chest and grinded against him. he couldn't believe he had been missing out on this for whole months.
after a while, dex broke his stare and caught sight of your friend, max, who had gone to the bar for a glass of water. a man was standing—practically looming—over her. she looked scared, but didn't call for help or even open her mouth. you noticed dex's distraction and tracked his gaze to max's clearly frightened body language. you turned to dex to ask if you could help and caught him reaching in his pocket, presumably for a projectile.
after you slapped his hand away, he grumbled and stalked over to max and the perv. "back off, man." dex dwarfed the man in comparison. you watched as the guy opened his mouth to object, but dex didn't let him. "'m not asking. go."
he scampered away and you wrapped an arm around max's shoulders as she trembled. you did feel uncomfortably aroused by dex's chivalry, but max was clearly shaken up.
you and the girls ended the night early, which you were grateful for. you needed to have dex in you sooner rather than later.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
from that night on, your friends wanted dex to tag along almost as much as he wanted to shadow you. they always greeted him with excitement, "hi, dex!" all in unison.
he'd smile faintly and settle down with his arm slung around your waist. "hi, girls" was all he'd really say. you brought him to your friends' apartments and sometimes even to house parties. the girls even took to asking him for advice.
one of your closest friends, natalia, asked the group what to do about a guy. "sometimes he seems so into me, then he goes a whole week without texting! meanwhile, he's posting other girls on his story." the group was united on him being a fuckboy, and natalia turned to dex, laid back next to you on the sofa. "what do you think, dex?"
everyone turned to him expectantly and he shifted slightly, stretching his legs out. "yeah, he's not serious about you. forget him. find a guy that wants you be around all the time." the group hummed and natalia nodded firmly. you watched dex in amusement.
seeing him blend in with a group of college girls was amusing since he didn't at all; he stood out like a neon sign. but knowing that your friends liked having him around made you so happy.
socialising dex like a stray that's not used to being around other animals :o
could you write a fic with sweet reader and dex who has chronic back pains sometimes because of his spine so reader always makes him lay down and then massage his back and hes just in heaven the whole time because its just so gentle and sweet:)))
Omg, exactly the type of scenarios I think about trying to fall asleep like u get me anon! (Slightly suggestive) and got kind of off request topic (but not really) w this one my bad I’m high but this was so fun I want to make something longer w this concept now!!
I think at first Dex would be so grumpy when you mention his wincing.
He would literally wave you off, immediately straighten his posture and act like he wasn’t just halfway limping. And you’d scoff, chastise him for it, maybe call him a prideful old man who just can’t admit he’s hurting.
He’d shoot warning looks like punishment would mean anything other than his mouth on yours and so much pleasure he’d make you cry, but anyways.
But you can’t just ignore it, that’s not you. No matter how much he shrugs it off at first. He does a lot with his body, to his body, and no matter how skilled or supernatural Dex can seem to others around him and yourself included, he’s just a man. And cogmium framework in his spine can’t feel great.
So one night, you’re just fed up with it.
He comes out from a shower, greying blonde hair stuck to his forehead before he pushes it out of his face. The dishwasher has just started, and you’re washed in a domestic comfortability now that night has fallen and the hazelnut scented candle is filling the room with such a gourmand fragrance and your boyfriend chose right now to come out in just boxers briefs.
(Like!)
But his brows are furrowed, deepening the line between them and his scar has tilted towards his right eye at the corner because his lip has upturned into a grimace.
He doesn’t meet your eyes and that’s how you know that he knows you’re already locked in on the stiffness of his shoulders and the clenching of his heavy fists.
You uncross your arms from your chest and stomp over to him, and he could laugh at how frustrated you look if he wasn’t so sore from last nights masked endeavors and the pain radiating throughout his spine.
“Go lay on the couch, and don’t argue with me please. I want to take care of you.”
You state is plainly and firmly, but your bottom lip is pouting and every fiber of his being suddenly aches to please you, to be good, to quell the worry creased in the corners of your mouth.
Wanting to take care of him?
He can’t say no to that.
“When have I ever argued with you? Just doesn’t sound like me, sweetheart.” He likes the way your face lights up when he says it, like him giving you attitude amuses you.
But then you reach out and the tips of your fingers splay against the broadness of his chest, palm centered right against his sternum and the warmth instantly makes him forget about, well anything.
You just look at him through your lashes, refusing to give in to his brattiness.
So he grits his teeth, stares at you stubbornly for only a second before his features soften into something tender and wanting. So he just nods, shuffles to the couch and you make your way to the bathroom to find your body oil in the cabinet.
His head lounges on the arm rest, hands on his taut stomach. Body too straight to be lying on a couch that he’s familiar with, in your home, which he is also familiar with. He looks so amusingly out of place that it makes you laugh.
“What?” He quips, and you set the oil on the coffee table before leaning over him, cupping his heavy jaw.
He’s lost now, forgets what he was even thinking before cause your hair is haloing your face and your lips are on his mouth and it’s so gentle despite how teasing your tone is.
“Lay on your stomach, silly. I’m gonna massage your back.”
He just grunts, like he was gonna do that the whole time and you watch him with your tongue in your cheek as he sits himself up and flips over. Shuffles a bit to get comfortable, places his hands underneath his cheek. You’re glad he can’t see the way you’re staring at every tendril of muscle moving underneath his freckled skin.
You only waste a little bit of time staring. Mapping the massive expanse of him, the raised pink strip of flesh that starts just below the nape of his neck and ends in an even skew just above his tailbone.
You climb onto the back of his thighs, testing your weight against him. He’s unflinching, but still you ask.
“Can I sit on your lower back? Tell me if it hurts please.”
You can feel the smirk as if it’s an entity of its own, the vibration in his chest.
“Sit wherever you want. I can take it.”
And you’re not lost on the fact that he’s secretly loving this, and the suggestiveness in his tone is laced with the palpable ache. That the intimacy of your giggle and punching at his sides isn’t eating away at his heart and making a permanent home in the gaps.
You roll your eyes, grabbing the oil. You warm it in your palms before settling yourself in a comfortable straddle.
He flinches at the first touch.
Makes this sound like he didn’t mean for it to come out, like it caught him by surprise too. So you’re slow, gentle with your movements. Palms fully pressed against his lower back, thumbs out to rub in slow circles as you push them forward and into the rigid surface of his skin and muscle.
You’re not sure if he’s breathing, so you lean forward and kiss his shoulder where it’s bulging. His ears are pink, lips parted.
“You okay? Too much pressure?”
Your voice is melodic and soft and your breath is warm against the side of his neck. He shakes his head.
“No it’s good. Can be rougher, won’t break me I promise.”
You nip his earlobe before sitting back up and pressing the heels of your palms into his back with a bit more force, digging your thumbs in deeper. He’s taking big, deep breaths now and you can see that his eyes have fluttered shut.
He’s enjoying it.
His skin is reddening and hot with the shape of your fingertips, but everything feels a bit less tightly coiled now. The knots have faded to small points of tension, soothed by your knuckles and then traced with your nails.
Ten minutes pass, and when your doting hands cease their movements he groans at you, cranes his neck back to see why you’ve suddenly stopped.
“Feels better? You look sleepy.” You rub absentminded patterns over the dips and valleys of him, ring finger catching the pink strip of raised flesh and he hopes you somehow haven’t noticed each time you’ve touched the scar his skin erupts with goosebumps.
You have.
You lean over when he doesn’t respond, kiss his cheek. He twists with the urge to feel your lips and you oblige him easily, effortlessly. It’s slow cause of the awkward angle but it doesn’t matter, not when you’re on his back and your mouth is warm and comforting and forgiving.
Your hands are even better, in his hair and on his face.
“If you let me do that more often it might help, if you’d like that?”
You’ve got him in a vulnerable position, admittedly. But who is he to deny you? You’re asking so gut wrenchingly soft, and truthfully it has helped. Can it take away years of chronic pain? No, but it soothes him in other human ways that he’s needed his entire life.
ok i’m having some #thoughts… what if fbi!dex and reader were dating before the whole fisk bullshit and when he went to the mental hospital, reader never visited him. he was so confused and hurt bc u told him you’d never leave him, so when he escapes prison, the first thing he looks for is u. he shows up to your apartment and sees a kid standing behind u, the right age for dex to be the father…
Scared of Life
Benjamin Poindexter x fem! Reader
warning: hurt/comfort, angst, depression during the pregnancy, your daughter being a little possessive over you
A/N: WAIT I LOVE THIS IDEA SO MUCH OMG???? Thank you so much for the request, I hope you like this <333
Dex remembered promises with terrifying precision.
Most people forgot small details over time. Words blurred together. Memories softened around the edges until they became easier to live with. But Dex’s mind didn’t work like that. Every important moments burned itself deep beneath his skin like shrapnel he could never fully remove.
Especially when it came to you. Especially that night.
You had been laying half on top of him on the couch, wrapped in one of his shirts while some terrible late night cooking show played quietly in the background. Dex barely remembered the show itself. What he remembered was your heartbeat against his chest. The warmth of your fingers lazily tracing the scars on body. The way you looked at him like he was still human even after learning all the ugly parts of him.
“What if I get bad again?” he asked quietly. You lifted your head almost immediately after that. Confusion crossed your face first before sadness slowly replaced it. Like the question itself hurt you more than him.
“What do you mean?” Dex shrugged slightly beneath you, eyes fixed on the ceiling instead of your face.
“People leave eventually.” His voice stayed flat when he said it, almost detached. “Usually after they realize I’m too much work.”
Your expression tightened instantly. You shifted upward until he had no choice but to look at you. Your hands cupped his face carefully, thumbs brushing lightly against his jaw.
“I’m not people.” you whispered softly. Dex stared at you for several seconds without speaking.
Then quietly:
“You promise?”
Your forehead rested against his.
“I promise.” That promise became the thing that haunted him most after Fisk destroyed everything.
Because you disappeared. Completely.
No visits during recovery. No calls to the hospital. No messages. Nothing.
At first Dex thought maybe you were hurt. He asked about you constantly during the first few weeks until doctors started exchanging uncomfortable looks every time he brought up your name. Eventually one nurse admitted nobody matching your description had visited him once.
That answer hollowed something inside him immediately. Still, he made excuses for you.
Maybe Fisk threatened you. Maybe the FBI forced you away. Maybe you thought he hated you now after everything that happened.
But as weeks turned into months, the silence became impossible to explain away. Dex sat alone in sterile hospital rooms replaying every conversation you ever had together until it drove him half insane. Every memory became evidence against himself.
Maybe he scared you too much. Maybe you saw what he really was. Maybe loving him finally became exhausting.
Eventually the worst possibility settled heavily into his chest and refused to leave. You abandoned him.
Just like everyone else always did.
The realization destroyed him more thoroughly than Fisk ever could. Because Dex loved catastrophically. His body craved you like oxygen. He was utterly miserable and obsessed with you. Once someone mattered to him, they became stitched directly into his nervous system. Losing them didn’t feel emotional.
It felt physical. Like skin being ripped apart. Like he was told to stab himself over, over and over again.
So when Dex finally escaped months later, bruised and angry and barely holding himself together beneath layers of violence and betrayal, there was only one thing he needed before anything else. You.
He found your apartment just after midnight.
The building sat in a quieter neighborhood than your old place. Smaller too. Safer. Warm yellow light glowed faintly through the curtains while flower pots rested carefully beside neighboring doors.
Dex hated how normal it looked.
You used to talk about wanting normal someday. Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere without constant sirens and blood and fear clinging to every street corner.
Apparently you built that life without him. The thought twisted sharply in his chest. Dex stood outside your apartment door listening carefully before moving closer.
Two heartbeats. His expression darkened instantly.
You moved on???
His jaw tightened hard enough to ache before he reached for the lock. The mechanism clicked softly beneath practiced fingers. The door opened silently.
The apartment smelled exactly like you. Vanilla candles. Laundry detergent. Coffee. And your parfum in the air made it worse.
For one dangerous second, Dex nearly forgot why he was angry.
His eyes moved carefully across the room. A blanket tossed over the couch. Crayons scattered across the coffee table. Tiny shoes abandoned near the kitchen.
Tiny shoes? Dex frowned slightly.
Then he heard your voice somewhere deeper inside the apartment.
“Lily, if you’re still awake, I swear to god-” Small footsteps thundered instantly through the hallway. A child’s laugh followed.
Dex froze completely.
You appeared seconds later wearing oversized sleep clothes, hair messy like you’d been trying unsuccessfully to get someone into bed for the last hour. The second your eyes landed on him, every bit of color drained from your face instantly.
The air left your lungs so sharply he heard it.
“Dex.” His name sounded fragile coming from you. Emotional enough to make something ugly twist inside him all over again. You stared at him like you’d seen a ghost. Dex stared back just as hard.
You looked tired. Not physically exhausted exactly.
Just worn down around the edges in ways he didn’t remember. Softer somehow too. There were faint shadows beneath your eyes, old stress lines near your mouth, and despite everything crashing violently inside him, Dex still thought you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Then anger surged back hard enough to choke him.
“You left.” The words came out rougher than intended. Your expression cracked immediately after hearing them.
Before you could answer, another figure peeked around the hallway corner behind you.
A tiny human, a little girl. Maybe five years old.
Dark curls slightly messy from sleep. Big eyes narrowed suspiciously at the stranger standing inside her apartment.
Dex’s breathing stopped instantly.
Because she looked like him.
The eyebrows. The cheekbones. The expression.
Even the way she tilted her head while assessing him looked painfully familiar. The little girl blinked once before gasping dramatically.
“MOMMY!!!!!!” Dex barely had time to process what was happening before the child suddenly shoved herself directly in front of you with shocking determination.
“MOMMY GET BEHIND ME!!!!!” she yelled loudly. “THERE IS A MAN HERE.”
Dex stared blankly. The tiny girl spread both arms protectively in front of you like she genuinely planned on fighting him herself if necessary.
You looked one stress induced headache away from collapsing entirely.
“Lily, sweetheart-”
“No!” she shouted. “I saw this happen on the big screen.”
Dex blinked slowly. The child pointed accusingly toward him.
“You cannot break into our house.”
Dex frowned slightly. “Technically I already did.”
“THAT’S WORSE.” You made a strangled noise beside her that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter.
Dex looked deeply offended instead. The little girl squinted harder at him.
“You look sus… uh… susbizi- Mommy what was the word for weird dangerous looking people.”
“Suspicious, baby. Suspicious.”
“YOU LOOK SUSPICIOUS!!”
“I look suspicious.”
“Yes.” She narrowed her eyes critically. “And your face is weird.”
Dex actually looked wounded by that statement.
“My face is normal.”
“No it’s not,” she argued immediately. “You look like a sad potato.”
You physically turned away to hide your laughter. Dex stared at the child in complete disbelief. Then suddenly her expression changed. Her eyes narrowed further.
“Oh my god.” Your face lost every remaining trace of color.
“Lily-”
“You have my eyebrows.” Silence filled the apartment instantly. The little girl looked between both of you several times before gasping loudly enough to wake the entire building.
“MOMMY.” You covered your face with both hands immediately.
“IS THIS THE GUY YOU SAID WENT ON VACATION WITH PEPPA?”
“Yes, Lily. That’s him.” honestly? what were you supposed to tell her when she asked you where her dad is. So you came up with the excuse that her father is on vacation with… peppa the pig.
“So… that’s your secret husband?” she asks innocently.
“What? No!”
Dex looked equally alarmed. “Absolutely not.”
The little girl pointed directly at him again.
“You’re the daddy my mommy told me about.” Dex forgot how breathing worked. You looked ready to die on the spot.
Lily marched directly toward Dex after that with terrifying confidence before stopping directly in front of him. She planted both tiny hands on her hips while staring up at him with the exact same intense focus he’d seen in mirrors his entire life.
“Okay,” she announced seriously. “Here are the rules.”
Dex blinked once. “Rules.”
“Yes.” She pointed between herself and you. “Mommy is mine first.”
You made another choking noise somewhere behind her.
“I’m not sharing,” Lily continued firmly. “Even if you are my dad.”
Dex stared at the tiny child standing in front of him issuing territorial warnings like a mob boss. Then very seriously:
“You don’t wanna share your mother.”
“No.” She crossed her arms harder. “She’s my favorite person.”
Something inside Dex cracked slightly hearing that. Because he understood immediately. Because you’re his favorite person, too.
Unfortunately for him, Lily apparently inherited every protective instinct he ever possessed. It was as if your genes didn’t even try other than her getting your eyes.
“You can stay!” she decided after several seconds. “But if you make mommy cry, I bite.”
Dex nodded solemnly. “Understood.”
“She actually bit a pre school teacher once.” you admitted weakly.
“He was rude to you!” Lily defended instantly. Dex nodded again like this was perfectly rational behavior. Honestly, the fact that he seemed proud should’ve concerned you more than it did.
The next hour passed in complete emotional chaos.
Lily interrogated Dex like an FBI agent while simultaneously climbing all over you possessively anytime he sat too close. She demanded answers to increasingly bizarre questions while Dex answered every single one with complete seriousness.
“Do you know dinosaurs?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your favorite?”
“Velociraptor.”
Lily gasped dramatically. “That’s mine too.”
Dex looked absurdly pleased by this information.
Meanwhile you sat frozen on the couch trying unsuccessfully not to emotionally collapse watching them interact.
Dex looked at her like she hung the moon itself.
Eventually Lily began falling asleep curled against your side while still glaring suspiciously toward Dex anytime he moved too suddenly.
Her tiny hand clutched your shirt tightly even half asleep. Dex watched her carefully from the opposite side of the couch.
Memorizing every detail about her. About his daughter.
Then Lily’s sleepy eyes slowly lifted toward him one final time.
“You better not go on vacation again.” she mumbled quietly. The room fell completely silent. Dex froze instantly. Lily yawned softly before curling closer against you.
“Mommy gets sad sometimes.” she whispered sleepily. “She cries when she thinks I’m sleeping.”
Dex looked at you immediately. And the pain on his face nearly destroyed you. After carrying Lily carefully into bed together, the apartment finally fell quiet.
The second her bedroom door clicked shut, all the tension both of you had been avoiding rushed back violently.
Dex stood near the kitchen counter while you lingered several feet away uncertainly. Neither of you knew how to begin unraveling five years of grief.
“She’s five.” you said softly. Dex nodded once.
“She likes dinosaurs. Hates cherries. Talks a lot about wanting to build an animal farm. Thinks every stray cat belongs to her.” His expression softened briefly before tightening again.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” There it was. The question he keeps asking himself the whole time.
You looked down immediately because suddenly meeting his eyes felt impossible.
“Because I was terrified.” you admitted quietly. Dex stayed completely still.
“After Fisk.” you continued shakily, “people watched everything connected to you. Hospitals. FBI contacts. Your apartment.” Your throat tightened painfully. “Then I found out I was pregnant.”
Dex looked physically unable to breathe.
“I kept thinking if anyone found out about her…” Your voice cracked slightly. “They’d use her against you. Against me.”
Tears blurred your vision.
“So I disappeared.” Dex’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
“I wanted to visit you,” you whispered. “God, Dex, I wanted to so badly.”
His breathing became uneven instantly.
“But every time I thought about bringing her near any of that…” You shook your head weakly. “I couldn’t do it.”
The apartment suddenly felt too quiet. Too small for all the pain sitting between both of you.
“The pregnancy was horrible without you.” you admitted softly after a moment. Dex closed his eyes briefly.
“Not because of her,” you said quickly. “She was an angel. Felt like she knew I wasn’t doing well and tried to not give me a even harder time.” A weak laugh escaped you through tears. “But because every scary part of it made me want you.”
His face crumpled slightly.
“I wanted your arms around me when I got sick.” Your voice shook harder now. “Wanted to tell you when she kicked for the first time. Wanted you there during ultrasounds.” Tears slipped freely down your cheeks now. “I wanted to lay against your chest and hear you tell me everything would be okay.”
Dex physically flinched. Like every word hurt him. Like you just stabbed him in his heart.
“I needed you,” you whispered brokenly. “And I couldn’t have you.”
For several seconds, Dex said absolutely nothing. Then suddenly he crossed the room. His hands cupped your face carefully. Like he needed physical proof you were still real.
“You protected our daughter.” he said fiercely. You cried harder instantly.
“You should hate me.”
“No.” The answer came immediately.
“I thought you abandoned me,” Dex admitted quietly, eyes burning into yours. “But you were protecting her.”
Your chest hurt painfully.
“I waited for you every day,” he confessed. “Every single day.”
Something shattered inside you hearing that. You wrapped your arms around him instantly.
Dex made a quiet sound against your shoulder that almost didn’t sound human at all. Relief hit him so hard it physically shook through his body. His arms locked tightly around your waist while his face buried against your neck like he still couldn’t believe this was real.
“I will never leave you again.” he whispers loud enough for you to hear.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Yes." 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.
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.
"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?"
"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?
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.
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.
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.
"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 should’ve done the job the other night.”
“If I wanted you dead you’d already be. I need a place a lie low again.”
Anger sears through your veins, “My apartment isn’t a damn hotel and if it were you’d owe me a lot! Look at the state of my window and couch!”
“I’ll buy you a new one.”
“My window?” You grind out, incredulous at this conversation. You get closer to the door.
”Your apartment complex should take care of that.”
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 you’ve 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 there’s 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 don’t falter.
”It’s your fault that it’s broken! Your fault I can’t sleep at night, I don’t feel safe, I can’t take a shower longer than ten minutes, I’m—“
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.
”You have to go,” you whisper to him, urgency filling your voice. He’s letting you push him towards the window until you get just right in front of it.
“NYPD open up!”
You look back towards your bedroom opening, “Just a minute!” Turning back to Dex you gesture to the window hurriedly, “Go!”
You won’t 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, “I’ll be right outside. Make sure they don’t get too close to the window.”
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 hadn’t even thought about the bloodstained couch, adjusting your posture to hide the room behind you.
“I’m so sorry, it was a false alarm.” you start, sweat gathering along your brow as you lie to the officers.
”I thought you said someone had cut into your window? That it was broken?” 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, “No, I’m so sorry, I checked it and it was just torn from the wind.”
The cop gives you a once over, not buying it. “What wind?”
"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.
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.
"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.
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.
"I'd make sure we met in public. Somewhere you like. That café 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.
"How...how is it going to happen now?" your voice is small, breathless.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
"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?
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."
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.
"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.
You try to squirm, but his large hands hook under your hips, holding you to him. He yanks you down close to him. He’s licking you up like he’s starved, he’s 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.
His tongue flattens to lick up as much surface of you as he can, his tongue coming up your clit, circling around before he’s adding a sucking pressure to it. Your gasp comes out sharp and in shock, fingers flexing against the strands of his hair. He doesn’t 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.
Dex’s 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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
"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.
"I said you would." His fingers push inside of you, making an obscene squelching noise with how wet you were.
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.
"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.
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 you’re 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.
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 he’s 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.
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.
Your thighs tremble as you come back to your body and reality, heavily aware of Dex’s mouth on your skin. He gently eases his fingers out of you, causing a loud whine to leave you.
An airless laugh leaves him in response as his mouth trails down your neck, “It’s okay, baby. I’ll give you more.”
You shiver at that, not sure how much more you can take. You’re 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. He’s 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 you’re 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.
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 he’d given you. His knees dip onto the bed, and you reach up to touch his shirt. He shakes his head once and you frown.
”I can’t see you?” 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. “Not right now. It’s not about me right now.” You didn’t understand, he didn’t want to be distracted when he still had so much to discover about you. Didn’t 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.
You’re not used to this intense amount of attention. You’re feeling shy again, almost like a bug under a microscope. His features soften, realizing he’s losing you again to that logic in your brain.
”I need to see you. I need this. Please understand.” 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. You’ve 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.
You wet your lips, a movement yet again tracked precisely by the man over you. “How’s it going to happen?”
He’s gaze flicks back to your eyes, pleasure and mirth filling his. He knows what you’re doing. Giving him the go ahead while asking for reassurance. He likes this, this game you’re 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.
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
"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.
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.
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.
"I won't-" you gasp, fingers digging into his back, "Dex, don't leave, please don't. Don't stop."
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.
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.
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."
he’s always precise. targetted care in his movements like he’s planning what he’ll do before he does it. you find him smiling faintly when you blink at him, stammering at how he’d hit a target so far away.
even if the target was just a garbage can.
at the park, he grabs a stray kite just before it gets out of his reach. the string loosens from a little boys fingers as you walk by. though dex’s hand slips out of his pocket before the boy even lets go and dex’s thick fingers clasp around the string.
you just barely saw him do it, but you did nonetheless.
dex catches cups that you accidentally knock over and doesn’t let them hit the ground. you’ve just drunk a glass of water and mindlessly set it on the corner of the table. dex is already eyeing you from across the room. he crosses before you turn to him and your elbow hits the cup. your eyes shut in anticipation of glass shattering. but instead, he reaches out and catches it behind your back and sets it right back down.
at josie’s, dex doesn’t just hit the red target on the dartboard easily but he’ll also pin things from across the room. when you’re sipping your terrible drink and giggling at your stupidly attractive boyfriend, he’s still throwing darts with his arm around your waist. not missing a single shot. but a hooded figure grabs a purse from a old woman and dashes out from her grip and dex sees it before you do. he throws his dart from across the damn bar and it hits the man, right in his hand holding the purse.
the man screeches in pain, his hand pinned to the splintering wood that was probably older than you. the purse falls from his hand immediately and dex picks it up to return to the older woman. she thanks him graciously and you’re eyeing him with lustful intent as he makes his way back over to you.
“what?” he blinks and freezes at your gaze. “i’m one of the good guys now.”
your eyes trail down his figure and then up again, intensely slow. he blushes hard and tries to hide his growing smile. though you grip at his shirt and urge him closer, rasping his name like a plea and a demand he’d never deny.
“i wanna go home now.”
dex nods quickly and takes your purse in his other hand, ushering you out of the bar as fast as possible.
the apartment door shuts behind the two of you only after you’d already been pushed towards the couch. dex bounces a fidget to you’d bought him off the counter and it hits the front door, pushing it shut hard. his hands on your waist move meticulously as they begin shedding your layers. barely even touching the button of your jeans as he opens and pulls them down. his rough hands trailing stupidly soft up your spine, dragging the fabric and sending shivers up deliciously.
his hips seem to have the same motivation of his mind. precise, perverse, and insatiable.
before you can part your lips to let any sounds out, he swallows them down like something rare. he fills it with little sounds that destroy you instead. his lips like sweet nectar to your sensitive ears that amplify every thought with visions on him.
because dex fucks like he fights—skilled and unfair.
every push of his hips, pressing against yours. every thrust more devastating than the last, stealing your breath repeatedly. over and over. he learns and he adjusts without you saying anything. he listens to your body and to the sounds you make to guide him aimlessly. he smiles when you lose yourself in the feelings. watching you twist just for him to hold you there and keep you from squirming. dimples evident as he laughs lowly and holds your hands above your head.
“right there sweetheart? you like when i touch you there?” cooing by your ear and pulling away to watch. because dex loves to watch.
he’s so precise in his movements that he purposefully touches the depths of you. just enough before it’s too much for you. mouthing down your jaw while he kisses your cervix. letting your moans bless his ears while you clench around him. dex kisses you through it but he doesn’t stop. he keeps moving and teasing. coaxes you through your high and tumbling into a new one while he resumes his ministrations.
he’ll beg you to let him come inside you but you both know you’ll let him anyways.
“let me do it,” he pants against your skin, “let me give you everything.”
the most sultry seduction, wetting his lips as he speaks. the honey tongued words drowning you in bliss as he holds your hips with roughened care. the sound of his skin on yours and the hard muscle of his abs under your fingers when you trail your palms down his torso.
how can you deny him? how can you deny yourself?
you’re nodding before you can think about consequences. you’re trying to wrap your legs around his waist when he pushes them up higher and higher. letting your ankles hang off his shoulders with your knees pressed to your chest.
dex fucks you faster, running his free palm down your bodies to tease you further. rubbing tight circles with his thumb while you fall into a pleasurable pain that you recognized as overstimulation. thrusts sloppy as he loses his own train of thought.
his mind filled with nothing but you, you, you.
his worst obsession. his biggest weakness.
you gasp as you feel him finally let go, painting you white between his shattering, relentless thrusts. pushing back through his broken groans as he pulses against your walls. nothing ever goes to waste with him. he’s precise with where he wants to fill you until you’re dazed. blissed out when he finally stills.
he stays buried inside, hand lifting to grip your cheeks. squeezing just enough to make your lips pout and part to spit directly on your waiting tongue. not letting a drop escape. pulling out with a wet sound you’d burned to memory, he makes quick work to collect the two of you and push it back inside. sealing it with a kiss that stole your breath effortlessly.
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter confesses that he has been obsessively fantasizing about a domestic future with you.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! (Maybe flangst?) Domestic but still unhinged Dex, obsessive love, possessive relationship, reader is mentioned to be a PhD student in forensic psychology (no age is mentioned), codependency, romanticized violence, injury care, talks of marriage, future children talk, brief mention of breeding kink and sex is implied (but it’s for set up I swear), established relationship, hurt/comfort, Dex's version of a nuclear family is a bit unhealthy but he means well!! (Let me know if I miss anything!) set right after the ending of DDBA Season 2.
Word Count : 9.8k
Requested by : multiple people asking for Dex fluff!
Notes : this is my attempt to write a domestic (yet still obsessive) Dex while not being too ooc, inspired by the song Bloom by the Paper Kites. Also, should I start a Dex taglist? Anyways, Enjoy!
You had not meant to start talking about employment while you were wiping blood off Benjamin Poindexter on your bed.
It just slipped out of you, somewhere between the towel going pink under your fingers and the smell of peroxide rising through the warm, lived-in air of your studio apartment.
You and Dex shared that space in New York, which sounded more pathetic than it felt. It wasn’t luxurious. It wasn’t really the kind of place people imagined when they said they wanted to build a life with their love of their life. There was no separate bedroom, no separate dining room, no hallway to put your coats in. The kitchen was barely its own room, more of a stubborn little strip of counter and cabinets pretending to be separate from the rest of the apartment, and the bed sat close enough to a cabinet that you had once knocked a stack of your research books onto the mattress by accident and Dex had caught two before they hit your knees.
But it was yours, and that made a difference.
Dex didn’t really need much. That was one of the first things you had learned about him, and one of the saddest.
He owned what he could carry, what he could hide, what he could use: clothes, weapons, toothbrush, a plain black jacket that had seen through more death than most people. He hadn’t moved into your life so much as folded himself carefully into the empty spaces of it, as if he was still waiting to be told he had taken up too much room.
You had filled the rest. Your desk sat in the corner under the window, always drowning in highlighters, case studies, printed articles, and half-dead pens. Your forensic psychology textbooks were stacked wherever they would fit. There was a mug full of rulers and pencils beside your laptop, a corkboard with notes and deadlines and a photobooth strip of the two of you in Coney Island that Dex pretended not to care about but always noticed when it tilted crooked.
Of course he cared. It was your first date.
And though he didn’t tell you, he had made a copy of it and put it under his suit when he went out, right over his heart. It was a reminder that you wanted him home.
But this space was enough. It was more than enough, somehow.
There was still room to dance in the kitchen if you were careful. Last Saturday, barefoot and half-asleep, with the radio turned on, you had twirled yourself into his arms to Tina’s Proud Mary. Dex had just stood there like he had no idea what to do until you took his hands and put them on your waist. There was still room for him to lift you onto the counter when you kissed him too sweetly for too long. There was still room for dinner eaten on a small table with two folding chairs, there was still room for your laundry tangled together in one basket, for his shoes beside yours by the door.
There was still room, somehow, for Dex to crowd you back against the wall, hands firm on your hips, mouth hot against your throat while you laughed under your breath and told him the neighbors were going get tired of hearing how well he fucked you.
Room for him to murmur filthy and wrecked things, that he should “throw your pills away,” that he was going to “knock you up, huh? Want me to put a baby in you?”
You’d pull back with a wicked smile, nails hooked in his shirt, and you’d whisper, “That is not the threat you think it is, baby.”
You chalked it up to your boyfriend being a kinky little shit. You should have paid more attention to the way his eyes went black, the way his grip tightened on your skin. When he kissed you again, it was with the devoted certainty of a man who had just realized his most unhinged fantasy was not his alone.
Still, even in this small fantasy, there was still room to pretend, on the good nights, that you were normal.
Tonight was not one of the good nights.
Dex had come home after a day across the Supreme Court building with blood dried dark along his cheekbone, though you suspected none of it was his.
Even if it was, you knew he wasn’t hurt at all, because Dex didn’t stagger or slump. He didn’t come through the door gasping or cursing or asking for help. He entered the apartment with rigid control in his body, like every step had been measured in advance. He came in like arriving home had been a decision, not an escape. Like whatever had happened in this room, with you, was sacred compared to the rest of the world.
He came home like he had not been part of the makeshift siege at court.
Like he had not shot the Mayor’s aide.
Like the whole city had not been tearing itself apart on the news for hours while you sat on the bed with your phone in your hand, refreshing headlines you didn’t want to read and listening for footsteps in the hallway.
When he looked at you, his pupils tracked your face. Before he let you touch him, before he let you ask questions, before he decided whether his own body was allowed to matter, his eyes went over you like a security sweep to make sure you were safe.
Then they landed on your arm and saw a bruise.
It was nothing, really. You had caught yourself badly against the fire escape earlier when you’d climbed out for air because the apartment had felt too small with sirens in the distance and Dex not answering his phone. It was a mean little scar, blue and purple, but shallow enough not to hurt you permanently. It was annoying, more than anything. You had almost forgotten about it.
But Dex looked at it like it was evidence.
So now you were sitting beside him on the bed with a towel, a bottle of peroxide, cotton pads, and the sad frozen bag of peas you had pulled from the freezer because neither of you owned a real ice pack. You were trying to clean blood from his face. He was trying to ice your bruise.
It would have been funny if it did not make you want to cry.
“Give me your arm,” he said.
“There’s literally blood on you,” you sighed.
“Not mine,” he said dismissively, confirming your suspicions, “give me your arm.”
“Benjamin.”
His hazel eyes flicked up, mostly because you only called him that when you were annoyed at him.
You stared at each other for one stubborn second, but he didn’t seem like he was going to let up.
Then you sighed and gave him your arm.
He took it carefully, his fingers gentle around your wrist despite the split skin across his knuckles. He pressed the frozen peas to the bruise like he was handling precious and breakable gemstones, his mouth set in a hard line, his focus absolute.
That was the thing about loving Dex: it wasn’t sensible. It had never been sensible.
You’d always had a practical head on your shoulders. You were getting your third degree in forensic psychology because you liked patterns, motive, broken systems, and the strange little hinges inside people that made them choose one door instead of another. You were both a student and a research assistant at the university, which sounded better on paper than it felt in your bank account. You were technically employed, technically building experience, technically lucky to have the position at all. In reality, you were paid in a way that felt insulting once, tuition costs, books, and subway fare had finished carving you hollow.
Still, you were smart. Academically, you understood obsession. You had annotated articles on attachment trauma, violent conditioning, hypervigilance, and maladaptive devotion. You had spent whole nights highlighting phrases that described people like Dex in clinical and sterile language.
You knew the warning signs and studied the red flags. You knew the vocabulary you were supposed to use. You knew what you were supposed to do when someone like Bullseye looked at you like you were the last fixed point in the universe: run.
But when Dex saved your life during an Anti-Vigilante Task Force raid on the lab you were visiting, all that practical knowledge had become extremely inconvenient.
It had been chaos: glass breaking, alarm screaming. Your supervisor shouted for everyone to get down. The AVTF had come in hard, looking for records, samples, names, anything connected to vigilante research and enhanced activity. You had hidden beneath a workstation with one hand clamped over your mouth and your heartbeat so loud you thought it might give you away.
Then Dex had arrived.
He had been hunting that day. You later found out because he told you.
He had moved through your lab with a purpose, turning the room itself into a weapon. A glass beaker found its way into a man’s throat. He had thrown a ruler with such perfect force, it split skin and cartilage. A metal clipboard managed to dislocate a man’s jaw, even through the helmet. Pens, scalpels, broken glass, a heavy ceramic mug from your professor’s desk were all used. Ordinary things became fatal in his hands, as if the universe had been waiting for him to point at something and decide what it was for.
He killed twelve men with office supplies and lab equipment, and then he crouched in front of you, breathing hard, blood on his cheek, and asked you if you were okay.
You should have been horrified. You were horrified.
Part of you had been shaking with terror. Another part, the part you did like to examine too closely, had understood with awful clarity that some monsters were safer when they were loved than when they were not.
You should have run from him.
Instead, you had fallen in love.
Worse, he had fallen, too.
The love that grew between the two of you wasn't sweet, nor safe. Not in the way people with normal jobs and normal apartments and normal dinner plans fell in love. Dex loved wholly. He loved like if he took his eyes off you, the world would immediately try to take you from him. He loved like affection and violence had gotten tangled in him so early that he no longer knew how to separate protection from possession.
And you, for whatever reason, loved him right back.
You loved him in the studio apartment with the too-small kitchen and the desk in the corner. You loved him when he stood behind you while you brushed your teeth, chin resting against your shoulder, silent and half-asleep and watchful even then. You loved him when he checked the locks twice before bed. You loved him when he pretended not to care about your old Greek and Roman mythology books and then remembered every story you had ever told him. You loved him when he came home with blood under his nails, but looked at your scraped arm like the city owed him an explanation.
“Hold still,” he said, pressing the frozen peas more carefully against your skin.
You stared at him, at the slight bruise under his jaw and the split knuckles he was ignoring because your shallow scrape had somehow hurt him more.
“I should get a job,” you said, almost offhandedly.
His hand stopped.
You hadn’t meant for it to come out like that: flat and sudden. Not while he was sitting on your shared bed after a long day. But there it was anyway sitting between you and the ruined silence of the apartment.
Dex looked up slowly. “You have a job.”
“I have half a job.” You laughed without much humor. “I have a professor who thinks payment is optional because experience is apparently a currency. Because PhD students clearly don’t need to eat, right?”
He huffed. A few months ago, he did offer to dispose of your professor and you just waved him off, saying the person who would take his job would be worse. He offered to dispose of him, too, but stopped offering half-measured solutions when you kissed his forehead and said the department would probably just shut down because they can’t afford two murders. “But you’re in school,” he said.
“So?” You shrugged, “Lots of people are in school and have extra jobs.”
“You babysit Mrs. Smithers’ cat,” he frowned.
You snorted before you could stop yourself. “She pays us in lasagnas.”
“She makes good lasagna,” he insisted.
“That is not an income stream, Dex.”
“No,” he shook his head, knowing how hard you actually worked for your spot in the institution. “But you’re always busy anyway. I can take care of you”
“You’re wanted, baby,” you reminded him.
That hurt.
Dex’s eyes barely changed, but you knew him too well now. You saw the tiny shift in his eyes. His fingers adjusted around your wrist. He looked down at your arm again, focusing too intently on the ice pack, as if his obsession to keep you safe could be used to cover a wound in the conversation.
“I can provide,” he said.
You sighed immediately, because of course he would say it like that. Like a vow, like a reflex, like a wound of his own.
“I know.”
“I pay rent,” he reminded you, though he said it like it was a responsibility. He didn’t use it against you; it was just a fact.
“I know.”
“I pay groceries,” he said.
“Yes, Dex,” you huffed, “I know.”
His teeth clenched, more disappointed in himself than at you. “Then what?”
You looked around the apartment because it was easier than looking at him.
Yes, Dex paid rent. Dex bought groceries. Dex came home with cash sometimes, folded tight and tucked away in envelopes. He made sure there was good coffee in the cabinet because you hated your mornings without it. He bought the brand of cereal you liked and pretended it was because it had been on sale. He fixed the loose leg on your desk chair. He remembered bills before you did.
He provided, but it was not stable.
Dex didn’t clock into shifts. Dex didn’t have a payroll department, a predictable deposit, a pension, or a neat little tax form with an employer’s name printed at the top. His work came in fragments and dangerous calls from powerful people who knew what he could do.
Odd jobs, if you wanted to be generous. Assassination, if you wanted to be honest.
He did it because he was good at it.
But mostly, lately, he did it because of you.
Because rent was due. Because the fridge needed filling. Because your textbooks cost you too much. Because he liked watching you eat takeout on the bed with your legs folded beneath you, he liked seeing you safe and warm and full in his room. Because every dollar he brought home became proof that he could keep you satisfied, that he could build a life, that he could be more than the worst thing he knew how to do.
And that terrified you almost as much as it touched you, because there was no stability in that kind of work.
Sometimes, Dex wished he had known you when he was still with the FBI.
Before prison. Before Fisk. Before his face was plastered on the news. Before every job application in the world became a joke. He imagined it sometimes in a way that felt masochistic.
He imagined coming home to you in a suit and taking you to dinner with a paycheck that had his name on it. He imagined you flowers, buying you pretty things and whatever else you asked for.
He could have been a man for you. As outdated as he knew that sounded, he still wished he could be that man again.
“It’s not about whether you do,” you said carefully. “It’s just that… it’s not steady.”
His teeth tightened further.
“I’m not insulting you,” you reassured.
“You think I can’t take care of you.”
“No.” You leaned closer, your voice softening the impact. “I think you take care of me so much that you forget I should be allowed to take care of you, too.”
He didn’t answer.
Outside, a siren wailed below, then faded into traffic and distance. The studio felt very small around you, too warm and intimate.
Dex looked down at your arm again and pressed the melting bag of peas more gently against your skin.
“I’ll find something steady,” he said.
Your heart clenched. “Dex.”
“I will,” he promised.
“Where?”
His eyes lifted to yours. You tried to smile, but it came out tired and fond and sad all the same. “You shot Buck Cashman in front of half the city. I’m not saying that like I’m mad. I’m saying maybe LinkedIn is not going to work out this month.”
“I’ll find something,” he said.
It came out too quickly, too flatly, like he was sealing a wound before you could see how deep it went.
You looked at him where he sat on the edge of the bed, one knee pressed against yours, the frozen bag of peas melting slowly in his hand. You saw the bruise smudged high beneath his cheekbone, the split in his lower lip that he kept worrying with his tongue like he had forgotten it was there. He looked awful. Beautiful, too. The world had tried, again and again, to make him unlovable, and your stupid heart had taken one look at him and said, mine.
“What, a desk job?” you asked.
Dex gave you a look.
He wasn’t offended exactly. More like you had asked him to picture himself, in his Bullseye suit that you loved so much, sitting under fluorescent lights, wearing a lanyard, filling out forms, and smiling politely at coworkers named Brad from HR.
The idea was so absurd that, despite everything, your mouth twitched upward.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, leaning in a little. “Did I insult your very promising administrative career?”
He frowned unwillingly, and for a second you hated yourself for accidentally being a little too mean.
Still, you couldn’t help yourself. You leaned closer and kissed the scar near his cheekbone so gently it was barely anything at all. Dex closed his eyes for half a second. When you pulled back, he still kept his eyes closed for one breath longer.
“Baby,” you whispered, voice gentler now, nearly breaking with fondness, “you cannot put ‘excellent with projectiles’ on a résumé.”
His eyes opened and found you immediately. “I could.”
You shook your head, “You really, really shouldn’t.”
“I have skills.” He pouted. It was cute.
“You have criminal charges.”
“Transferable skills,” he said, with such dry seriousness that you chuckled before you could stop yourself.
His posture changed, like he always did when you laughed. Not dramatically, though. He didn’t transform all at once. He softened by millimeters, as if your happiness had reached into some fortified part of him and loosened one bolt at a time. The hard line of his shoulders eased. His teeth unclenched. His thumb, which had been pressing the peas too carefully to your bruise, shifted a little.
For a moment, he looked less like a weapon that was left loaded in your apartment and more like a man who had come home to you because there was nowhere else in the world he could bear to be, because he was yours. Because he wanted so badly to be good for you that it almost broke your heart.
He adjusted the ice pack again. “You shouldn’t have to worry about money.”
“We live in New York, Dex.” You tried to sound light but it just came out tired. “Worrying about money is basically a civic duty.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” he said again.
He didn’t say it like a boyfriend trying to be useful. He said it like a soldier stating a mission objective. Like he had identified the enemy— rent, groceries, tuition, your professor underpaying you, the whole grinding machine of the city— and had decided that he would kill it if he could. “Not you,” he added, quieter.
And Dex didn’t feel this way for you because he had learned to be a sympathetic person. He wasn’t.
He didn’t suddenly feel tender toward the whole world because he learned how to love. He didn’t look at strangers and imagine their mothers. He didn’t hesitate before hurting people who had put themselves on the wrong side of his line. He could kill a room full of people and sleep like a baby afterward. He didn’t ask himself if the Anti-Vigilante Task Force agents had families who were waiting for them. Their blood did not weigh on his conscience in any meaningful way.
He hasn’t learned to be secretly good and noble under all the damage in some easy, redeemable way. He was only tender with you, and even that was not because you were an exception to his nature.
It was because somewhere along the way, Dex had thought of you and him as the same person.
You weren’t some separate innocent woman he loved from afar. You were not a moral compass he worshipped because you made him better. You were his life. His home.
Your body was his body outside his body. Your exhaustion was his exhaustion. Your money was his money, and his money was yours, not because he felt entitled to it, but because the two of you had stopped existing as separate organisms somewhere around the first month he slept in your bed and woke up with your hand on his chest. You were one system now. One thing. One fused unit pretending to be two people for legal convenience.
So watching you work long hours in a lecture hall that barely paid felt like self-harm. That was the clearest way his mind could understand it. Like the two of you shared one nervous system, and every hour you worked yourself past exhaustion was pain traveling down the same wire until it reached him, too.
“Come on, Dex,” you frowned. “You think I want you running yourself into the ground because you decided you have to pay every bill?”
His eyes lifted to yours, and all you saw was terrible sincerity. It was desperate enough to frighten you because it didn’t know how to ask for love without offering blood in return.
“I should take care of you,” he said.
Not I want to. Not I’d like to. Not even let me.
I should.
You swallowed. “Dex…”
“I should.” His voice roughened, and it was absolute, like he had said this to himself before. Like maybe he had been saying it for months, in his head, every time he bought groceries, every time he counted cash, every time he watched you fall asleep over your notes with your cheek pressed to an open textbook. “You shouldn’t have to think about it. Rent, food, school, any of it. You should just—” He stopped, eyes darting away. “You should just sit there and be pretty.”
That ruined you a little.
There were things you could have said: Things about partnership, equality, how love was not supposed to turn into duty, how his need to provide came from some wounded place in him that still believed usefulness was the same as worth. You knew those things. You believed them, mostly.
But then he looked at you like taking care of you wasn’t a burden but a privilege. Like the idea of failing at it scared him more than the city hunting him. Like every terrible thing he had ever been made into could be balanced, somehow, if he could use it to keep you warm, fed, safe, untouched by the worst parts of the world.
He sat there, bruised and exhausted, dried blood at his temple, your scraped arm cradled in one hand as if it mattered more than every wound on his own body.
So you kissed him.
You didn’t mean to make it deep. You meant it to be reassurance, just a little press of your mouth to his, a way of telling him you were not leaving, not angry, not disappointed in how his love manifested even when it frightened you.
But Dex never received you halfway.
He leaned in, immediate and helpless, his free hamd coming to your waist with that familiar, possessive spread of his fingers. It was not rough, because he was never rough with you unless you asked him to be. But it was intense, as if the second your lips touched his, his body decided the only thing that made sense was pulling you closer.
You kissed him until the frozen peas slipped slightly against your arm and neither of you cared. Until his muscles relaxed under yours. Until he made a small sound in the back of his throat that made you hum, pleased with yourself.
When you pulled away, his eyes stayed on your lips, looking at your mouth like it had betrayed him by leaving.
You brushed your thumb over his chin. “You cannot just decide to provide by sheer force of will.”
Dex blinked, still dazed enough from the kiss that it took him half a second to find the conversation again.
Then his eyes sharpened in that almost boyish, almost hopeful way. “What if I got work?”
You exhaled through your nose. “Again. Where?”
His thumb moved once against your waist in small strokes that were barely there.
“I heard that the CIA director is looking for someone to take over a contract,” he said.
You blinked.
It sounded clean on the surface and filthy underneath.
He said them carefully, like he was testing whether they could pass as normal if he used the right tone.
“You mean black ops,” you said blankly.
“I mean work.”
“Benjamin,” you tilted your head.
“It’s steady enough.” His eyes did not leave yours.
“That is not the same as safe.”
His eyes looked like guilt passing quickly through the devotion. “I can handle that.”
“I know you can.” You touched his cheek again, achingly gentle. “That’s what scares me.”
He looked at your face, taking inventory of every emotion there. His hand tightened at your waist.
“I’d come home,” he said.
Your heart ached. “You can’t promise that.”
“I’d make it true.”
“That’s not how promises work.”
“It is for me.”
And there he was. Your Dex. Your impossible, obsessive man, sitting in your too-small studio with blood on his face, telling you with complete sincerity that he could bend fate into obedience if the reward was coming home to you.
You wanted to argue, but he cut you off before you could even finish forming thoughts.
“If I got a job,” he said carefully, “I could buy you a ring.”
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
For a second, you forgot how to breathe.
He had said it so quietly, so carefully, like the word itself was fragile. Like if he had manifested it into the room too hard, it might shatter before you could touch it.
A ring.
Dex watched you like he was waiting to see if he had ruined everything.
He didn’t look casual. He was never casual about you. He didn’t toss out precious things like the future just to see if they landed. He offered them like they had been a piece of his flesh cut out of him.
And you realized, in that second, that this had not been a stray thought.
Dex hadn’t just imagined it. Dex had been living with it.
You could see it now, in the way he held himself in the way his fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, in the way his eyes kept flicking down to your mouth like he wanted to kiss the answer out of you and was forcing himself not to.
He had carried this around. Maybe for weeks. Maybe for months.
Maybe he had been thinking about marrying you while listening to your rant about your professor. He had been thinking about it while fixing the wobbly leg on your desk chair. He had been thinking about it while watching you laugh at Mrs. Smithers’ cat through the cracked door.
Maybe he had been thinking about it while buying groceries. Maybe he even stood in the pasta aisle with blood still under his sleeves, picking the brand you liked better because you once said the cheaper one tasted “dusty.”
“Mm,” you managed.
It was barely a sound. Your throat had gone tight. You were trying very hard not to break apart, trying not to let the whole sweetness of it take you down completely, but your hand was already lifting to his face. Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, careful of the split in his lip.
“You sure you wanna marry me?” you asked.
Dex looked genuinely offended. “Yes.”
It came so fast you almost laughed. You did, a little, but it cracked around the edges. “Really?”
His brow furrowed, as if the question itself made no sense. “Yes.”
“You’ve thought about it?”
Dex stared at you, and the answer was so obvious then.
He had probably thought about it too much. Dex didn’t daydream. He planned. He mapped. He calculated. Even his fantasies came with exit routes and contingency plans.
“Okay,” you whispered. “What would that life even look like?”
You saw this glint in his eyes, the way they widened by a fraction. You had asked the one question he had been dying to answer.
His hand stayed at your waist. His thumb moved once, almost unconsciously, a small stroking motion through the fabric of your shirt.
“I’d get us a house,” he said.
Your heart gave a helpless little kick.
His gaze drifted past you, not away in dismissal, but as if the apartment disappeared from his eyes.
“Not in the city,” he said. “Close enough if you still wanted it, for work or whatever you wanted, not right in it. Not sirens under the window all night, not this building where you can hear every footstep in the hall and know which ones don’t belong.”
His thumb moved once against your waist, like even with his head in the clouds he needed one hand on you to make sure the dream had a center.
“We’d look at the suburbs,” he continued. “I’d want roads I could learn. I want neighbors so you can bake them pie, but I don’t want them too close. We need a neighborhood with space between houses. We need streetlights that work. A sidewalk, maybe, where you could walk in the morning if you wanted and I wouldn’t spend the whole time looking over your shoulder.”
You stayed quiet.
You didn’t want to interrupt him. There was something too precious about the way he was speaking, like he had cracked open a safe inside himself and all these impossibly domestic things were spilling out.
“It would have a yard,” he said, smaller now. “Not huge. We don’t need huge, but we need enough. We would need a fence. A good one. Tall, but not ugly. I’d make sure it looked nice. You’d care about that.”
Your throat tightened.
“I’d make sure I have good sightlines in there,” he continued, “no blind spots.”
There he is.
“And I’d plant flowers,” he added.
You blinked. Dex glanced at you, then looked down again as if the admission embarrassed him more than the blood on his face.
“You like flowers. The wild-looking ones. The ones outside delis in buckets, or growing through fences. You slow down when you see them.” His mouth twitched faintly, affectionate. “You pretend you don’t, but you do.”
He… noticed?
“I’d plant those,” he said. “I don’t know anything about gardening, but I could learn.”
He kept going before you could answer
“There’d be a porch, or a back deck. I’d put a chair there for you.” A little warmth moved through his eyes, as if imagining it. “You’d probably bring a blanket out even if it wasn’t cold.”
You smiled, and it seemed to give him more courage.
“And you’d have an office,” he said. “A real one, not a desk shoved into a corner with your papers stacked on the floor.”
Your eyes stung.
“Built-in shelves if we could, for your research books,” he continued. “Your fiction books, all of them. You wouldn’t have to pile them on the windowsill or keep the heavy ones under the desk. Your desk would face a window, but no one should be able to see into it from the street.”
You let out the smallest laugh, but he kept drifting deeper now.
“There’d be a couch in there,” he said. “So I could sit with you while you worked. I’d be quiet.”
The confession was so completely him that something inside you melted. He said it without shame, without trying to make it sound less obsessive than it was. Of course he would watch you. Of course he had already imagined sitting in a room built for your mind, staring at you while you read and wrote and thought, content just to be near the machinery of you.
“I like when you’re focused,” he murmured. “You make that face.”
You did not ask what face. You wanted him to keep talking.
“The kitchen would be big,” he said next, and there was certainty in that, like he had stood in it a thousand times. “Big enough for that island you like.”
Your mouth parted.
“We’d have one with those ugly pendant lights,” he added, with the resigned tone of a man making a grave sacrifice.
You smiled fully now. “They’re not ugly,” was all you could manage under your breath.
He heard it and very quickly added, “They are. But you like them, so we’d have it.”
That nearly did you in.
“There’d be storage,” he said. “Pans would be in the cabinets, not in the oven. I’d build you a spice drawer and I’ll organise them.”
You pressed your lips together, smiling harder.
“I’d make coffee before you woke up,” he continued. “Yours first. I’d make breakfast and I’d make more than eggs. Pancakes, maybe. You like pancakes when you’re sad.”
Your smile trembled.
“I’d make dinners, too,” he said. “You could sit at the counter and read to me while I cooked.” He looked almost shy at that. “Or talk. I don’t care. I just like your voice.”
The room felt too small for him then. Too small for the size of what he wanted.
“And a dining table,” he said, his thumb stilled against you. “With more than two chairs.”
He swallowed once and kept going.
“The bathroom would have that shower,” he said. “Like the hotel you wouldn’t stop talking about.”
You almost laughed. “A rain shower?” You asked
“Yes,” he said seriously. “With a glass door, a bench, and heated floors, because you hate cold tile.”
His eyes flicked to your face.
“I’d spoil you,” he said, like a vow. His eyesight lowered to your hand, then back to your face.
You couldn’t speak, but he went on anyway, because now that he had started, the dream seemed to pull him forward by the heart.
“There’d be security,” he said. Of course there would be. But from Dex, even that sounded like love.
“I’ll get good locks with reinforced doors. I’d install cameras.” he said immediately, almost gently. “I’ll get motion lights and window sensors.”
He breathed out slowly.
“You wouldn’t have to check anything,” he said. “I’d do it.”
What he was saying was wouldn’t have to listen at night, or wonder, or brace, or be scared just because the world was dangerous. Dex would take the ritual of fear and make it his. He would check the doors, the windows, the shadows, so you could go upstairs and sleep.
“I’d check the locks before bed,” he said. “You could just go up and get in bed. Read or sleep with the light on if you want. I’d turn it off.”
He said it with such certainty that tears gathered before you could stop them.
He didn’t notice yet. He had gone too far into the house.
“There’d be a gun cabinet,” he continued, practical now. “Locked, of course, and separate from ammunition. I’ll get biometric locks and a backup key hidden somewhere only we knew.”
His focus sharpened slightly as he pictured it.
“And a weapons cabinet too, with knives, anything tactical, anything I wouldn’t want left out. It would be hidden or built into the wall somewhere no one would look. Not near the kitchen. Not near the bedrooms.” He said it like he had already rejected three possible locations. “Everything would be secured,” he continued. “No exceptions. Nothing lying around.”
Then, still looking into that future house, still seeing the walls and the locks and the rooms and all the dangerous love he wanted to put inside them, he added, almost absently, “at least until the kids are old enough.”
Oh.
“The kids?” you asked.
Dex blinked. For a second, he looked almost confused that you had stopped him there, like the kids had been so naturally integrated into the architecture of his fantasy that he had forgotten you were only just now seeing the floor plan. In his head, apparently, they already existed.
“Yes,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Kids.”
He said it as if this were already settled. As if the universe had filed the paperwork. As if somewhere, in some future suburb with a fenced yard, your children were already waiting for him to come home.
“You just assumed?” you asked, your voice dazed.
Dex’s brows pulled together like he was only now realizing assumption was supposed to be a problem.
Then his eyes searched yours, suddenly cautious.
“I—” He paused, his fingers tightening slightly at your waist. “I assumed you’d want them,” he finished. “I assumed I’d give you anything you wanted. And I assumed…” His eyes dropped, then lifted again. “I assumed if there was any way the world let me have you like that, I’d take it.”
There it was.
Dex didn’t want a family because he had always dreamed of domestic happiness. He wanted it like conquest. He wanted children because they would be yours, because they would be his, because they would be the physical evidence of a future he had no right to expect. Benjamin Poindexter didn’t want in half measures. He consumed possibility whole. If he loved you, he loved the future of you and the shape of you extended forward. The house that held you. The children that might come from you.
That was deranged. That wasn’t normal. But to you, that was also, for reasons you could not explain without sounding like you needed professional intervention, romantic.
Dex watched your mouth part. “I’d love them,” he said. “I would. I know I would. Because they’d be yours.”
There it was, not the socially acceptable version. Not I love children or I always wanted a family. Dex didn’t know how to make love sound normal when it came from him.
He would love them because they would carry your eyes, maybe, or your mouth, or your stubbornness. Because he would look at them and see you continued into another body.
“They’d be mine too,” he added, like that part was harder for him to trust. “And maybe that part could be good because it came through you.”
Dex looked down at his hands that had done terrible things and could still hold you like it was made of light.
So you only sat there letting him talk, letting him show you the things he had apparently been thinking around for months.
“Have you thought about names?” you asked.
Dex nodded slightly.
Your lips parted.
“You have,” you whispered.
He looked almost offended again, but not at you this time. At the idea that he could have built this whole imaginary house, this whole impossible future, and not named the children already running through it. “Of course I have.”
“Tell me,” you said.
Dex watched you carefully. You could tell that there was still that small, frightened part of him, the part waiting for the insult, the laugh, the moment where your wonder hardened into common sense. But you just looked… patient.
“For a boy,” he said, “Jason.”
Jason.
Dex’s voice lowered. “Because you loved Jason and the Argonauts when you were little. The way everyone went after something impossible.”
You remembered telling him that, barely. It had been one of those late-night conversations with your cheek on his chest. His fingers moved through your hair as you rambled about mythology books you used to check out of the library, about heroes who were never as perfect as people wanted them to be.
Dex had listened.
“And for a girl?” you asked, already knowing he had one.
“Callie,” he said then immediately added, “Short for Calliope. Callie at school. Calliope if she liked it. Whatever you liked.”
Your eyes stung. “Callie,” you whispered.
Dex nodded. “You said she was the muse of epic poetry. You liked that she belonged to stories.”
You pressed your fingers to your mouth. He remembered that too.
“Jason and Callie,” you said with a sigh.
You realized then, that Dex had not chosen names because he liked them. He had chosen names because he thought you would.
Because even in his most private fantasies, the children were not abstract. They were not trophies. They were not little versions of him he could shape into whatever he wanted. They were pieces of you carried forward into the world, proof that some part of you could exist outside your own body and still belong to him, too.
“You like them,” he realised.
“I love them.”
His hand tightened around yours. Then, as if the names had opened a door he could no longer close, he kept going.
“Jason would have your eyes,” he said, voice distant again, head fully in the clouds now. “He’d be quiet, I think, the kind of kid who watches first. He’d notice everything.”
Your throat tightened.
“And Callie,” he said, and a faint helplessness moved through his face. “She’d be trouble.”
You laughed a little.
“She’d climb things,” he continued. “She’d argue. She’d look right at me while doing exactly what I told her not to do.”
You could see it.
Worse, you could see how much he loved it.
This imaginary little girl, stubborn and wild, already had him wrapped around her tiny, nonexistent finger.
“She’d have your mouth,” he said, almost to himself. “Your attitude.”
“My attitude?”
His eyes flicked to yours, and there was something wickedly fond in them. “Your attitude.”
He looked down at your joined hands again, thumb moving over your knuckles, and his voice changed.
“They’d need to be ready.”
For what?
But you knew what for. This part that should’ve made you want to retreat, but it only made you want to lean in more, because this was Dex’s love too. The same root, grown through darker soil.
“Ready?” you asked.
“For the world,” he clarified.
Dex’s eyes were calm now, focused and devoted. There was nothing theatrical in him, nothing performative. He was not fantasizing about violence for the sake of it. He was imagining two children made from you and him, and his first instinct was to make sure nothing could ever make them helpless.
He wasn’t in the kitchen anymore. He was in the woods with Jason and Callie when they were older and taller.
“I know what I am,” he said with finality. “I know what I’m good for.”
Your heart pinched. “Dex…”
“No,” he said, because he knew you. Because he could hear the protest forming before you even opened your mouth. “Don’t do that.”
You tilted your head.
“I know what I’m good for,” he repeated, gentler this time, but no less certain. “And if I’m good for anything, I will make sure they have every tool in their disposal to survive.”
There was no self-pity in it. He didn’t sound like a man condemning himself. He sounded like a man who had finally found a use for the worst parts of him and decided that they would serve you.
“They won’t be helpless,” he said. “Not our kids.”
Our kids.
“Jason and Callie won’t be fragile and easy to hurt. I won’t do that to them.”
His jaw tightened, and pride flickered through his face.
“They’ll be smart. They’ll be aware. They’ll know when a room feels wrong. They’ll know what a threat looks like before it reaches them.”
You listened, heart thudding.
“And they’ll be skilled,” he said.
It mattered to him. You could hear it.
Skilled.
Not broken. Not molded. Not made into little copies of him. He wanted them skilled, accurate, and alive.
“I’d start small,” he continued. “I’ll teach them hand-to-hand, teach them how to use their reflexes. I’ll teach them how to move without panicking, how to get up when they fall, how to breathe when they’re scared. Jason would overthink it at first. He’ll want every movement perfect before he tries. Callie would rush in and get mad when I made her slow down.” His mouth curved up faintly. “She’ll hate slowing down.”
You almost smiled through the ache in your chest.
“But she’ll learn,” he said. “They both will.”
His eyes darkened around the imagination.
“When they’re older, I'll teach them how to aim.”
Aim was not violence to him, not really. It was discipline. It was proof that the body could obey the mind.
“They better have their old man’s aim,” he murmured.
It should have sounded awful.
And it did, a little.
But it also sounded like him imagining a son and daughter with pieces of himself; His focus, his loyalty, his ability to lock onto a target and not shake.
“They’ll know how to throw,” he said. “How to hit what they mean to hit. I’ll get them knives, when they’re old enough. Take them to the range to shoot guns when they're older. No one fucking picks on my kids and lives to see another day.” He looked at you then, and the obsession in his face had turned holy. “I’ll make sure they understand that.”
You swallowed.
“If they find themselves in a bad situation, I’ll make sure they’re better than lucky. Lucky runs out. Lucky gets them killed. I want them trained. I want them calm. I want them to be able to look at danger and know they’re more dangerous.”
His hand tightened around yours.
“I want Jason to know how to get Callie out if something happens. I want Callie to know how to get Jason out. I want both of them to know how to get back to their mother.”
Your breath caught.
Their mother.
Dex said it as if it were the center of the whole plan.
“I’ll make sure they come home in one piece,” he said, voice rough now. “Ready for dinner. That’s the point.”
Your throat tightened.
“I’ll make damn sure they can leave this house and come back to it. I’ll make sure you’re not sitting at that kitchen table wondering if they’re safe.” His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up. “I don’t want you afraid.”
Fuck.
The whole deranged, violent, tender fantasy had always curved back to that. Dex teaching your future children to fight, to aim, to survive, not because he wanted war in the home, but because he wanted peace for you. Because his idea of fatherhood was Jason and Callie walking through the front door with backpacks tossed on the floor, cheeks flushed, while you stood at the stove or sat at the island with your coffee and didn’t have to imagine every terrible thing that might have happened to them.
“I’d kill for them, you know this,” he said, rubbing a slow circle on your skin, “I’d burn the whole world down for them.” Dex did not look away. “But if I know they can take care of themselves, then my eyes can stay where they belong.”
His hand cupped your face fully now.
“On you.”
He said it like it was obvious. Like the whole future had a single center of gravity and he had been circling it the entire time, pretending he was talking about houses and kitchens and gun cabinets and kids, when really he had only ever been talking about you.
“Because all of this,” Dex whispered, “would happen because of you.”
His thumb moved beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall properly. He looked at you like the city and the sirens and the blood on his knuckles were temporary, like the whole world outside the window was an environment he could outlast if it meant getting you somewhere safe.
“You understand that, right?” he asked, but his voice made it sound less like a question and more like a confession he needed you to survive hearing.
Dex leaned closer, his hand cupping your cheek now, holding you with that possession that never felt casual.
“I’d make sure the kids knew that,” he said. “I’d make sure they knew anything good in me came from you.”
Your lips parted, but nothing came out.
“The warmth in the house, the fairytales they would hear before bed, the flowers they pick from the garden.” His thumb brushed slowly along your cheekbone. “They’d know that was you. That all of it was you.”
Your eyes burned.
“They’d love you,” Dex whispered. “because you’re perfect.”
“Dex…”
“And they’d love me because I’d earn it.” he said.
Oh, Benjamin.
Your heart broke a little at that.
He said it simply, like love was not something he had ever expected to be given for free if it was him.
His hand slid a little lower, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, parting your lips.
“You wouldn’t have to learn how to shoot,” he reassured. “Because you’d have me.”
His voice dropped lower, intimate and possessive all the same.
“I’d take care of you,” he continued, “because that’s the only thing I was made wrong enough to do right.”
It should have sounded suffocating. Maybe from anyone else, it would have. But from Dex, it felt less like a cage and more like a shelter.
A small, broken laugh caught in your throat.
His mouth curved faintly, almost shy and almost wicked. “You can just sit there and be pretty, huh, baby?”
Your heart gave in completely.
He said it like a promise, like he would happily make a fortress of his own body if it meant you never had to lift a finger.
Your tears started falling quicker before you could stop them.
They started coming too quickly, gathering along your lashes and breaking loose before you could blink them back. One rolled down the side of your nose. Another slipped along your cheek toward his thumb. Suddenly you were crying in front of him over a house that didn’t exist, children who hadn’t been born, a ring he hadn’t even given you yet, and the sincerity of Benjamin fuckin’ Poindexter imagining a life precious enough for you to be loved.
Dex noticed and his whole face changed. His hand, still cupping your cheek, squeezed slightly. His eyes moved over your face, searching for the wound, the mistake, the exact word that had hurt you.
“What?” he asked, his voice wound tight. “What did I say?”
You shook your head, but that only made another tear fall.
He frowned. “I upset you.”
“No.” Your voice cracked. You hated how small it sounded. “No, Dex.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t.”
There was a panick-y edge beneath the flatness of his voice. Dex could handle blood and anger Dex could handle fear if it had a direction, if it could be aimed back at something. But your tears did something awful to him. They made him look helpless in the one way he could never tolerate: like he had caused pain he couldn’t kill.
You caught his wrist before he could pull his hand away from your face.
“Baby,” you whispered, “no.”
You pressed your cheek harder into his palm, making him understand that you were not resisting his grand plan. “These are not bad tears.”
Still, you could tell he didn’t believe you yet.
“They’re not,” you promised, laughing weakly even though your throat hurt. “You just… fuck, Dex. You just said all of that like it was real.”
His mouth parted slightly.
“You really want all of that?” You asked, though it sounded more squeaky than you’d like
Dex stared at you, looking almost offended again, as if he was wounded by the possibility that you could still doubt the size of what he wanted when he had just laid it open in front of you.
“Yes,” he said.
You breathed in shakily. “The house?”
“Yes.”
“The kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“The flowers?”
His thumb moved under your eye, wiping away another tear. “Yes.”
“Jason and Callie?”
His eyebrows relaxed immediately at the mention of the names. “Yes.”
You shut your eyes.
And for one second, because he had given you permission by wanting it so badly, you let yourself imagine it.
Dex driving with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back at a red light because Calliope had dropped her stuffed animal and immediately made it everyone’s emergency. You could see it his eyes flicking from the mirror to the road to her little outstretched hand, his mouth set in that serious line like recovering a plush rabbit from the floorboard was a tactical operation. Callie would kick her feet in the car seat, impatient and bossy, already certain her father would retrieve anything she dropped because Dex had never once been normal about anyone he cared for needing something.
Dex in a school parking lot, terrifying every other father by accident. He’d stand there in a dark jacket and smart-ish trousers, trying to look approachable and while still planning thirteen ways to neutralize a PTA committee just in case someone tried to speak wrongly about his kids. Jason walking beside him with a too-big backpack and the solemn concentration of his father. Callie skipping ahead, fearless because her father was behind her and therefore the world hadn’t yet invented anything that could touch her.
Dex teaching Jason how to throw a ball in the backyard. His son would squinting with concentration, little shoulders tense, trying too hard because he had inherited that from you. Dex crouched in front of him, adjusting his grip, telling him to breathe. Then he’d step back, watching Jason throw too hard and too wide, and smiling anyway. He’d be proud anyway, because it was a start. He’d make his way to the knives eventually.
Dex standing behind you in the kitchen, arms around your waist, chin tucked against your shoulder while your children ran through the yard beyond the window.
He’d kiss your temple and ask for another one, and you’d say, “We’ll think about it,” because you two were a unit. You were two parts of the same whole.
You opened your eyes, and he just looked terrified of how much he wanted it.
Your hand tightened around his wrist.
“When you eventually ask me,” you said, voice shaking, “know that I’ll say yes.”
For a moment, Dex didn’t move.
He didn’t even seem to breathe.
His eyes searched yours once, twice, desperately, like he had to make sure he hadn’t imagined it.
“You will?” he asked.
You smiled through the tears. “Of course.”
Joy did not sit easily on Dex, but you knew this was what it looked like.
You let out a watery little laugh, because if you did not laugh you were going to sob properly.
That seemed to bring him back to himself.
Dex leaned in and kissed your neck once, then your cheeks, then the damp place beneath your eye where a tear had slipped down.
Each kiss was careful and possessive in the best way. He wasn’t trying to stop you from crying. Instead, he wanted to claim every tear.
Dex kissed your jaw again, then tucked his face into your neck, and for a long time he just held you.
What you did not know was that the ring was already more than a fantasy to him.
What you did not know was that earlier that evening, before the Supreme Court had gone to hell, he shot Buck Cashman, before he came home, Dex had received confirmation of an advance from Mr. Charles.
He had a government contract. He had a stable job.
Dex had read the confirmation once.
Then twice.
Then, because he was Dex, he had memorized the number. The second he saw the advance, his mind had gone to you.
Rent. Groceries. Your tuition. The overdue utility bill you had tried to hide under a stack of journal articles like paper could make debt disappear. The textbooks you kept putting off buying because you said you could “probably survive with library copies,” even though he had seen the way you frowned when you said it.
And then the ring.
He’d already planned the ring.
And no, he hadn’t told you any of this yet.
Maybe he will after the first payment cleared. Maybe after the first job was done and he knew the money was steady. Maybe after he had washed the blood off well enough to convince himself he was allowed to touch something as clean as your hand.
He’d find the right jeweler, though he already had one in mind: a shop in the Upper East Side that did custom pieces. He’d get one commissioned specifically for you. Nothing too delicate, because he wanted people to notice it. Nothing too flashy, because you would wrinkle your nose and tell him he had lost his mind.
He’d get something that looked right on your hand when you reached for your coffee in the morning. A gem that would catch the kitchen light when you turned pages in your office. Something Jason might touch curiously as a child, asking if Dad gave you that, and Dex would hear you say yes from the doorway. Something Callie would one day ask to try on, and you would laugh and tell her when she could when was older. Something that said you belonged to him.
And more importantly, that he belonged to you.
For now, he said none of that.
For now, he only held you tighter on the bed, making sure you were okay.
“You’re going to be so spoiled,” he whispered against your skin.
You smiled, eyes closing, tears still drying on your face. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“By a wanted man with frozen peas?”
That got the smallest laugh out of him.
“By your future husband,” he said.
Your heart did a helpless little flip.
Little did you know, with this contract, the future wasn’t just a fantasy to him anymore.
He just needed to ask.
—end.
-
Extra note: at this point I think everyone’s seen that clip of Wilson saying Dex should get an equally unhinged girlfriend, and I just can’t help but think of this reader getting as obsessed with his plans for the future as he is and she would not let anything stand in her way! Like she’d kill her way into it if she had to, and her being a forensic psychologist would make for interesting storytelling. (This is just a thought, I make no promises!)
Summary: Baz can’t keep his mouth shut about you or any chance he gets to bully Pope. When things escalate, Pope gets physical & finds you upset.
Warnings: fighting, blood, explicit language, medical inaccuracies, alcohol, its animal kingdom iykyk, toxic family, emotional abuse, hurt/comfort, fluff, happy ending.
Word Count: 2k+
Author’s Note: It’s finally here !! I’m so excited to give you all my first ever Pope fic !! <3
The Drop was loud, louder than it usually was on a Friday night. Some surfing event brought in way more than just the regulars. You’d offered to help Deran run the bar, cutting up limes, getting new glasses, cleaning off tables. You could use the money.
It finally slowed down closer to midnight, a few regulars straggling behind. Deran had let you off, but with the rest of the Cody brothers around, you decided to stick around too.
Andrew had been eying you all night. It wasn’t anything new. Your boyfriend was protective, tracking your movement and any other guy in the bar that got too close or didn’t pass whatever checklist he had in his head. He’d sit at the bar or at a table in the corner—glass of beer pulled up to his lips—eyes looking out over the rim as they followed you.
“Jesus man”, Craig says beside him, “You’re eying her like she’s meat.”
Pope doesn’t answer, just a rough scoff.
“Let him alone, man”, Deran says, swiping the glass from in front Craig.
J sat next to them, watching their conversation, eyes flicking to you briefly. He had that younger brother protective relationship with you. He’d stare people down like Pope did, just not as intensely.
“M’just keeping an eye on her”, Pope finally says, setting his glass down and adjusting himself to sit up straighter.
He’s got his legs wide like he always does, one arm thrown over the back cushion of the booth—his head turned slightly forward as he watched you reach for another glass—this time for yourself and not a customer.
“Where’s she gonna go man?”, Baz laughs, signaling to Deran he wants a refill.
“Not with you man, that’s for sure”, Craig’s booming laugh echoes next.
That gets the smallest smile from Pope.
“Nah, not my type”. Baz says, rolling his neck, “She only likes crazy guys. Ain’t that right, Pope?” He’s patting him on the chest. Like he thinks it’s a compliment or a win on his part.
Pope’s jaw ticks before tightening, but he doesn’t answer.
“Baz”, Deran cuts in.
But Baz keeps going;
“I mean how fucked in the head do you think she has to be to get with Pope?”
Pope’s seething inside. He doesn’t even care about the comments towards him, no; he was used to that. But the comments towards you? Those had his blood boiling.
“Shut up”, Pope grits, still not looking towards his brother.
He just raises his glass again, taking a longer swig.
“Aw what’s the matter Popey? Can’t take a little criticism?”, Baz is still laughing; “We all know your head’s not right.”
Pope’s finger taps against the edge of the glass, still watching you move around the bar. Eyes not wavering or blinking—only his jaw tightening the longer Baz speaks.
“Seriously man, stop it”, Deran warns.
Pope can see Craig’s nod of agreement from the corner of his eye. By now J had sensed the tension building and had left, heading towards the courtyard behind the bar.
“Seriously guys? I know that chick’s gotta be freaky as hell. Fucking Pope, must be some kind of messed up with a sick ass kink to-“
The sound of glass shattering echoes through the bar, Pope’s footsteps as he stands following quickly behind.
“I said shut up!”, Pope shouts, fists clenched and chest heaving.
You spin around, eyes wide at the sudden noise.
Your heart clenches as tight as Pope’s fist when you see him. His jaw so tight his teeth might break. Face red and angry.
You don’t hear what Baz says next, but it hits Pope hard. He’s across the room in two easy strides, gripping Baz by the collar of his shirt and slamming him into a wall behind them with a loud and echoing thud. The thought of the wall cracking flickers through your mind briefly. But it’s gone just as fast as it came when you see Pope raising his fist.
The bar had fallen completely silent other than the scuffle of feet as Pope went at Baz, the sound of his fist connecting with his face. Baz stumbled, but was swinging right back. It didn’t take long for a swing to connect with Pope’s face. You winced at the sound.
Craig and Deran’s shouting echoed around you as they tried to pull the two men off of each other, fists still swinging and words flying that you couldn’t make out. Pope had Baz by the shirt collar now, cheeks already red and starting to bruise.
“Andy! Stop it!”
Your words fell on deaf ears, Pope was too angry to hear anything besides the rage pumping through his body. Baz looked almost afraid for a moment as Pope raised his fist again; lip swollen and bloody—eyes wide to match. You were sure you saw a sudden realization that his words may have gone too far this time flicker through his eyes. If it were any other situation, you would’ve been smug about Baz finally getting what he deserved.
But not here in public, not now where everyone could see, where anyone could show up; especially police.
“Andrew!”, Your voice was more stern now, louder, dripping with plea.
Finally his movements stuttered, head whipping around and eyes flickering around until they met yours. You could see him soften immediately.
He saw the look on your face, the tears threatening to spill out of fear, out of anger. You didn’t know which you felt more of in that moment.
“Put him down!”, You said, trying to keep your voice steady.
You didn’t think it worked.
Still, Pope dropped his grip on Baz’s shirt, taking a step back with his eyes still trained on you.
“Fucking psycho”, Baz spit blood, wiping at his mouth—looking at his hand as he pulled it back.
Pope’s head swung around, but Deran stopped him.
“Pope! Cmon man, that’s enough!”
“No! He doesn’t get to talk like that! He said-“
“I know what he said!”, Deran says back, dropping his hand from Pope’s chest; “I know what he said man. But fighting isn’t gonna fix it.”
You watch as Pope finally seems to come back down to where he is, fists opening and closing at his sides, jaw crooked and ticking as he thinks. He lets out a huff through his nose before shaking his head, letting his gaze find you again.
But as he steps forward, you take a step back.
For a moment he falters, unsure if it’s anger or fear in your eyes. Fear that he caused you. Fear of him. The sound of his heart shattering was almost audible in the small bar.
“I’m going to pick up Lena to drop her off at her friend’s house, then i’m going home”, You say it to the entire room, one hand still up in slight defense in front of you as you bring them both to your chest, throwing down the rag in your hands.
“Let me drive you-“
“No.”
You move past the bar, only stopping when you hear Craig’s voice.
“Pope needs patched up-“
“Pope can clearly take care of himself.”
Pope’s entire world shattered. You never called him Pope once the entire time you’ve known him. But now here it was, that godforsaken nickname that haunted him, leaving your lips. The last place he ever wanted it to be.
Fuck, he’d really screwed up.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
You hadn’t heard from Pope the rest of the night. Half of you expected him to try and call, maybe send a text, but you got nothing. The only mention of him came from Lena as you pulled into a spot outside her friend’s house.
“Where’s Uncle Pope?”, She asked softly.
Your heart clenched.
“He’s with Deran and Craig, you’ll see him when we pick you up.”
“Promise?”, The little girl holds out her pinky to you.
You feel yourself soften, a small smile tugging at your lips as you offer your pinky in return, closing them around each other; “I promise.”
Satisfied with your response, she reaches for her bag.
“Cmon! Let’s go inside!”
Sometime after dropping Lena off you find yourself back at your place, not Baz’s on the water front where you spent most of your time with Pope. Not at Pope’s place either. You texted Deran that Lena wanted Pope to pick her up the next day, letting them know where you’d be. If you didn’t show up at Baz’s, Pope would worry.
Even now mad at him, you couldn’t help but worry.
Across town—Pope wasn’t any better. For once he was in his own barely furnished apartment, curled up on the shower floor. The water running way too hot. All he could think of was the look on your face. How scared you seemed. The sound of that name leaving your lips.
Pope.
Cause that’s all he’d ever be right? The monster that Smurf had so carefully created?
He couldn’t shake it from his mind when he finally stood after what felt like hours, turning off the stream and stepping out of the bathroom. He didn’t bother with clothes, just let the water droplets drip onto the floor as he walked.
He checked his phone, the only thing being from Deran, just passing on the information of where you’d be. Still nothing from you.
Pope ran his hands through his wet hair, pushing it back as he stared out the window at the waves crashing against the shore. Mind too loud. For once, he found himself being pulled toward his bed—letting his body flop against the hardly used mattress. The comforter around him turning slightly damp. He didn’t sleep, no, he was way past a time where he’d be able to do that. Especially without you next to him. He curled back up into a ball, staring blankly ahead, hands under his wet hair as he blinked slowly. Afraid to move and cause damage anywhere else.
In his mind, that’s what this was; damage. Caused by the monster that didn’t know any better, the monster still somehow run by Smurf, even when he’d distanced himself. He wanted to be better, not just for himself, but for you.
Shit, he really needed you.
His body felt hollow lying alone in the bed, but maybe—if he thought hard enough—he could pretend the warmth over his skin was from you being cuddled up next to him, and not the scalding shower he’d just stepped out of.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Somewhere in between spiraling and trying to keep himself sane, Pope fell back into his normal routine of taking Lena to school and picking her up. It became a good distraction for him. Unfortunately for Pope, he found himself unable to hide from her. No, she was one of the few people who could read him just as well as you could.
“Why are you sad?”, Lena asked him over cereal as they sat at the kitchen counter.
Pope paused mid cereal bite.
“What?-M’not?…M’not sad”, Pope tried.
Lena narrowed her eyes; “Yes you are.”
Pope set his spoon back in his bowl, before shaking his head.
“Not sad. Just…thinking.”
Lena resumed eating; “About what?”
Pope sighed; “I don’t really know.”
It suddenly dawned on him that he really hadn’t known what he was specifically thinking about over the past few days except you.
“Where’s Auntie?”
God, that made Pope’s heart clench with a softness and a strain that had become all too familiar lately. You and Lena had become connected at the hip pretty much the moment Pope introduced you.
“I don’t really know that either”, Pope tells her honestly.
It was true, Pope who normally knew where you were through his brothers, the safety app on both your phone’s, or from a general watching—had decided to really give you space. He hadn’t seen you since that night in the bar.
“Why not?”, Lena kept her questions coming.
“We had an argument.”
Lena furrowed her brow; “…Is that why you’re sad?”
Pope almost laughed. He rubbed his neck instead.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
The little girl shrugged; “So fix it.”
Pope raised a brow at her bluntness; “I don’t really know how to do that either.”
Lena stared at him seriously; “Just apologize.”
The words left her mouth like it was the most common knowledge on the world; and it was coming from a seven year old.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah”, Lena nods, “Works with me and my
friends.”
As he sat there—spooning another mouthful of cereal in his mouth—Pope decided that maybe it was worth a try.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
When Lena was finally asleep that night—it being a rare occasion when Baz was actually home—Pope found himself sitting outside your house in his Jeep, fingers thrumming against the steering wheel.
His jaw was ticked, tongue in his cheek as he looked at the exterior of your house. The lights inside were on, he could tell it was your living room lamp by the soft yellow glow. Your car was in the driveway, he could see the flicker of the tv through your curtains. Yet he didn’t move.
You were home, he knew that, so why didn’t he move?
He stared at your front door for another hour before he forced himself out of the car with sweaty palms and a racing heart. He thought about just sitting on your doorstep, maybe you’d find him eventually, but he didn’t want to draw any outside attention.
Your welcome mat was familiar under his feet, the pale green of your door under his hovering hand stared back at him. He swallowed hard before finally, finally forcing his knuckles to rap softly against the door.
He could hear you shuffling around inside as he squeezed his eyes shut, your footsteps approaching and for once, he was nervous—no, he was scared out of his mind.
When you finally opened the door his breath hitched at the sight of you; braid down your back that would no doubt lead to the beachy waves he loved when you took it down, a pair of shorts and oh?—one of his t-shirts.
Even now, when you were supposed to be mad at him, you still wore his shirt.
You almost wince at the sight of him; face and nose still purple and bruised around his eye and across his cheek. A few small cuts from Baz’s ring. Mostly healed, but still noticeable—still something you desperately wished you could take away.
“Andrew?”, You asked softly, not expecting him to be on your front doorstep.
The minute his name left your lips Pope broke, hot tears he’d tried to push back were suddenly on his cheeks, and he found himself unable to stop them.
After a moment of stunned silence you pulled him inside, shutting the door behind him and leading him to the couch. He leaned instinctively into you almost immediately—head resting against your opposite shoulder as you wrapped your arms around him. A choked sigh slipping from his lips when your fingers came up to card through his curls.
“I’m so sorry-“, He choked out between sobs.
You were still shocked, sure you’d seen him cry before, but never as big as this.
“Hey, hey. Shh”, You say softly, “It’s ok, baby.”
But he was already shaking his head.
“It’s not ok!”, He shoves his head into your neck; “I made you upset…I-scared you.”
You cup both of his cheeks with your hands—pulling his head up so he’s looking at you—thumbs rubbing stray tears away from his red and puffy cheeks.
“Wasn’t scared of you”, You tell him, shaking your head; “I was scared for you.”
Pope furrows his eyebrows.
“Andy, I called your name twice that night before you even looked at me….I was just, upset.”
His eyes flick down to his lap—where’s he’s picking at the skin around his nails—to behind you, until he’s finally looking at you again.
“M’sorry…”, He whispers; “I just, I was so mad. At the things Baz was saying about us, about you.”
It’s your turn to furrow your eyebrows.
“What did he say?”
Pope looks away from you, but you guide him back.
“Andrew, what did he say?”
Pope inhales deeply, blinking a few times before he answers.
“That you’re probably messed up in the head to be with someone as fucked up as me…that you probably have some psycho kink…”
You immediately shake your head.
“Baby, you’re not fucked up, I promise.”
He searches your face, looking for any sign of doubt or dishonesty; he finds none.
“And fuck Baz, ok? He’s the one who’s fucked up. The stick in his ass is so big it might as well be a tree”, You huff.
Pope’s lips turn up at that, a small sound of air leaving his nose—almost a laugh.
“Baby, I promise everything he said is not true”, You continue, fingers running through his curls again; “You’ve been through a lot, yeah. But you’re not fucked up.”
You press a kiss to his knuckles, still a little swollen from connecting with Baz’s stupid face.
“Bruised…not broken.”
That’s what gets Pope to let himself finally smile, knowing you meant him and not his fist.
“Does it hurt?”, You ask softly, turning his hand over in your palm; “Or your cheek? Your nose?”
He shakes his head; “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
You don’t know whether your heart should soften or hurt inside at that.
“Cmere”, You pull him forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
He sighs immediately, a weight on his shoulders lifting as his body melts into you and the couch. Feeling like he could cry again just from the relief of finally having you back in his arms.
“I love you so much, Andrew.”
Your thumb rubs soothing circles on his cheek, his eyes flicking across your face again like he’s memorizing it all over again.
“I love you too.”
He keeps repeating those three words in his head and out loud against your skin until he falls asleep that night; your hands still in his hair and his body snuggled into you.
Request: It's for pope. Reader is having a bad day at work (unspecified profession) and asks pope for a selfie cause seeing his face would make her feel better. But pope has never taken a selfie and doesn't think he's photogenic so he says no, but he can feel reader got sad (though she tried to be understanding and nice about it) and ends up trying (from multiple angles to see which one is better) and sending one anyway just because he loves her so much
By three-thirty in the afternoon, you were seriously considering homicide.
Not in a dramatic way.
Not even in a particularly emotional way.
Just a calm, exhausted certainty that if one more person interrupted you to ask a question they absolutely could have answered themselves, you might actually climb onto your desk and start throwing office supplies.
Your head hurt.
Your coffee had gone cold two hours ago.
Someone had cc’d the wrong person into an email chain and somehow made it your problem.
Your boss had used the phrase “quick favor” six separate times today, each one somehow translating into at least forty minutes of extra work.
And to make things worse, you missed Andrew.
Which was stupid.
You’d seen him this morning.
Barely.
Half-awake and shirtless in your kitchen, standing in front of the coffee maker with sleepy eyes and messy curls while he silently handed you your favorite mug before you left for work.
You’d kissed him goodbye quickly.
Promised you’d text him later.
Rushed out the door already stressed.
Now it felt like years ago.
You slumped lower in your chair, staring at your computer screen with dead eyes.
Then your phone buzzed beside your keyboard.
Andy: U okay?
Your chest softened instantly.
You smiled despite yourself.
The thing about Andrew Cody was that he always knew.
He noticed tiny shifts in your mood like they were alarms only he could hear.
You could walk into a room pretending everything was fine and Andrew would look at you once and quietly ask what happened.
Sometimes it unsettled you how observant he was.
Mostly it just made you feel loved.
You picked up your phone.
You: rough day
Andy: bad rough or annoying rough
You: annoying rough
You: everyone at work suddenly forgot how to do their jobs apparently
Andy: hm
Andy: want me to come get u
You smiled faintly.
Because he would.
Without hesitation.
Middle of the workday.
No questions asked.
You: no baby im okay
You: just tired
Andy: u eat today
You: pope
Andy: thats not an answer
You: ...half a granola bar
Andy: jesus christ
You laughed quietly under your breath.
The woman in the cubicle beside you glanced over curiously.
You ignored her.
Another message appeared almost immediately.
Andy: i can bring u food
You: i’ll survive
Andy: debatable
Warmth bloomed slowly in your chest.
Andrew wasn’t romantic in obvious ways.
He wasn’t flowers or poetry or grand speeches.
He was remembering how you took your coffee.
Replacing the gas in your car before you noticed it was low.
Standing slightly in front of you in parking lots without even realizing he was doing it.
He loved through action.
Through attention.
Through the quiet certainty that if you needed something, he would handle it.
You stared at your phone for another second before typing impulsively:
You: send me a selfie
Andy: what
You: a picture of u
Andy: why
You: because seeing your face would make me feel better rn
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then nothing.
You frowned slightly.
That was… odd.
Usually Andrew answered quickly when it came to you.
Finally another message came through.
Andy: no
Your face fell before you could stop it.
Not dramatically.
Not because he owed you one.
But something inside you had already pictured it:
Andrew half-scowling at the camera.
Messy hair.
Probably confused about the entire concept of selfies.
You’d wanted that little burst of comfort more than you realized.
You swallowed the disappointment immediately.
Because Andrew sounded uncomfortable.
And the last thing you ever wanted was to push him into something he hated.
You: that’s okay
You: you dont have to
You: sorry lol
Andy: i dont know how
You blinked.
Then immediately softened.
Oh.
You: baby 😭
You: you’ve never taken a selfie?
Andy: no
Andy: feels weird
Andy: and i look bad in pictures
Your heart physically hurt a little.
Because you knew Andrew meant that.
You leaned back in your chair slowly.
Andrew had never understood what people saw when they looked at him.
Even now.
Even after years together.
Even after you loved him openly and stubbornly and repeatedly.
There were still moments where his self-worth vanished into old scars and old wounds.
You typed carefully.
You: you absolutely do not look bad in pictures
You: but it’s okay if you don’t want to
You: i understand
You added a little heart.
Then locked your phone and tried very hard not to feel sad about it.
Back at the apartment, Andrew stared at your messages like they’d personally insulted him.
Not because of anything you said.
Because he could tell you were disappointed.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.
But Andrew noticed every tiny shift in you.
The “it’s okay” came too fast.
The “i understand” too careful.
You were trying not to make him feel guilty.
Which somehow made him feel worse.
Craig wandered through the living room halfway through a protein shake and stopped dead when he saw Andrew glaring at his phone like it owed him money.
“…You good?”
Andrew ignored him.
Craig stepped closer.
“What’re you doing?”
Andrew held the phone out abruptly.
Craig squinted at the screen.
Then barked out a laugh.
“Oh my God. You won’t send her a selfie?”
“I don’t know how.”
“Jesus Christ, old man.”
Andrew frowned harder.
“I look weird in pictures.”
Craig nearly choked.
“No you don’t.”
Andrew looked unconvinced.
Craig snorted.
“She’s literally obsessed with you.”
Andrew's expression softened immediately at that.
Just for a second.
Then he looked back at the phone again.
Your little heart emoji sat at the bottom of the conversation like a bruise.
Craig saw the exact moment Andrew caved.
“Oh no,” Craig grinned. “You’re gonna do it.”
Andrew looked deeply annoyed about it.
“I can make her feel better.”
“By taking a selfie?”
“She asked.”
Craig started laughing harder.
“This I gotta see.”
The first selfie was terrible.
Andrew held the phone too close to his face, accidentally catching himself from below at an angle that made him look vaguely threatening.
He stared at it in horror.
“What the fuck.”
Craig howled from the couch.
“You look like you’re about to interrogate somebody.”
Andrew deleted it immediately.
The second one somehow cut off half his forehead.
The third was blurry.
The fourth was accidentally taken with flash and startled him badly enough that he nearly dropped the phone.
“Jesus Christ.”
Craig was crying laughing now.
Andrew glared at him.
“Shut up.”
“You’re forty years old learning selfies like a grandpa.”
Andrew ignored him and tried again.
This time he leaned back slightly against the kitchen counter.
The lighting was softer there.
His curls were messy from running his hand through them repeatedly.
Gray shirt stretched across broad shoulders.
Expression uncertain but calmer now.
He took the picture.
Looked at it.
Paused.
Craig leaned over.
“…Okay, annoyingly enough, that one’s actually good.”
Andrew frowned suspiciously at the screen.
“You think?”
“Yeah.”
Andrew stared at the photo for another long moment.
Then quietly took three more from different angles just in case.
Craig nearly lost consciousness laughing.
“Oh my God, you’re trying to look pretty for your girlfriend.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“You’re in love.”
Andrew's ears turned slightly pink.
Which only made Craig laugh harder.
Finally Andrew picked one.
Not perfect.
Not polished.
Just him.
Real.
And because he loved you more than he knew what to do with, he sent it immediately before he could overthink it.
Your phone buzzed while you were pretending to listen during a meeting.
You glanced down absently.
Then froze.
A picture message.
From Andrew.
Your heart jumped so hard it hurt.
You opened it immediately.
And there he was.
Messy dark curls.
Serious blue eyes.
That soft, uncertain expression he only got when he was being vulnerable with you.
He looked devastatingly handsome.
Warm.
Safe.
Yours.
Your entire awful day cracked apart instantly.
A second message came through right after it.
Andy: took like 7 tries
Andy: craig wouldn’t stop laughing at me
Andy: this one okay?
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
Because you could see the effort in it.
Andrew hated pictures.
Hated attention.
Hated feeling awkward or exposed.
But you’d been sad.
So he tried anyway.
Just for you.
You stared at the selfie again, zooming in slightly.
You could literally see where his hair stuck up on one side.
God, you loved him.
You answered immediately.
You: baby :(
You: you’re so beautiful
Andy: dont start
You: no seriously
You: this genuinely made my whole day better
You: thank you
Andy: yeah?
You: yeah
You: also tell craig i said thank u for emotional support during your selfie journey
Three dots appeared.
Then:
Andy: he’s being an asshole
You: naturally
Andy: when are u coming home
You: another hour probably
Andy: okay
Pope: ill make dinner
Your chest ached painfully with affection.
Because that was Andrew.
Not loud.
Not showy.
Just steady.
Constant.
Loving in a way that rooted itself deep into your bones.
You spent the rest of the meeting secretly glancing at the selfie whenever nobody was looking.
And every single time, you smiled.
By the time you got home, the apartment smelled like garlic and butter.
You barely got the door shut before Andrew appeared from the kitchen.
His eyes scanned you automatically.
Checking.
Assessing.
“You okay?”
You dropped your bag immediately and walked straight into him.
Andrew caught you without hesitation.
Strong arms wrapping around your waist as you buried your face against his chest.
“You sent me a selfie,” you mumbled.
“I did.”
“You’re cute.”
“I’m literally not.”
You leaned back enough to look up at him.
“You took seven pictures for me.”
Andrew looked mildly defensive now.
“The first ones were bad.”
You started laughing immediately.
A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.
“There it is,” he murmured quietly.
“What?”
“You laughin’.”
Something in your expression softened instantly.
God.
This man.
You reached up and touched his face gently.
“You know you make everything better, right?”
Andrew looked at you for a long moment.
Like he still didn’t fully understand how someone could love him this much.
But he leaned into your hand anyway.
“You make stuff better too,” he said quietly.
Then, after a small pause:
“I saved the other pictures.”
You blinked.
“…What?”
Andrew looked suddenly embarrassed.
“In case you wanted ‘em.”
Your face broke into absolute delighted disbelief.
“You have multiple Andrew selfies?”
He immediately looked like he regretted admitting that.
You grabbed his shirt, grinning.
“Oh my God. Show me.”
“No.”
“Andrew.”
“They’re bad.”
“I wanna see them.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
“You’re makin’ fun of me.”
“I’m absolutely not.”
“You are.”
You kissed him before he could keep arguing.
Slow.
Warm.
Lingering.
Andrew melted instantly, hands tightening around your waist.
When you pulled back, he looked dazed for a second.
“You’re really pretty,” you informed him seriously.
He stared at you.
Then huffed quietly through his nose, almost embarrassed by the sincerity of it all.
But after a second, he reached into his pocket anyway.
Photos are not mine. They are courtesy of Pinterest/Google.
Pairing: Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter x F! Reader
Warnings: SMUT! (18+ PLEASE! or I’m telling!) Fingering, Oral, Male & Female Receiving, P in V protected sex, swearing, fluffy bunnies and unicorns, so many smooches, brief mentions of no particular type of firearms.
Word Count: 5.9K-ish
Summary: While giving a statement to investigators and your HR department about a potential threat at work, you meet a very handsome yet shy FBI agent who asks you out on a date. After a couple of drinks, you end up telling him a secret and he uses his deadly aim to give you something no man has ever given you before.
A/N: Hello my lovelies! I know I have been gone for quite some time. I’ve been working a lot but mostly my brain hasn’t been working. I just feel like I can’t come up with any good ideas lately, simple words disappear out of my head, I can’t seem to string three words together, and when I do they sound terrible. This is the first fic I’ve written in four months and for a character I’ve never written for before even though Bullseye and Wilson Bethel have had a hold on me for years! I hope it’s ok, be gentle, it’s been a minute and I know I’m rambling.
Oh and I didn’t tag anyone just because I didn’t know who to tag or if there’s anyone still around who wants to read anything from me lol! But if you are still out there, enjoy! And thank you to @bartonsparrow25 for beta reading this for me as always! I appreciate you! ♥️
As always, thank you for reading! I appreciate it so much and comments, reblogs are welcome and encouraged. Don’t be shy to tell me your favorite part. 💕💕 💕
The uneasiness of sharing a cube with him had gone on long enough. You felt like he was a loose cannon and could snap at any moment. The fact that he was always talking about the weapons and firearms he may or may not have at home and how he wanted to use them on anyone who bothered him at work grew more and more disturbing by the day.
During your Christmas party, after a few drinks you let slip to a co-worker exactly how uncomfortable this other co-worker made you feel. And on Monday morning, you were speaking to Human Resources about what was going to happen next.
Because you had a job that required a security clearance, they were obligated to take insider threats seriously, which meant you had to speak with actual investigators. You held it together long enough to finish your interview but as soon as you left the room, the tears had spilled over and streamed down your cheeks.
As you walked out and into a common room, you walked past two FBI agents talking quietly with one another. The one with blond hair and green eyes made eye contact with you, noticed how upset you were, grabbed a tissue from the desk, and handed it to you.
“You look like you could use this.” He said with a shy smile.
Gently taking it from his hand, you replied, “Thank you.”
Dabbing your cheeks with the tissue, you said, “This is so embarrassing.”
“You sure you’re alright, Miss?” He asked.
You replied sharply, “Oh, I’m fine. I just love how it’s always ‘If you see something, say something.’ Until that other person gets a lawyer. And then you’re the one being interrogated by the joke that is human resources.”
He chuckled a little but then composed himself to reply, “I’m sorry, that must be really hard.”
“You’re FBI?” You asked, wiping the tears away.
He extended his hand for you to shake it and replied, “Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter. You can call me Dex.”
“Well…It’s nice to meet you Dex. I’m Y/N.” You replied, returning the handshake. “Maybe you can give your FBI friends and my HR department in there some lessons on how to be kinder to someone who has some genuine concerns about a potential threat at work.”
“I’m really sorry, Y/N. Is there anything I can do to make up for them?” He asked.
The tone in Dex’s voice was genuine. You could tell he really meant it when he asked. He just seemed really sweet but shy at the same time.
You just smiled and replied, “I don’t think so but thank you, Dex. And thank you again for the tissue. Most guys would have just let me walk by. I need to get back to work anyway. It was really nice meeting you Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter…Dex.”
As you started to walk away, he chased after you.
“Wait! Y/N!” He called out.
You replied, “Yes?”
Looking down at his shoes, he nervously asked, “Would you maybe want to go out with me sometime? You can tell me about what went on in there?”
One corner of your mouth curled up into a slight smile. You could tell he didn’t really do this very often. The light caught his dark green eyes in such a way that they looked like an old green bottle being held up to the sun and that bottle was filled with a light coffee roast. They were beautiful and hard to tear your own eyes away from.
You finally answered, “I’d love to.”
“Great.” Dex said.
You held out your hand, “Let me see your phone.”
Dex unlocked his phone and handed it over to you, lightly grazing his fingers over yours. After putting your number in, you sent a quick “Hello” message, then took out your phone to send a “hi” message back in return.
“So yeah, text me, call me, either way about when you wanna go out. I look forward to it, Special Agent Poindexter…Dex. I do really have to get back to my desk. I’ll talk to you soon?” You asked.
“Definitely.” Replied Dex.
**********
When you got back to your desk, one of your friends and co-workers asked, “How was it? Was it brutal? You look upset and…happy at the same time.”
So you told her everything that happened.
She said, “Only you could turn an interrogation into getting a date.”
You replied, “Well, I didn’t set out to get a date. He was there, saw I was upset and offered me a tissue.”
“He’s really hot, isn’t he.” She said, nudging my shoulder.
You could feel the heat rush across your cheeks so you tried to hide your face.
“Don’t bullshit me, he’s really hot, isn’t he!” She said again.
She could always see through the bullshit so there was no point in trying to lie.
“Well, yeah…but he seems really sweet too!” You replied.
While the two of you were talking a text came in. It was from Dex.
She asked, “Is that from him? What’s his name?”
“It’s him. Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter…he said to call him Dex.” You replied.
Your friend said, “Ok well if you guys get married, just think about keeping your maiden name. Just throwin’ that out there. What did he say?”
You both chuckled.
You were biting back a smile before you read the message out loud.
“Is it too soon to make plans? I really want to see you again.” You read out loud.
You typed a reply and put the phone down.
“Well?!! What did you say?!! I need to know…now!” She exclaimed.
You replied with a wide smile, “I said I was free this weekend.”
She gave you a hi five and replied, “Atta girl.”
**********
It had been a minute since you had been on a date so you were a little nervous but talking and texting with Dex leading up to the date seemed to calm your nerves a little bit. It just made you more excited to see him.
He took you to a very casual place with a bar, pool tables, dart boards, and other little games scattered around. It was actually a refreshing change of pace from the dates other guys took you on to try to impress you. They always thought you wanted to go to the most expensive restaurants in the city. But sometimes all you wanted was a beer, a good burger, and to shoot some pool.
“You sure this is ok?” Asked Dex for the third time.
He seemed a little nervous like he didn’t go out on dates very often, which surprised you because he was handsome, he had a very impressive job, and he was very sweet.
“It’s great, Dex. I love this place and the food is really good too.” You replied.
Reaching across the table, you gently placed your hand on top of his to try and ease his nervousness.
“You did the hard part already, ok? You had the guts to ask me out. I’ll get us some beer…be right back.” You said, squeezing his hand.
The little bit of beer definitely helped Dex (and you) feel a little less nervous but it was exactly the nudge you both needed to open up and help the conversation along. You felt like you did a lot of the talking about your life, how long you had been at your job for, your friends, and your family.
You finally told him about the situation at work which made him angry. He just couldn’t believe someone like that was still allowed to keep their job and you felt unsafe in your office because the company heard the word “lawsuit.”
You could see the whites of his knuckles as he clenched his fists and his jaw as you reiterated all of the stories and how you were treated in that room during your interview.
“I’m so sorry, Y/N. You shouldn’t be made to feel that way.” Said Dex.
You replied, “I know, and they’ll probably move him to another part of the building because that’s what they do and that’s how they get away with it. Then they can say that they did ‘something.’ Ya know?”
Dex said curtly, “It doesn’t make it right.”
“I know it doesn’t but hey, if I didn’t go down there, I wouldn’t have met you.” You said, biting back a smile.
Dex replied, “Well…that is true.”
“Your job seems pretty impressive and you were in the Army. Your parents must be really proud.” You said.
Dex recoiled a little after you said that.
“I’m sorry, Dex. Did I say something to upset you?” You asked.
He replied, “No, well…you didn’t know. My parents are dead. They died when I was young. I’m an orphan and I grew up in a boys home.”
You felt like a jerk.
“My god…I am such an asshole. Dex, I am so sorry. I shouldn’t just assume like that!” You said, burying your face in your hands.
Dex reached across the table to try and pull your hands away from your face.
“Please don’t, Y/N. You couldn’t have known. You really don’t have to be embarrassed.” He said with a slight smile.
Separating your fingers around your eyes to look at him, you smiled back.
“That’s so sweet but you shouldn’t be so nice to me after I said something so insensitive, Dex.” You replied.
“How could you have known something like that, Y/N? It’s not like I go around saying that to people when I first meet them. ‘Hi, I’m Dex. My parents died when I was young, leaving me an orphan and I had to grow up in a boys' home. It's really nice to meet you.’ I’m not just gonna come right out and say that.” He said.
Even though he said it was ok, you still felt like you inserted your foot in your mouth, big time. Maybe you should cut your losses and end the date now. It would go right along with the theme of the rest of the dates you’ve had lately…bad.
“I still feel really bad, Dex. I’d understand if you want to end the date now.” You said.
Confused, he replied, “What? No. Absolutely not. I’m having a really good time, Y/N.”
“Really?” You asked.
Dex stood up and walked over to your side of the booth. You moved over so he could sit next to you and as he sat down, he moved a stray hair away from your face. Closing the gap between your bodies, he inched his face closer to yours and suddenly all you could hear in your ears was your heart pounding loudly against your chest.
Dex’s deep green eyes were even prettier up close as time slowed down for a moment when his lips gently pressed against yours. The sounds of the bar patrons whistling and hollering were quickly drowned out by your rapid heartbeat. A sharp tingle ran down your spine as warmth rushed to your cheeks and butterflies danced around in your stomach while kissing him back.
“Does that answer your question?” He asked with a wink.
You replied with a shy smile, “I think it does.”
“You wanna play some games?” Dex asked.
You replied, “I’d love to.”
**********
For every shot he made during a game of pool, he got to ask you a question and it didn’t occur to you at first that he didn’t seem to miss any shots, no matter how difficult they seemed to be. By this time, you have had a couple of beers so you were a little more free with your answers to certain questions.
Some of the questions were fun and lighthearted about your family and friends but then he asked a couple of questions about past relationships. And your answers might have been a little too much information for a first date.
“Are you just really lucky or are you really good at pool, Dex?” You asked.
He had a smirk on his face when he replied, “I think I’m just lucky.”
The answer to Dex’s next question came out a little too quickly. You didn’t mean for it to come out as harshly and as bluntly as it did but you couldn’t take it back.
He sank the eight ball and asked, “So…Y/N. Why did your last relationship end?”
Dex barely finished getting the sentence before you blurted out, “He couldn’t satisfy me, sexually. Couldn’t even finger me to completion. No one can, actually.”
Thankfully you were standing close to him so it wasn’t like the entire bar heard you say it but you covered your mouth in shock anyway.
Even Dex had a slight look of shock on his face followed by a chuckle.
You also said, “Well that was way too much information for a first date and borderline inappropriate. Who’s embarrassed? I know I am.”
You could feel yourself blushing and couldn’t even make eye contact with him because you were incredibly embarrassed.
“Look at me, sweetheart.” He said.
The way he said that little pet name for you was so sweet and sexy at the same time. It gave you butterflies and had you clenching your thighs together as he placed a finger under your chin to tilt it up so you were looking into those beautiful green eyes once again and he kissed you, this time parting your lips with his tongue, slipping it into your mouth to tangle with yours.
It felt so strange to now be the nervous one and he was the one who was more cool and collected but his kiss had you melting against his chest and quietly moaning into his mouth.
“How are you at darts?” He asked, pulling you by the hand over to the dart boards.
“Oh I’m terrible.” You replied with a laugh. “Plus you can’t kiss me like that and expect me to focus on a dart board.”
“I’ll teach you.” He said.
Dex was driving you crazy. You could feel his warm breath against the outer shell of your ear, goosebumps erupted down the side of your neck when he would whisper into your ear, and the way his shoulder grazed yours as he stood behind you as he gave you tips on how to take a better shot.
“You don’t wanna grip it too tight. Flick your wrist hard but make it quick, then let it go. That’s better. You got closer to the bullseye that time.” He said.
You really hated not being good at something, especially watching him being good at everything.
As you stood there throwing darts, Dex surprised you when he said, “So you said NO one can finger you to completion?”
As he said that, your dart went completely rogue, missed the target, and hit the wall.
“SHIT!” You exclaimed.
Looking over at Dex, he had a devilish smirk on his face and you were starting to think that he might want to take on that challenge.
It seemed like things were escalating quickly between you and Dex and maybe he was just as turned on as you were. It wasn’t a lie that your last relationship didn’t work out because you weren’t sexually satisfied and it really was the truth that no one was able to get you off by manually stimulating you. They tried their hardest but it just didn’t work and you didn’t know why.
You turned to face him and he immediately placed his hands on your waist as you raked your nails through his hair.
Looking up at him through your long, dark lashes, the corners of your mouth curled into a smile as you whispered in his ear, “No…no one. Especially not the last guy. He had a hard time with…everything.”
“I bet you I can.” He said with confidence.
You doubted it.
“I doubt it, Dex. I just think there’s something wrong with me.” You said with a little shame in your voice.
“Believe me, sweetheart. There is nothing wrong with you. Maybe you just haven’t had the right one give it a go, yet.” He said. “How ‘bout we make a little wager?”
“A bet?” You asked. “What kinda bet?”
“How many bullseyes in a row would it take to let me try to make you come using just my fingers?” He asked.
His voice was barely more than a whisper in your ear but made a wet spot form on your panties as soon as the words escaped his lips.
“How many?” You repeated in a surprised tone. “You’re serious?”
He nodded.
If you threw out a ridiculous number, there’s no way he’d actually be able to do it, right? But what if you just wanted him to? It had been awhile. A good, hard release would feel so good right now plus Dex was incredibly sexy. But you didn’t want him to think you were like “that” on a first date.
What should you do?
“Just gimme a number, sweetheart. What do ya got goin’ on in that head of yours? Hmmm?” He asked and gave you a quick kiss on the lips.
Without thinking, you just blurted out the first number that popped into your head.
“15!” You exclaimed.
Dex raised his eyebrows and replied, “15, huh? Ok, well I’m gonna need a few more darts and I’ll need to take a break to remove darts when it gets a little on the crowded side but, uh…here goes nothin’. 15 it is.”
You watched as Dex with extreme quickness and accuracy threw the darts and hit the bullseye each time. You swear sometimes he wasn’t even looking at the dart board and there were times where you KNEW he wasn’t looking. The smirk that he had on his face the entire time told you he knew what he was doing and that he was hustling you. The last dart he threw, his eyes were completely closed.
“You hustled me. And who can throw that many bullseyes in a row, anyway?! That’s insane!” You said in disbelief.
“You mad, sweetheart?” He asked.
You definitely weren’t mad. You were impressed and turned on.
“I-I just didn’t think–” You started to say before he cut you off with a kiss.
Dex pulled away, kissed your forehead and said, “I mean, I know why you said that many. You didn’t want me to be able to do it so you wouldn’t have to let me try. I mean, it’s ok. I get it.”
His voice sounded deflated.
“It’s not that, Dex.” You replied.
You snaked your arms around his neck and closed the gap between your bodies as he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you in closer so you were sharing the same air.
“Then what is it, Y/N?” He asked.
As you lightly scraped your fingernails against his scalp, you replied, “Dex, I’m not usually the girl that goes that far on a first date so yeah, I thought that maybe if I said an impossible number that I wouldn’t have to let you try when deep down…Yes, I really want you to. I just don’t want you to think any less of me.”
There was no hiding that your body was trembling slightly and Dex had lifted your shirt to be able to touch the bare skin on the small of your back with his skilled calloused fingers. His touches were sending intense shivers down your spine and because your bodies were pinned against each other, you could feel how hard he was for you pressed against your core. Thankfully, the lighting in the bar was quite dim.
“Sweetheart, I REALLY like you. And I don’t want you to think the only reason why I asked you out was to try and get into your pants on the first date. That was not my intention, but things escalated and I thought maybe that’s where things were headed so I went with it.” He replied.
You didn’t know it was possible but you moved in closer to him and the ache between your thighs was growing stronger. Every time he looked at you with his gorgeous dark green eyes, you let out an involuntary whimper and when he kissed you, a low growl escaped his lips that made your knees weak.
“It’s been awhile since someone has made me feel this way. And I’m guessing it’s been awhile for you too.” He said.
He wasn’t wrong about that by the very apparent wet spot on your panties. If he kept this up, you were going to need a fresh pair. What was this man doing to you?
“So, what do ya say? Will ya let me try? You know I hit my targets...every time.” Dex said with a wink.
Slightly embarrassed, you asked him, “Here?!”
“Well maybe not here, here. But somewhere close. I noticed your Jeep has tinted windows…you have a shade for the front?” He asked.
He was right. Your Jeep did have tinted windows, a very large backseat, and you did have a shade for the front.
“Benjamin Poindexter, are you suggesting we fool around in the backseat of my car?!” You asked, slightly horrified but also with a sly smile on your face.
Dex leaned in, gently nibbled on your earlobe and replied, “I am. You have no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”
You glanced down at the impressive bulge in his jeans and said, “Oh I think I have a little bit of an idea. Come on…”
You grabbed his hand and led him outside to the parking lot. With your back pressed against your Jeep, Dex kissed up and down your neck while you looked around for stray people in the lot and when the coast was clear, the two of you jumped into the back seat. You handed him the shade to put up against the windshield which gave you a perfect opportunity to check out his backside. It was rather impressive.
While he was fixing the shade to the windshield, you were feeling a little frisky so you asked him, “Um, Benjamin? What are you doin’ with all that cake?”
Confused, he asked, “What?”
You grabbed both cheeks and asked, “All that cake! What are you doin’ with all that cake?!”
Completely shocked by you grabbing his ass, you started to crack up as you fell back into the seat.
Dex sat down next to you, turned to face you, pointed and said, “I can’t believe you just grabbed my ass and called it ‘cake.’”
Still laughing, you replied, “That didn’t kill the mood, did it?”
He pulled you into his lap and you could feel he was still hard, maybe even harder than before.
“What do you think?” He said.
His lips crashed against yours again and as his tongue parted your lips, it gently tapped against your teeth, desperately begging to tangle with yours. As you softly moaned into his mouth, Dex’s agile fingers had migrated underneath your shirt and danced up and down your back causing goosebumps to erupt across your skin.
Grinding down against his lap, you whispered with a slight chuckle, “I guess not.”
Reaching for the button on your jeans, Dex said, “Now, I can either figure out the combination immediately or…try out a couple of different ones first. It’s your choice, sweetheart.”
Dex was so sure of himself when he talked about his “skills.” He demonstrated that perfectly tonight while shooting pool and throwing darts but would he be able to do this? He hit those 15 bullseyes in a row so you had agreed to let him try.
“Isn’t there a saying like ‘Enjoy the journey as much as the destination?’ Something like that?” You whispered.
A devilish smirk stretched across his lips as he guided you off of his lap so you were lying down and he gently eased your jeans down to your ankles before pulling them off. Dex gazed down at you fondly as you shivered slightly out of nervousness. You let out a sharp inhale as his hand dipped below the waist band of your black lace panties and he parted your folds and inserted one finger.
You had been aching for him to touch you like this all night, his finger was already soaked as he continued to move and curl it rhythmically in a way that was causing your back to arch off of the seat and sinful noises to escape your lips.
“So wet for me, sweetheart.” He purred.
You choked out a strangled moan.
“Y-yes.” You replied.
“Can I add another finger? Hmm?” He asked.
Biting down on your lower lip, you were practically begging for it. You nodded.
“I can’t hear you, baby.” Taunted Dex.
“Y-yes!” You whined.
Dex slipped in another finger with ease and continued to tease you, watch you, and listen to you call out his name while he gave you the finger fucking of your life. Hearing you call out his name was music to his ears. He licked his thumb and started to draw circles on your clit which he knew would send you over the edge.
“Dex!” You cried out.
Your vision had gone white, he had stimulated that bundle of nerves and it was about to explode in the pit of your stomach.
“Come for me, sweetheart.” He growled.
You clamped down around his fingers as you let out one last loud cry of his name and tightly grabbed a hold of his forearm. He pulled back slightly and licked the taste of you off of his fingers.
“Mmm…See, I told you I could do it. You taste sweet too.” He said.
Slightly embarrassed, you covered your eyes briefly before replying, “I guess I should have believed you.”
“I guess you should have.” He said with a wink.
Still coming down from your high, you straddled him and kissed him again. You could feel the heat radiating from under his shirt as you made out like a couple of horny teenagers in the backseat of your Jeep for a little while longer before deciding to call it a night even though you really didn’t want to.
You felt like you should have at least returned the favor before sending him on his way but it was getting late and maybe it was just best to leave it where it was for now and save something for another date.
But after you got home, you just had this aggravating feeling of regret. And not because of what you had already done with Dex but because you felt comfortable enough with him to the point where you knew you wanted to go all the way with him and you just chickened out. Why? Because you have some stupid rule in your head about how many times you think you should go out with someone before it’s the “right time” to sleep with them?
“You wanted to bring him home tonight, you should have just brought him home. You’re an adult.” You said to yourself. “Now it’s too late and you sent him home with blue balls and he probably won’t call you ever again. Fuck! You’re an idiot!”
When you got home, you changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, threw your hair up, and made a cup of tea. As you took your first sip, all you could think of was Dex. You spiraled hard and fast about all the reasons he could come up with of why he didn’t wanna see you anymore.
It was around 1 am, in the middle of you spiraling out of control, when you heard a soft knock on your front door. Confused, you got up, put the chain on the door before opening it, and saw Dex standing outside.
“Dex?” You asked, in a confused tone.
Nervously, he traced his lips with thumb and forefinger and answered, “Hey, Y/N. Look, I’m so sorry to just show up like this, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know I should have called or texted first…ya know what? I’m just gonna go…”
You closed the door to undo the chain.
“Benjamin…bring your fine ass piece of cake in here.” You commanded.
As he started to walk away, he turned to look over his shoulder at you and replied, “Really?”
“Only if your cock hits its target as accurately as your fingers do.” You said.
Dex followed you inside, closed the door behind him and as his lips ghosted over yours he asked, “You wanna find out?”
In barely more than a whisper, you choked out, “Y-yes.”
You had just finished saying “yes” when Dex’s strong hands were underneath your ass. As you wrapped your legs around his waist, he carried you over to the couch and reached for the hem of your t-shirt.
Your lips crashed against his before he wrapped his hand around your throat like a necklace, kissed along your jawline, and nipped down the side of your neck leaving a trail of love bites along the way. He pulled your t-shirt over your head and tossed it across the room, leaving you in just your bra and sweatpants.
“You look so cute, sweetheart.” He said with a kind smile.
As you reached for the hem of his black long sleeve t-shirt, you replied, “Time to see what you’re hiding underneath your clothes, Mr. Poindexter.”
You were speechless after removing Dex’s shirt. He was a specimen with broad shoulders, arm muscles that were tight like piano wire, and the rest of his body was chiseled and hard like a marble statue, not to mention a jawline that could cut glass.
“Holy shit…” You blurted out. “You’ve been hiding this the whole time?”
“You’re makin’ me blush, sweetheart.” He growled.
“I’m feelin’ a bit inadequate, Dex.” You said, shying away from him a little bit.
“Well, you shouldn’t…you’re so beautiful.” He said, tilting your chin up for your gaze to meet his.
You could feel his hardening length against your core.
“You feel what you’re doin’ to me, don’t you?” He asked.
He was even harder now than he was earlier tonight. You were crazy about him and maybe he’s crazy about you too. Gently, you touched your forehead to his and closed your eyes. Raking your fingers through his soft blond hair, you just wanted to tell him how you felt about him. Leading up to the date, you did a lot of talking and texting and even tonight during your date too, you just really really like him. Is it love? Maybe?
“I’m crazy about you, Benjamin…Dex.” You said softly.
Dex’s lips found yours again. His tongue slipped between your teeth to tangle with yours and as he cupped your cheeks, he pulled back slightly to reply, “I am SO crazy about you too, sweetheart.”
Very grateful that he felt the same way, you started grinding down onto his core when he placed his strong hands on your hips and he buried his face in between your breasts. Just as you felt his tongue touch your skin, you grabbed the hair on the back of his head, pulled his head up for his eyes to meet yours and purred in his face, “Take me to bed then, baby.”
Dex couldn’t get you in bed fast enough but he knew you liked it when he took his time with you. He found out how much you loved when he just kissed up and down your body and certain spots like where the neck meets the shoulder, just off to the side of your belly button, and on the inner part of your knee. They all made your stomach flutter.
And he wasn’t just accurate with his hands, he was deadly accurate with his tongue too. He buried himself between your thighs for what felt like hours, teasing your entrance, then made longer, more eager strokes with his proficient tongue as you whimpered his name. Small flutters grew into bigger waves as your orgasm approached while he hummed against your core and told you he wanted to taste every drop of you.
“Let go for me, sweetheart.” He purred.
His words made your whole body shudder and caused your vision to go white while his name echoed off your bedroom walls and he savored your taste.
Dex had done so much for you already, it was time for you to repay the favor. His impressive bulge was straining against his jeans so you were finally able to give it some much needed release when you inched his jeans down, pulled them off and left him in nothing but his black boxer briefs. As you gently pulled them down, his cock sprang free and took him into your mouth. He let out a sharp inhale and a low growl, as you hollowed out your cheeks and let your tongue run along the underside. A guttural moan escaped his lips while he praised you.
“Holy shit, sweetheart…that feels so good. Fuck!” He cried out.
Dex let his agile fingers tangle in your hair while he continued to grunt and moan your name over and over again which was music to your ears.
His thighs began to tighten and his nails delicately scratched your back as he said “Sweetheart, stop…I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep goin’ like that. It feels amazing though. Come up here.”
Crawling up his body, you mentioned that there were condoms in the nightstand so you waited for him to slide one on, straddled him again, and sank down on him with ease. Dex easily stretched you out because you were so wet for him and slowly you started to rock back and forth.
It allowed him to go deeper and deeper before bottoming out while he sent electric shivers down your spine. As your climax started to build, your passion spun tighter and tighter inside the pit of your stomach and you pulled him in close, clinging to him like your life depended on it.
He loved to feel you tug on his hair as his short quick thrusts were hitting that bundle of nerves that was quickly sending you over the edge. As soon as you would ride out one orgasm, he pulled another one from you as his name fled from your lips over and over again.
You could feel his thighs begin to tighten and his body go rigid as he gripped the sides of your body, chasing his own release.
“That’s it, sweetheart! Oh fuck!” He cried out.
Collapsing on top of him, you tried to catch your breath as you came down from your high.
He just smiled as you gently brushed his cheeks with your thumbs, and gently pressed your lips to his. Slipping his tongue into your mouth, he parted your lips to twist and knot with yours as you let out a low whimper.
“Hell of a first date, baby.” You said.
Dex let out a little chuckle, “Definitely wasn’t what I was expecting but I like where it ended.”
You replied, snuggling into his chest “Me too. So, tomorrow’s Sunday…What does a regimented guy like yourself do on Sundays?”
Dex kissed your forehead and replied, “I like to sleep in on Sunday.”
There was a little bit of a pause before you asked, “Will you sleep in with me?”
You could feel Dex smile against your forehead as he replied, “I’d love to.”
His answer gave you goosebumps but made you feel warm and cozy inside at the same time.
You inched in closer, gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek and whispered, “Goodnight, Dex.”
He pulled you in close, wrapped his strong arms around you, and replied softly, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
A/n: Finally, I was able to break through the cobwebs and write a Baelor x Maekar x reader threesome
Summary: As the only daughter of King Daeron and Queen Myriah, you were long adored by your brothers. You are married to your Dornish cousin, yet his predilections are unable to provide you with a child. Your widowed brothers offer a solution.
Ten years after the birth of Prince Maekar, Queen Myriah surprised the realm by giving birth to a daughter. A most unexpected turn of events.
You were the apple of your father's eye, adored by your four brothers, and while the Gods had given you Valyrian looks, your mother dressed you as her little Dornish doll. Draped in swatches of bold colors, dripping in gold, emeralds, and rubies, with copper suns banded in your hair. You became the sunlight of the Red Keep. It became a family jest that everyone was surprised you learned to walk because you were constantly in their arms, carried about like a precious treasure.
All four of your elder brothers protected and nurtured you in their own ways. Baelor would place you on his hip and introduce you to members of the court. Aerys would read to you and teach you the histories. Rhaegel was your playmate, happy to play dolls with you, and Maekar was your protector. Your handmaidens would tell you tales of how Prince Maekar would sleep in the nursery when you were a wee babe to make sure you were kept safe at all times. A silver haired guard dog found with your tiny hand furled around his finger.
The fourteen year age difference between you and Baelor made him a surrogate father at times. It was him you went to when you had nightmares, snuggled against him as he lulled you back to sleep. Maekar was the one you turned to when the snotty Tully boy tripped you at Rhaegel's nameday celebration. Tears soaked his crimson doublet as he held you. You knew he restrained himself by only breaking the Tully boy's nose while Rhaegel pelted the boy with lemon cakes. Father gave Maekar quite the talking to afterward, but spared him any punishment, as you had begged mercy for your brother, and the little lordling had tripped a princess after all.
Time saw all your brothers married and your nephews and nieces, becoming your playmates. When you were still a mere girl of twelve, the Blackfyre Rebellion broke out, and saw Baelor and Maekar sent to war. You would hold Jena and Dyanna's hands, saying soft prayers for their safe return. They proved their skill on Redgrass Field, and a song would sing their glory as the Hammer and the Anvil. You remembered the days spent watching them in the training yard: Baelor with his calculating skills and moves, and Maekar with his brute strength. None could swing a mace with such force as Maekar, and none could swing a sword so elegantly and deadly as Baelor. How you loved and adored them. In the youthful days of girlhood, you had imagined marrying them in the Valyrian custom.
Shortly after your sixth and tenth nameday, your cousin, Trystane, began to make frequent visits to the Red Keep. A deep friendship blossomed between you two, and you became the keeper of his secrets. He was sweet and charming, blessed with Dornish good looks. Rich, bronzed skin, honeyed brown eyes, and thick, black hair that fell past his shoulders. Your mother had convinced your father to hold off future bethroals until you were eight and ten, wanting to keep you by her side. However, she began to plant the seeds of marrying your cousin in your head to continue the Targaryen and Dornish alliance.
With the long spring extended and in honor of your eighteenth nameday, Trystane was invited to court once again, and a grand feast was held in the courtyard that evening at your request. You sat in Baelor's lap, your head resting on his shoulder as you watched Trystane perform a Dornish dance with members of his entourage who had accompanied him. Your parents had retired to bed, leaving you in your brothers' company. Aerys was most curious to learn more of their histories, while Rhaegel picked up the dance rather quickly, spinning around arm in arm with Trystane. Maekar had been recently widowed the past year and drowned himself in endless cups of red wine.
"Do you have eyes for him, sister?" Baelor smiled, smoothing his hand down your loose hair.
Next to him, Maekar grunted as his fingers tightened around his cup. You had told him he did not need to attend, but he insisted. It is not every day that my little sister becomes a woman.
"He is nice, I enjoy our talks," you said. He wouldn't be the worst choice, but you knew his attraction lay with men. Though you did not dare to speak that aloud, you had given Trystane your promise.
Could he love you in such a way?
You reached for the cup of red wine, taking a slow slip as Trystane and his men finished their dance. Loud clapping filled the courtyard, the torches blazing and bathing everything in an orange glow. Rhaegel shook Trystane's hand, the two clapping each other on the back, before your cousin's gaze fell on you.
"We should see you off to bed," Maekar grumbled, his violet eyes narrowing.
You rolled your eyes and sighed against Baelor's shoulder.
"Brother, she is hardly a child; let her have a bit of fun," Baelor said, gently guiding you off his lap. "Go and dance with him."
You did just that, picking up the steps rather easily, as you very much enjoyed your dance lessons as a girl. Baelor and Rhaegel were easy to convince to be your dance partners over the years, while Maekar took more sweet talking. Sweat clung to your skin by the time the dance was over.
"Might I take your sister for a walk in the gardens? I will return her promptly, my lords," Trystane asked your brothers, your arm linked through his.
"Ser Wylde will stay a few steps behind, but yes, you have our permission," Baelor replied kindly, though you noted Maekar looked rather red in the face and irritated by your cousin's request. He stood from his chair, making it clatter behind him.
"Nonsense, Ser Wylde needn't be bothered. I will accompany them," he sneered, his fingers brushing over the pommel of his sword.
"Brother," Baelor warned, and Maekar held up his hand.
The roses were fragrant that evening, Maekar's bootsteps heavy on the ground as he followed behind, keeping a sharp eye.
"I plan to ask for your hand in marriage if you agree, princess," Trystane smiled.
You tilted your head up. "I think we would be happy together. Do you think…perhaps you could love me?"
"Love comes in many forms, princess. I can promise that I would cherish you and never mistreat you."
"But you would keep your paramours?" You were young and lived the sheltered, spoiled life of a princess, but you were not naive.
"You could have your own if you wish."
You gasped, quickly covering your mouth so as not to alarm Maekar. "That is very bold of you to say, cousin."
"I'm simply being honest, which is another thing I can promise. Never to lie to you."
You glanced down at your hands, studying the ruby ring that Maekar had gifted you and the sapphire one from Baelor on the finger next to it. Your gaze drifted over your shoulder as you took in the sight of your brother looming close behind. "And children?"
"I would like children, yes."
You smiled. "We would live in Dorne?"
"If you wish, but I would stay in King's Landing if that made you happy."
"Then I think you should have a discussion with my father on the morrow."
"I shall do so, princess."
He returned you to your brothers, and you could practically feel Maekar breathing down your neck.
"Oh, I know that look in your eye, sweet sister," Jena smiled, taking your hand and drawing you close. "You will be joining our ranks soon enough." She kissed your cheek, and you noted the odd look in Baelor's mismatched eyes. Jealousy. It was more hidden, more subdued than Maekar's was.
"Come, it is time to tuck you in," Maekar growled, roughly grabbing you by the arm and pulling you away from Jena.
"Stop, you are hurting me," you hissed, pulling away and running into Rhaegel's arms. He embraced you warmly, stroking your hair and giving Maekar a rather puzzled look.
"I think perhaps you've had too much to drink this evening, brother," Baelor said softly.
"You should see him off, Baelor," Aerys hummed. It was apparent to all how out of character Maekar was behaving, but he had just lost his beloved, so grace was given.
"For fuck's sake, I am not a child," Maekar grumbled, his neck and face flaming red.
You kissed Rhaegel's cheek and moved from his embrace, slipping your arm through Maekar's.
"Come, I am ready now, you can escort me as planned," you said softly, wishing to save face. Wishing to protect him as he had with you for all these years. You gave Baelor a soft nod, which he returned. Wine peremated from every pore, sinking into the fabric of your samite golden gown. Ser Roland, newly appointed to the Kingsguard and assigned to you, trailed behind.
The walk was silent, and you guided Maekar inside your chambers with Ser Roland posted outside the doors. When your mother came to court, she instructed the kitchen staff to boil water and allow it to cool before filling the pitchers, and a fresh ewer was placed in your room every morning and evening. You poured a cup for your brother and instructed him to sit and drink. You sat at his feet, gently stroking his knee and thigh.
"I do not wish to lose you as well," he whispered, his hand shaking and sending water sloshing over the rim of the golden cup.
"You are not. Trystane says he will live with me here if I wish," you said gently.
Warm tears splattered onto your knuckles. Dyanna's death had broken Maekar, and you didn't believe those pieces would ever be mended.
"I will marry you instead," he stammered, his voice thick with tears.
"Maekar…"
"No, I will," he insisted, standing from his chair and making you scramble to your feet. Pitifully, he dropped to his knees, circling his arms around your waist and weeping against your dress. You stroked his white-gold hair. "That way you will always be by my side, sweet sister."
"You are drunk."
"I am, but I mean what I say. I will discuss the matter with Father on the morrow. I will make you my bride."
His face pressed further into your bodice, his grip so tight that you thought you might be squeezed to death. The proposal did not disturb you. In fact, you considered it. But he was grieving, and a grieving man could not be held to promises. When he lifted his face, you cradled it in your hands. Violet, pleading eyes, flushed cheeks, and such a look of forlornness. Mayhaps you could put him back together. All he needed was his sister's touch.
Slowly, he climbed to his feet, pulling you close and dipping his head to kiss you. Your face flushed with heat as you allowed his warm mouth to consume yours. It was intoxicating, like the first sip of wine that rushed to your head. You should have pushed him away, but you didn't. Your mouth felt swollen in the aftermath when he finally pulled away. His thumb swiped over your plush lips.
"Good night, sister," he whispered before disappearing into the night, leaving you bewildered.
When you woke the next morning, Lady Fowler informed you that Maekar departed for Summerhall with haste that morning. It made your heart sink. Broken words. False promises. A deep breath filled your lungs, and you steadied on, nibbling on your raspberry jam smeared toast. You allowed yourself to feel a long-forgotten girlhood hope, but you could not wallow in the disappointment. Trystane would ask for your hand in marriage, and you knew Father would accept, especially with Mother whispering in his ear.
"Queen Myriah has requested you wear the teal silk today," Lady Fowler informed you, and you nodded with a small smile on your face.
You held Prince Trystane's hand as your father announced the betrothal to the court. You waved and smiled, pearls dripping down your hair. Aerys had a tight-lipped smile, but you could see the happiness reflected in his amethyst eyes. Rhaegel clapped and cheered while Baelor's approval was etched all over his face. Maekar's absence made your heart ache, but you swallowed your tears. Soon, you would be a married woman and not have to worry about your brother's folly.
"I wish to go to Dorne with you once we are married," you whispered in your cousin's ear.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes, and we can return to my father's court when needed."
"If that is your wish," he smiled and kissed your hand.
Maekar was there for the wedding with his brood in tow, and Lady Aelinor was most happy to help entertain and mind them. You knew she longed for a child and you could not figure out why Aerys had not provided her with one yet. Perhaps he had the same preference as your husband, which now caused you worry. The wedding was a grand affair with your Aunt Daenerys and Uncle Maron in attendance with your other cousins. That morning, your mother helped dress you in gold and maroon silks and dripped you in gold jewelry, turning you into her bright little sun once more.
"May the Gods bless your union with many children and much happiness," she said, smiling and kissing your cheeks. "Just as they did with mine."
"I hope you will visit us soon, sister," Baelor smiled as he hugged you tightly as you readied for departure to Dorne.
"Soon she will be blessed with little ones and will hardly give us a second thought," Jena teased.
"She best not, or I will swim the Sea of Dorne myself to bring her back to us," Rhaegel responded, sweeping you into his arms and twirling you.
"I promise I will not be gone for too long," you laughed, squeezing Aerys's hand, who pressed a kiss to your cheek.
Maekar stepped forward silently and hugged you tightly. You fought the urge to snuggle your face into the crook of his neck. He had broken his promise, and you had broken yours. Fair is fair. You boarded the ship with your husband and departed.
The first two years were blissful. You enjoyed Sunspear and the water gardens, adjusting to the customs and new surroundings with ease. Trystane was your best friend; there were nights you would stay up talking until golden dawn bled through, and he lavished you with gifts and sang songs to you while strumming his lute. He never raised a hand to you, never uttered an unkind word, and was often by your side.
The only issue was that of children. Gods know the two of you had tried, you had even invited one of his paramours into the marriage bed to help stimulate him. There was one time he was able to spill his seed inside you, but it did not quicken within. It was clear he held no physical attraction to you, and you were unsure of how to navigate the matter. Once, you thought of writing to your mother, but you did not wish to make her worry or risk exposing Trystane in any way. The letters that constantly arrived from your brothers helped alleviate the sadness. Even the short, curt ones from Maekar and the oddly worded ones from Rhaegel, which you assumed involved him dictating to Aerys, who wrote them for him. Poor Rhaegel was never good with his letters or learning the quill.
One morning, a somber, heavy message arrived from your mother by raven. Jena had caught a chill and never recovered. Tears stained the parchment, making the ink run as you penned a letter to Baelor. His response arrived promptly, and many messages were exchanged as he found comfort in corresponding with his darling sister.
You found yourself missing home. You wished to be near Baelor again, to help him as he grieved. To assist him in the way you failed Maekar.
"Might we plan a visit to King's Landing?" you asked your husband.
"Longing for home?" he smiled.
"I am, and I wish to comfort my brother."
"Write to your family, and I'll make arrangements."
"Thank you."
A month later, you returned home and found yourself in Baelor's arms.
"You are a wondrous sight for an aching heart," he whispered in your ear. "I thank you, cousin, for bringing her to us."
"Anything my lady wife wishes for, I will give to her. I am sorry for your loss, cousin. Lady Jena was a fine woman," Trystane said, and squeezed Baelor's hand.
You heard Maekar's scoff, and you gritted your teeth.
"Thank you, cousin. I hope you will not mind too much if I borrow your wife?"
"Not at all. I will go and visit with my Aunt." Though you suspected it was your mother's sworn shield, Deziel Dal, that warranted your husband's attention.
"I would like some time with her later; you cannot have her all to yourself," Rhaegel complained.
"I promise you can have her for tea," Baelor assured him, squeezing Rhaegel's shoulders.
Baelor whisked you away to his quarters in the Tower of the Hand. He held your face in his hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks.
"My, how you have grown, no longer the small girl who used to crawl into my lap."
"I think I could make myself fit still," you teased, making him smile.
"Let us see."
He sat in the black, high-backed chair, cushioned in luxurious green, and pulled you into his lap, hugging you close. "It seems you still fit perfectly."
You guided his head onto your breasts, gently stroking his short hair. A peaceful silence enveloped the room as you tended to your older brother, letting his tears gather on your warm flesh.
"My sweet sister, tell me that you are happy. You seemed to hint at an issue that has been bothering you, yet you would not reveal it in your letters," he whispered.
"Your wife is gone, yet you worry about me?" you teased softly, stroking the back of his neck with your fingers.
"Well, I cannot bring her back, but perhaps I may be able to help you."
"I do not think you can, and you must promise not to breathe a word I tell you beyond these walls."
"You have my promise," he assured you, lifting his head and kissing your fingertips.
"My husband does not seem to be able to give me a child," you admitted softly. Maekar's earlier scoff echoed in your ears.
"And you desire them."
"I do."
"You wanted to name your daughter, Naerys, after our grandmother," Baelor smiled.
"You remembered?"
"Of course I did." His fingers spanned over your belly. "Has your marriage been consummated?"
"Is that of importance?" you asked curiously.
"If it has not been, I could request that Father ask the High Septon to annul it. You would be free to marry another with no shame upon you."
"And who would I marry instead?"
"I would take you to wife, sweet sister."
You untangled from his lap, pacing the room as you wrung your hands. "You and Maekar, so different yet so alike."
"What do you mean?"
"The night before Trystane asked Father for my hand, Maekar begged me to marry him, yet he disappeared the very next morning."
"I would never do such a thing," Baelor insisted.
"I love my husband; he is good to me in all ways." Frustrated tears brimmed in your eyes.
"Except for the way you desire."
Tears streamed down your cheeks, and your brother gathered you into his arms. "It is not his fault; his desire lies in other men. I cannot be upset over a matter neither of us can control and one I knew about," you sobbed into Baelor's chest.
"I suppose you are right about that, his nature cannot be changed, nor should it. We live in an unfair world where some must hide. Forgive me, sister, I am lonely and grieving. I was selfish in my offer, wanting to have you as my wife."
You lifted your tearstained face. "It warmed my heart, brother, that you desire me in such a way. The offer was tempting, but I would feel horrible tossing my husband aside."
"Then perhaps there is another solution."
"Which would be?"
"Allow me to give you a child."
In the past, you would have balked at such a proposition, but now it tempted you. Trystane had given you his blessing to find a paramour of your own, but none had caught your interest, and you did not desire a meaningless tryst.
"You would do that for me?" you whispered.
"I would do anything for you, little sister." His mismatched eyes were inviting, drawing you in. "At least take some time to reflect on the matter. I will not force you."
"I will," you smiled, letting boldness overtake you, and pressed your mouth against his.
Strong arms circled your waist, holding you close as passions overtook. He let you go as he had promised Rhaegel, and you felt as if you were floating on air. Tea was lovely with Rhaegel, and he informed you that he and Alys were trying for a third child.
"Oh, that is wonderful," you smiled, patting his hand. After tea, he played a song for you on his lute before you retired to your chambers to rest before supper. You weren't surprised to find Maekar sitting at the table, his boots propped against the edge of the table as he waited for you. You sighed, walking over and shoving his boots off the table before pouring two cups of wine.
"I saw your husband off to the Streets of Silk, no doubt with that guard of Mother's in tow," he said, lightly drumming his fingers against the table. "Off to bugger each other, no doubt."
You tossed your red wine over his face, taking a sadistic joy in watching the ruby liquid drip down his skin.
"How dare you? Must you be so cruel?" you hissed, tossing your cup onto the floor and enjoying the loud clatter it made.
Maekar blinked before removing a handkerchief from his doublet and wiping his face. "If you were mine, you'd have three babes already."
Your fingers curled into tight fists. "But I am not yours! You gave me the false hope, only to abandon me, you wretched man."
"Is that any way to speak to your brother?"
"It is when he is a fool!"
"I should put your over my knee and smack some manners into you," he growled.
"Well, we both know you are shit at following through."
A strange noise toppled from his lips, a sound you had not heard from him in a long time. Laughter. His body shook with it before he stood and took hold of your chin.
"I assume Baelor has presented his cause."
"How would you…"
"He is not the only one who suspected, dear girl, and I am hardly a fool."
You snorted and raised a brow. "I would say that is debatable."
"Careful now, or I will follow through on my earlier threat," he warned. "Let me give you a babe, we are almost mirror images, none would suspect. You could have a little girl who looks just like you and me."
"You do my head in, brother."
"Family is meant to drive one mad."
"I will consider it along with Baelor's offer," you said simply. "Now, leave. I wish to rest."
One hand cupped your cheek while the other moved down your braid, giving it a soft tug and wrapping the end around his hand. "I could keep you warm," he offered. It made your belly clench. Against your better judgment, you agreed and allowed him to hold you in the bed.
You sat by your mother's side at supper, your gaze trailing between Baelor and Maekar. Which would you choose? Your finger circled the rim of your cup, overflowing with a sweet white wine. The brother who resembled your husband, or the one who looked like you? Silver trays piled high with desserts sat to your right. Lemon cakes and cherry tarts. A sly smile spread over your face as you put both on your plate.
Why pick one? Why not have both?
You summoned Baelor and Maekar to your chambers that evening while Trystane slept in the adjoining rooms. Your hair was loose, falling down your shoulders in waves, and you wore your favorite pink silk robe.
"I mean to have you both," you told them plainly. "You will share me and fill me. It will be a gamble whose seed takes; I do not want any quarreling about it."
"As you wish, sister," Baelor smiled, ducking his head.
Maekar's eyes narrowed. "You know that mine takes, quite easily, I would add."
"If you do not agree, then you can sit in the chair and watch our brother take me instead."
"You have turned into an insufferable brat."
"Steady now, brother," Baelor cautioned, ever the gallant knight.
"No, I have grown into a woman who will decide her fate and who warms her bed. I wish for it to be both my brothers, Maekar. I cannot choose when both hold my heart equally."
His mouth twitched, his fingers curling and flexing. The nervous habits he thought he had shaken off in childhood. You stepped closer, taking both of their hands.
"This is my decision," you stated.
"Alright, then," Maekar sighed, giving in to your whims and secretly proud of the woman you had become. You kissed Maekar, letting him be first for a change, then kissed Baelor.
"You will invite us to sup with you tomorrow in the Tower, and then we will lie together," you informed him.
"Yes, sweet sister."
"And what of your husband?" Maekar asked.
"I will inform him of my intentions. We promised never to lie to one another, and I do not intend to start. Good night, my dear brothers."
Each left you with another kiss, leaving you to enjoy a respite in front of the fire. In the morning, you informed Trystane of your plans.
"My, I must say I'm impressed. Taking both your brothers to bed, I am a bit jealous," he grinned.
"I do not wish to know of your fantasies involving my brother," you told him dryly.
"I promise to keep those to myself. Well, have fun."
"I intend to."
You wore your crimson silk gown with a black bodice and black lace sleeves to enjoy supper with your brothers, finding your house colors more fitting for this meal. They, too, wore various shades of red and black. There was a nervous silence in the air as the three of you dined, seemingly savoring every bite.
"The duck is rather delicious," you murmured.
"It was always a favorite of yours," Baelor said, settling his hand on top of yours.
Maekar rolled his eyes, drawing a soft giggle from your mouth.
"You have a good memory, brother," you commented.
"Must we bother with all this ridiculous small talk?" Maekar grumbled.
"Would you prefer to throw me over the table and take me now?"
"Yes, that sounds preferable to me," Maekar huffed.
"Then let us not waste any more time. Come and unlace my gown," you instructed him.
Maekar stood, tugging you roughly to your feet and spinning you around before tugging at your laces. He was rough yet gentle enough not to destroy the garment, peeling it away from your body and leaving you in a simple undershift and stockings. Then he sent you toward Baelor with a quick slap to your arse. The jolt of pain surprised you, yet it did not feel unpleasant. Your eldest brother pulled you into his lap, your back against his chest, after tugging the shift over your head.
"Gods, she is beautiful, is she not, brother?" Baelor purred, his ringed hands squeezing your supple flesh.
"A true beauty," Maekar breathed, stepping closer. While Baelor gently pinched and tugged on your nipples, Maekar knelt between your splayed thighs. His beard scraped against your thighs while his tongue gently lapped at your cunt. You allowed yourself to get lost in the pleasure, letting your brothers have their way for now. Two of Maekar's deft fingers dipped into your opening, making you mewl.
Baelor's mouth worked over your neck, falling onto your shoulder and sinking his teeth into your tender skin. You liked to imagine in the privacy of his chambers and in the throes of passion, he allowed himself to lose control as he kept so tightly together in the public eye. You felt the swell of his cock against the curve of your arse. They made your body come alive. The Hammer and the Anvil were at their best when working in unison, with a common goal in mind.
"You're both overdressed," you whined, wanting to feel their skin against yours.
"I suppose we are," Baelor chuckled, his hand stroking your belly, fingers sliding down to join Maekar's in teasing you. His thumb grazed across your pearl, making you twitch.
"'Tis a pity your husband cannot fully appreciate you," Maekar sneered, before bringing his dripping fingers to his mouth and lewdly suckling them clean.
You swallowed. "I was meant to be yours. Both of yours." Baelor's fingers pressed against your mouth, and you parted your lips, allowing them to sink inside. The salt of his skin mixed with your musk.
Maekar swept you into his arms, carrying you into the sleeping quarters and placing you on the red blanket embroidered with black and gold dragons. Baelor blew out the candles in the solar before following behind and stoking the coals in the hearth. The amber and orange flames grew brighter. He began to loosen his doublet before walking toward the bed where you lay. Maekar sat on a chair and tugged off his boots.
You stretched out languidly, watching them as they unraveled from their clothing. Maekar stood a bit taller, slimmer yet well defined and decorated with scars. White hair decorated his chest, swirling down to his pubic bone and in a sparse, downy covering at the base of his cock. His stones were full and heavy. Baelor's chest hair was darker, with a touch of gray, thicker, and covering more of him. His belly was softer, a sign of his age. His stones were smaller, yet cock equally as thick as Maekar's. How you yearned for them.
You reached out, drawing them closer to you, taking turns kissing and stroking them. Feeling their cocks swell and grow rigid against your soft palms. Three bodies bled into one for a brief moment, and you weren't sure where any of you ended or began. Made for each other. Baelor arranged himself against the pillows, guiding you once more into his lap and spreading you wide for Maekar, those elegant fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs.
"He never misses, my sweet sister," Baelor whispered into your ear as Maekar's cock nudged at your opening. You could not fault the logic in that. He had given Dyanna six children.
You groaned as he sank deep inside you, filling and stretching your cunt. Your legs wrapped around his slender waist, drawing him close against you. Baelor's cock gently nudged against you, the fleshy tip teasing you while Maekar's stuffed you. Oh, it would be divine to have both buried inside you. You let the blissful feeling carry you away, pleasure wracking your body as your belly tightened. A sweet pressure built and surged until you burst and toppled over the edge. Maekar pressed his face against the curve of your shoulder, his thrusts becoming more powerful. Bruises would blossom over your thighs in the morning. His seed spilled heavy and thick, filling you to the brim and leaking out.
"I bet a babe already is growing in your womb, sister," Maekar smirked, and all you could do was silently nod your head, mouth agape. He took hold of you, pulling you onto all fours with your arse and seeping cunt facing Baelor. "Go on, brother, have your turn."
Baelor's hands grabbed your hips, his cock entering you with a wet squelch. Maekar's cock was still hard, wet, red, and leaking. One hand twisted in your hair before guiding his cock into your mouth. Baelor's thrusts were steady and controlled, each roll of his hips building the pleasure inside you again. You moaned around Maekar's cock. A second peak rolled through your body, and Maekar's seed dripped down your throat while Baelor's filled your cunt. You nearly wept from happiness.
Your head lay against Maekar's thigh while Baelor gently cleaned you with a damp cloth.
"Thank you," you whispered, stroking your fingers over your belly. Maekar's palm skimmed over your forehead.
"We'll do it until it takes," he whispered.
"As many times as needed," Baelor smiled.
You curled between them, tucked safely in their arms.
Nine moons passed, and soon you were in labor, bringing your first child into the world. Your brothers paced the hall, freezing when they heard the wail of the babe. Trystane emerged, a smile on his face.
"Well, boy?" Maekar asked.
"It is a girl, and she looks just like her mother." His gaze met Maekar's while Baelor squeezed his youngest brother's shoulder.
Naerys was the light of your life, cherished and adored. Two more daughters followed in the span of four years; Aelys with her dark eyes and curls, and Gaella with her cerulean eyes and wisps of silvery hair. It was impossible, but you liked to pretend Gaella was made from both your brothers. A fourth grew in your belly when a second Blackfyre rebellion arose shortly after the death of your father, King Daeron. Your cousin-husband fought bravely alongside your brothers, sustaining a deep wound to his belly. He hovered between life and death for three days with you by his side. You would help change his bandage and dab the sweat that gathered on his brow. A shaky hand rested on your rounded belly.
"Will you grant a dying man one wish?" Trystane croaked. It was hard to see him in such a state, as he had once been a man so full of life.
"Hush now, you are still here with us, but I will still grant your wish if possible," you replied softly.
"Might I name this one? I know I am part dragon, but I wish for her to have a Dornish name."
"Another girl, then?" you smiled. "Tell me the name you wish, dear husband."
"Aliandra."
"Then that shall be her name." You pressed a kiss to his forehead. He died in the late hours of the night, with his hands in yours. Aliandra was born three moons later with indigo eyes and dark hair.
A new era of the Targaryen dynasty approached with Baelor as King, Maekar serving as his Hand, and Aerys as the Master of Laws. Valarr and Rhaegel were given seats as well. You had your hands full tending to your daughters and Maekar's younger children. One evening, you nearly fell asleep in your chair while dining with your brothers, your nipples sore from nursing Aliandra, as she did not take to her wet nurse.
"Already exhausted and we haven't fucked her yet," Maekar quipped before taking a long pull from his cup of wine.
"Leave her be, she is busy mothering and Gods know you're children are exhausting," Baelor replied.
"Oh, while yours are blessed, well behaved beings who can do no wrong? Aelys liked to bite her handmaidens if I recall correctly."
"She grew out of that phase," Baelor scowled.
"All of your children are meddlesome and tiresome," you murmured, peering through slatted eyes. "Mischief runs in our blood, a dragon curse."
"Regretting them, are we?" Maekar asked.
You shook your head and smiled. "Not a bit. But I am a widow now, so you cannot put more in me without raising suspicion."
"We would never put you at risk like that, dear sister," Baelor assured, squeezing your hand. "Allow us to attend to you this evening, no seed needs to fill you."
"Attention from the King and his Hand? How could I turn that down?" you smiled.
A steaming bath awaited you in Baelor's chamber, as if he had anticipated your need. Maekar maneuvered you out of your clothing and helped you into the tub. You groaned as you sank into the hot water, as it magically soothed your aches and pains away. Baelor sat on a stool beside the tub, gently washing your body with a soft sponge while Maekar tended to your hair, massaging your scalp with soap. You melted beneath their touch, savoring the tender care they bathed you with. Even your aching breasts felt better after the hot bath.
You warmed in front of the fire, lounging across the chaise, one bare foot dangling off the edge. You did not bother with clothing, enjoying the flames gently caressing your bare skin.
"You're leaking," Maekar grunted, watching the opaque, milky liquid bead from your engorged nipples.
"So I am, might you come and help me, dear brother?" you smiled, moving from the chaise and toward Baelor's bed where he rested. Thick, wet hair streamed down your back.
Once settled against the golden pillows, you guided Baelor to one breast and Maekar to the other. Baelor's lips were softer, gentler as he suckled at your breast. Maekar's lips were rougher, cracked, while his teeth worked over the delicate nub. You stroked their head, moaning softly as they alleviated your sore, full breasts. It was a delectable sight watching the foamy milk cling to their rosy mouths and dribble down their bearded chins. They removed their clothing, pressing their naked bodies against yours. Fingers explored and gently probed between your legs.
You could take four, two from each older brother. Cunt clenching and fluttering around the appendages as they gave you a sweet release. Once you rode out your peak, you watched your brothers tend to each other, stroking one another's cocks and grunting. You certainly enjoyed the show. Pearly send spilling into rough palms, the sweat soaking their bodies, pink tongues entwining. Dragons would always find each other in the end; blood calling to blood.
The sun and the moon continued to turn as the realm began to adore Baelor as their king. He was fair and kind, quick to settle matters before blood could be spilled. He would even visit Flea Bottom, listening to their concerns and becoming a true man of the people. The king who shook the hands of peasants, letting them know he was for all. He made true of his promise, fixing the slums of the city for the small folk to have better living conditions.
One afternoon, your brothers found you in the nursery, surrounded by a gaggle of children. Aliandra sat in your lap, playing with her wooden dragon. Every so often, she would toss it into the tower of blocks Gaella and Aelys would build. The girls would cheer then repeat the process, enthralled by their little game. Naerys ran over to Maekar, lifting her arms to him, and he scooped her up, nuzzling her cheek.
"To what do I owe this pleasure, brothers?" you smiled, stroking Aliandra's dark, curly hair before passing her into Baelor's arms. He kissed the top of her head, keeping her close against his chest.
"The small council has suggested I remarry. The realm needs a queen," Baelor said.
"And who have they proposed?"
A sly look was exchanged between your brothers.
"You, sister," Maekar replied, bouncing Naerys on his knee.
"Father fought hard against incest in our line," you commented.
"He wished for us not to be kept in the confines of it, but was not opposed entirely. The council reasons that you are a widow with children, and the only daughter of the deceased king. It would be an honorable choice. Or you could marry Maekar and live in peace at Summerhall," Baelor said.
"I do not think my days at Summerhall would be filled with peace with seven children to mind, nine if I were to include Aerion and Daeron," you laughed. "What is your opinion?" You directed the question at Maekar.
Maekar stroked Naerys's pale white hair as he considered. "I think you should be queen. I think the three of us should rule together."
"And our current arrangement?" you asked softly, though the children wouldn't understand.
"Would not need to change," Baelor replied. "At least, I see no reason why it cannot continue."
You reached for his hand and Maekar's, squeezing both. "Then let us rule together, brothers."
The council wished for a public wedding, open for even the small folk to attend. Maekar and Rhaegel presented you to Baelor before the High Septon. Happy tears streamed down Rhaegel's face.
"My little sister is queen," he sniffled, and even Maekar's prickly nature seemed to resolve at his brother's words, a soft smile on his face.
Your mother placed the bejeweled golden crown upon your head and kissed your brow before stepping back and holding Aerys's arm. Baelor wore crimson silks and a black cloak with the Targaryen sigil, and you wore dazzling yellow silks with a matching Dornish-style veil. How you wished you could marry both brothers in the public eye. At least in private, you would have them both.
A grand feast unfolded, but all you could think of was that evening. The desire to have your brothers between your thighs, their blood pounding in your ears. Your thirst was quenched later when Maekar ripped your gown to tatters and Baelor's hand wrapped around your throat. Heat consumed you, the taste of their blood on your tongue after you broke the skin of their lips with your teeth. One would bury deep inside you, quickly followed by the other, hardly giving you time to think, as you gave your body over to them. The three headed dragon roared to life.
Maekar's teeth imprinted on your thighs, his palms leaving stinging marks on your arse.
"Not many can strike a queen and live to tell the tale," he hissed in your ear, his hand gripping your hair tightly.
Baelor's fingertips bruised your hips as he held you so tightly, as if he were afraid you might slip from his grasp. Dark red marks bloomed over your breasts from his hungry mouth.
You left your own mark on them, crimson scratches from your nails. Blood rushed to your head, making the room spin, but you knew they would never let you fall.
A peaceful sleep found you, wrapped between your brothers, just as you were always meant to be.
Summary: After witnessing something you weren’t supposed to, there’s a price on your head. It would be easy for the excellent marksman to finish the job, but something about you makes him reconsider.
Or- I saw Wilson talking about how Dex needs a weirdo freak gf and was like ‘well, yes’. Reader is implied to be neurodivergent but its kept a bit vague.
Word Count: 15.4k
Warnings & Content: no use of y/n, fluff, smut, slow burn (sorta), swearing, attempted murder, actual murder, stalking, violence, blood and injury mention, mention of death, happy ending, slight angst, toxic attachment, 18+ mdni please
I do not authorize my work to be used for Al or reposted across platforms
For most of your life you felt invisible.
Your friends and coworkers seemed to advance easily in life, getting degrees that led to solid jobs and fulfilling relationships. You, despite your best efforts, did not have the same experience.
In high school, you first became aware of your…difference. The way people would easily talk to others and make friends, but with you they would only feign politeness and share wordless looks behind your back.
Even teachers thought you were weird. It wasn’t said explicitly, they had to be professional of course, but there was only so many times they could call you ‘an interesting yet quiet young lady’ without you catching on.
You had tried hard to change it, to ‘put yourself out there’. It never worked out well. Dates would go fine at first until there was something you said or did to unnerve the other person. Even situations you were sure had gone great resulted in you being ghosted.
You wish that they at least yelled at you or complained, then you could know for sure what they didn’t like.
Once you were in your twenties, you made peace with the fact that it wouldn’t happen for you. The relationship thing wasn’t in your cards, you just weren’t built for it. It created a sad acceptance within you, but one that was needed to not go into a mental spiral.
“-ey, were you listening?” The words drifted to the forefront of your mind, dragging you away from your trail of thoughts.
You paused in folding the shirts on display before you, turning to your coworker that was looking at you expectantly.
“Uh yeah, the closing right?” You struggled to remember what Jess had walked over to you for, but you were sure it was because she needed something. Nobody really spoke to you when they didn’t need something.
“Yeah, you can do it right? I can’t do it and Marcus needs someone to cover.” Her green eyes stared at you pleadingly.
It was a request, but it didn’t feel like one. Especially since you were the only ones still working in the clothing store this late.
“Ah, I don’t-" You thought about what was waiting for you back at your apartment. A relaxing shower, the usual quick dinner, and a puzzle of choice. Not the most exhilarating routine, but you enjoyed it. You really didn’t want to close alone.
Just do it, say no. It’s not fair for you to do everything yourself and it’s not like she’ll appreciate it.
You almost did. The refusal was on the tip of your tongue when you had a flash in your head, the disappointment on her face, the awkwardness of the next shift. How she would talk about you to your other coworkers.
“Okay, I can cover.” You blurted, adverting your eyes to continue folding.
She gave you a quick grin, already turning towards the break rooms before replying, “Great! You’re a lifesaver. I’ll definitely pay you back.”
She wouldn’t, just like she didn’t for the four other times you covered her shift.
“You’re welcome.” It’s muttered with a sigh into empty air, Jess was long gone. You thought about all the unfinished work you had to do alone, already regretting your decision.
You went into autopilot for the next few hours, slipping into the mindless task of organizing displays and adjusting price tags. The small upside was that the clothes in your store kind of sucked, so you didn’t have any customers to tend to.
“You set?”
The words made you jump. You looked up in surprise to find Marcus, who had meandered out of his office without your notice. Being a middle aged man on the heftier side, you didn’t know how he could move so quietly.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The drawer, are you ready for me to take it? I’m gonna close a little early, don’t think it’ll be picking up anytime soon.” He motioned a thick hand towards the empty room to accentuate his point.
You nodded jerkily, shuffling out the way as he unlocked the cash drawer. Another beat and a ring of keys were being tossed your way.
“We’ll, I’m gonna count this out then I’m off, you know what to do.”
Marcus was already shuffling down the hallway before you could form a response.
He wasn’t wrong, you did know what to do. Once he was gone you got back into the automatic motions of clean, lock, organize, until the shop is fully shut down.
There was no stress, no talking or loud music, it was almost fun in a way. Fun if you forgot how you were forced into working at least.
You clicked the last light off with a sigh, shrugging your purse up your shoulder where it threatened to fall off. Going out the back door sent a wave of trepidation within you, but unfortunately it was required. The alarm was already set on the front doors and you didn’t have the keys to those.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. New York had only gotten more dangerous in recent years, with the corruption in politics and anti-vigilante outrage.
Once you were outside, you had to be careful to avoid any trouble. No one could be trusted, not even the police who were put there to protect citizens like yourself. You imagine if you got mugged on your way to the train, the officers on the corner wouldn’t even flinch.
Definitely not an anxiety inducing thought. Not at all.
You swung open the door, locking it quickly behind you. Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you started to make way to the front of the building.
The alley stunk of pee and other things you really didn’t want to identify. The only light around was motion sensor activated and perched on the doorway. Said light was already fading the further you stepped away, the alley delving into darkness.
You quickened your steps.
There was a slight relief in making it back onto the main street. At least there you had streetlights and the buzz of the city around you.
The sidewalk was mainly empty, and you could count on one hand the amount of cars that passed by. Most people out at this time were like you, getting off work, or getting to an early shift with a bleary look in their eyes.
You kept your head tucked down, avoiding eye contact with anyone around you. All you had to do was make it to the train, from there it was a straight shot to your apartment. Easy, simple. You could do this.
You reached the subway entrance, practically flying down the steps. The trains were relatively reliable in this part of town, so you shouldn’t have to wait too lon-
Your thought process was interrupted by a series of grunts, followed by a shout. Ducking behind a pillar, your eyes grew into saucers as you scanned for the cause of the noise.
It wasn’t a hard search, in the middle of the station was a group of men standing over something-no, someone. There was a man there, curled into himself on the cracked tile of the subway. You could barely make out his face past the blood streaming from his nose.
“Please! I don’t have it, I- just give me one more week I’m begging!” His words could barely be understood past a thick Brooklyn accent and the gurgle of blood in his throat.
One of the men snapped his fingers, and another kicked the whimpering man in the stomach, the impact making a sickening crunch noise.
You covered your mouth in an attempt to not scream, mind racing with options. Calling 911 was firmly out of the question, but running back up the stairs seemed promising. You just didn’t know if you’d be quick or quiet enough that they didn’t notice you.
Then there was the train. A quick glance at the schedule showed a less than three minute wait. If you timed it right…
“Please, I’ll do anything please-“
He was cut off by the man before who gave the attack order. “You should’ve thought about that before trying to steal from Moretti, fuckin’ rat. You should be grateful it’s just you and not your fucking family too, that’s how nice boss is.”
It was clear the man speaking was in charge, at least of the small group there. He was faced away from you, but a wayward glance from any of the men could put you in danger.
You stifled a gasp, sucking a sharp intake of air. In focusing on the group, you had forgotten to breathe.
Your heartbeat was a staccato in your ears, the blood flow dimming the sound around you.
They were going to kill that man, and there was nothing to do but watch. They were going to kill him, then they were going to kill you. Oh god, they were going to kill you if they found you.
You felt the telltale beginning of a panic attack start up, your heart rate escalating even further. This was not the time to freeze up. You pinched the skin of your hand between two fingers, the pain sobering you.
This was not the time to freeze.
The man was saying something else, the tone threatening. He was speaking in a much lower tone than before, and you couldn’t make out the words.
In a blink, he dove forward, hand jutting towards the man below him in quick successions.
It wasn’t until the growing pool of red that you realized he had stabbed him. There was a sick gurgling noise that reverberated around the subway that took the strength out of your legs.
Your purse slipped off your shoulder, clinking to the ground.
The sound alerted one of the guys closest to you. A frown quickly overtook his face as he looked you up and down.
“Hey! What’re you doing over there?”
This is how you’ll die, in a dirty subway all alone. Your family probably won’t even find out what happened.
Light flowed onto the platform from the incoming train. The screech of wheels flipped a switch in your brain.
No, you scrambled to your feet, not like this. You were not going to let it end like this.
You could hear a series from shouts and pounding footsteps behind you as you ran down the platform. Nearly tripping over a bench, you righted yourself as the train finally screeched to a stop.
The doors opened, but you kept running, an internal timer ticking in your head.
A little bit more… five, four, three-
You shoved your self to the side, slipping into a train car right as the doors closed. The others tried to follow, but they were too far behind.
You stared, wide eyed as they pounded on the window in anger. You could hear muffled threats behind the metal, but your eyes focused on the man from before.
He wasn’t yelling, or beating on the door. He only stared at your chest with a scowl. More specifically, the logo on your work shirt and your printed name tag beneath it.
Shit.
Dex was unbelievably, inconceivably, bored.
This meeting was already taking longer than he usually tolerated, and if he didn’t have good work with them before he would’ve left.
But no, this gang boss in particular was quite an egotistical bastard, and liked to pay a very nice penny on all his hits. It probably made him feel important to wave an excessive amount of money around and have people disappear.
Quite frankly, Dex couldn’t give a shit about what he felt. Money or not, his patience was running thin. Another five minutes waiting in this damp warehouse and he might just leave, or start throwing things.
He hadn’t decided which.
“Taking his sweet time huh?” He wasn’t really speaking to anyone in particular, just musing aloud, but one of the nearby goons replied anyway.
“Sorry, he had something else to wrap up. He should be here any second.”
Dex only clicked his teeth in response, busying his hands with a dagger absentmindedly. The other man’s eyes widened slightly at the display, tracking the dagger is it was thrown in the air.
Behind his mask, Dex’s lips flicked into a smirk. He wondered what the man would do if he started using the wall behind his head as a dart board, that would be interesting.
The seconds ticked by, and he was about to start some impromptu target practice when the man of the hour walked in.
“Bullseye, my friend! So kind of you to join us.”
Moretti was a small man, much smaller than one would expect the boss of a crime empire to be. There was nothing overtly menacing about him other than the beady gleam of his eyes. Of course, no one vocalized their surprise at that, because they’d end up at the bottom of the Hudson.
He reminded Dex of a small pet with a snappy temper. Like a rabid chihuahua nipping at people’s heels.
“I would think with all that money you’d own a clock.” The man’s words had ignited a flare of irritation within him. He was always annoyed by fake niceties, especially after he had waited thirty-five minutes.
Moretti’s thick eyebrows scrunched in faux concern, “My apologies, I had something else to finish up, I would never mean to keep you waiting-“
Dex cut in before he could finish the bullshit speech, “Who, and where?”
He was here for a job, not to have a tea party. All he needed was the marks information and the payment, then he’d be on his way.
Despite being cut off, the smaller man didn’t show any sign of anger. He knew better than to start unnecessary fights. “A small problem, you shouldn’t have much issue. It is time sensitive however, if she talks it would cause a great deal of issues for me.”
A woman then. Unlikely she’ll put up a fight. Disappointing.
“She saw some things she shouldn’t have. Here,” he stepped forward, a folded paper in his outstretched hand. “they got the job and her name, you should be able to take it from there yes?”
He snatched the paper, scanning over the information quickly before turning on his heel. “Fifteen thousand, same as before.” His voice carried behind him as he walked to the exit of the warehouse, hands in constant movement.
Moretti clapped his hands as if he were signing off on the deal. “Agreed, you’ll receive the wire tomorrow.”
“She’ll be dead by the end of the day.” Faster than anyone could track, he flicked the paper behind him, the point of a paper airplane imbedding into the forehead of the wide-eyed grunt from before.
The man let out a startled shout as blood trickled over his nose.
Dex ignored the commotion, grinning as he walked into the crisp night air.
Time to find a little tattle-tale.
Maybe you did have powers.
It wasn’t super strength, or advanced intelligence. It wasn’t even the power to turn invisible.
No, it had to be the ability to get in the worst situations imaginable. Super bad luck. No one’s life could be this laughably bleak, it had to be a higher power.
After that night at the subway, you couldn’t even sleep, much less leave your house. The day after the incident was your off day, so it didn’t affect much. You did however have to call off two days after that, feigning sickness.
You don’t know if your boss bought it, but considering you have never really taken a sick day before, you felt it was due.
But you couldn’t stay inside forever, you had to go back to work eventually. Getting fired would definitely do you no favors.
There was something else.
In the last few days you’d had a feeling, like spiders crawling over your skin. It was the sinking feeling of being preyed upon. Watched.
You knew they were there. You didn’t know how you knew, but you did.
There was no evidence, no threatening letters or anything out of place. Anyone listening to you would think you were insane, but you knew it wasn’t just your hysteria. You could feel it.
The only thing you were confused about was their inaction. Why hadn’t they killed you already? Not that you were complaining of course, but it just didn’t make sense.
Were they waiting for you to try to call the police? Were they not fully sure it was you at the station?
It was the cycle you went through. For days just driving yourself mad with questions and counting down the time. You hadn’t come up with a plan yet, but time was running out.
You had to go out into the world eventually.
The time went quicker than you expected. You had called off your fourth day when Marcus firmly hinted that your job might be in danger if you didn’t come in for your next shift.
You agreed, one last day of hiding and then you would come in.
Your hands trembled as you clicked the combination to your locker in the break room. Taking a deep breath, you took one last furtive glance at your belongings before turning to clock in.
“Didn’t know you hated customers that bad Oranges.” A mocking voice chimed behind you.
You tried to ignore him altogether, but he picked up his pace to walk by your side. “Don’t worry, I won’t snitch.” Matthew shot a conspiratorial glance your way, winking.
It took all your resolve to not roll your eyes. As if today wasn’t already horrible, you had to work with your least favorite person.
Matthew always found a way to antagonize you somehow. It wouldn’t have been that bad, if it weren’t non-stop. He always singled you out about something, with a fake friendly tone as if you were both in on the joke.
It started with the first week you started working. You were eating your lunch quietly, and as you started to unpeel the included orange a stream of juice shot at your face.
You could only sit there in mortification as Matthew cackled in your face. He insisted on calling you Oranges after that.
“What are we so worried about?” He continued, like you weren’t ignoring him. “If you need to relax I think they have a stress ball in the back rooms. I know you have issues with that stuff.” He could barely get out the words without laughing.
More silence from you.
“Alright then. Don’t blame me if you freak out, see ya Oranges.”
You let out a relieved sigh at his retreating frame, grabbing the clothing rack near you and resigning yourself to eight hours of torture.
Your neck let out a series of pops as you stretched it in your doorway. The house keys in your hand were tossed in the dish by the door and your jacket was shrugged off your shoulders into a pile on the ground.
“You should take better care of your things.”
The words stopped you in your tracks. You’d been so focused on the aches in your body and getting to the shower, you failed to notice the large figure in your living room until they spoke.
There was a man shrouded in shadow sitting on your lounge chair. In his hands was one of your puzzle boxes, and he seemed to be reading over it like it was the most important thing in the room.
“Please don’t.” You could barely recognize the way your voice squeaked out, strained with fear.
He looked up for the first time, eyes glinting behind a blue ski mask. “Don’t what?” His voice was deep but scratchy as it travelled across the room, as if he’d worn it out by yelling.
You could also hear a hint of amusement in his tone. He was enjoying toying with you.
“Don’t mess up my puzzles, or my apartment please. If you can, make it quick.” Your reply was more stable than before, having overcome the initial shock of his appearance.
In truth, you’d come to the conclusion you’d probably die no matter what days ago. At first, you were scared out of your mind, but like every other bad hand in your life, you accepted it. You just didn’t want whoever found you to have to deal with a mess.
His head tilted as if considering your answer, one finger twirling the box like one would do a basketball. “Not gonna beg for your life? Plead for another chance?” There was still the mocking tone, but now it carried confusion as well. He genuinely couldn’t understand why you were so calm.
Taking careful steps over to the couch, you could make out more details of him in the light of your living room lamp. He looked like a textbook assassin, wearing all black, save for the blue mask covering his face. The dark fabric of his ensemble held more compartments you could count, and the rest was stretched over a sturdy frame.
He was leaning back in your recliner chair leisurely, legs spread to take up even more space.
You let out a deep sigh as you flounced down on the couch across from him. “No, not really. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but it’s not much to plead for.”
He stopped spinning the box and looked around, as if taking in the apartment for the first time. Your lack of personal photos, the books and puzzles lining the walls. Every item spoke of a very monotonous lifestyle. “This is pretty depressing, yes.”
Of course, what were you expecting? Hopefully he doesn’t make it too difficult for anyone to clean your blood out the place.
You nodded in acceptance and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable. After about a minute of waiting, you opened them to find him staring at you.
The piercing gaze kept you still until he spoke again, “What’re you doing?”
‘Waiting for you to kill me’ just sounded silly, so you said nothing, adverting your gaze.
After a few more moments of quiet, you cleared your throat, “If you don’t mind, how long have you been in here?”
It was a morbid curiosity that drove the question. The idea of him waiting in your living room just to kill you, twiddling his thumbs was enough to make a sardonic chuckle rise in your throat.
You pushed down the urge. The man seemed fairly calm so far, but laughing at him definitely would do nothing in your favor.
He reached up a gloved hand, scratching at his jaw. “About a half hour.”
You blinked, “Oh, okay.”
Quite frankly, you were running out of things to say. How does one even strike up a conversation with their killer? You shouldn’t have even felt the need to make the man comfortable, but you did for some reason.
In a flash he was leaning over you, one hand on the back of the couch to speak directly in your face. “What’s your problem? Hm? You didn’t even do anything wrong and you won’t fight for your life? How is that fair?”
His other hand gripped your chin firmly, you could feel the warmth of the of his hand seeping through the fabric. With his face so close, you could see every detail of his brown eyes scrunched in anger.
You could also see more of the little items strapped around his waist and in the compartments of his pants. Knives. More knives than anyone (murderer or not) should need, in your opinion.
“I’m sorry?” Now you were a bit peeved. Who was he to lecture you about valuing your life when he came in here to kill you?
Unless… he wasn’t here to kill you, but do something much worse. A new flash of fear goes through you. You were prepared for a quick death, you were not prepared for torture, or the other ways a man could hurt a woman.
He must’ve seen the change in your face, because the hand on your chin swiftly dropped to his side.
He moved slightly out of your space, mumbling to himself. You could barely catch the words ‘balance’ and ‘worth it’ in the rambling.
“Okay,” he dipped away, back to the chair. “okay.”
You blinked at him again, “Okay?”
“Yes.” His tone, despite being amused again, invited no further questioning. He had reached a decision within himself, you just had no idea what that decision was.
With that, he settled back into your chair with all the ease in the world.
“You should go to sleep now. Been a long day.” Like before, his tone was closed off. What might’ve been misinterpreted as a request was definitely a demand.
You slowly rose to your feet, half convinced it was a trick and he’d shoot you at any moment, but nothing stopped you from gathering your bag and going into the bedroom.
Even as you shut and locked the door, there was no action, just a glinting gaze following you in the darkness.
You didn’t remember falling asleep. The last thing you recall was the unnerving conversation with the intruder before jerking awake the next morning.
A quick check showed that none of your clothes had been moved and there were no injuries on you. Despite your hair looking like a birds nest, you looked exactly did after work the day prior.
You were alive. Another day knowing someone was out to get you, and another day of being able to do nothing about it.
You groaned, trying to settle your hair with one hand as you rolled out the bed. Washing up in the bathroom was quick business. After feeling clean again in new clothes you moved to unlock the bedroom door.
Wait. He wouldn’t still be here, would he?
You highly doubt the intruder would stay for coffee in he morning, but the whole thing had been so strange you couldn’t rule anything out.
Slowly, you pressed an ear to the door, straining to hear anything on the other side.
Nothing.
You un-clicked the lock, still moving at a snails pace. Once there was a half inch sliver open, you took a peek into the living room. Empty, no homicidal men with a hundred knives in sight.
You let out a breath of relief, walking into the room. One last search throughout your place proved that there was truly no one there.
Even so, there was an unsettling feeling you couldn’t shake. You ignored it, moving to start up your coffee maker.
It wasn’t until you were halfway through your breakfast that you realized the issue. Your place was spotless, much cleaner than you’d usually keep it.
You didn't consider yourself a slob, but there was always little things here and there left behind. A few dishes in the sink, a bit of dust. The room was now so clean it looked clinical.
Every can or box of pasta in your cabinet was neatly organized and turned to the front. Swinging open the door to your fridge, you found that all your old food you’d been ignoring was thrown away. Each shelf was sparkling clean and just as orderly as the cabinets.
All your puzzle boxes were in straight, dust free columns next to books sorted by size.
What the hell is happening?
It’s just because you’ve been bored. Nothing else.
Dex had been rationalizing his actions since that first day. He had yet to come up with a solid reason for letting you live, and it sent a distressing feeling up his spine.
He did not do things for no reason.
That was a quick way to spiral, to sink into nothing. No, everything in his life had a reason and purpose. So what were you?
It started the day after the meeting with Moretti, he was poised just across from your window. There was a bolt-action rifle in his hands, and he was perfectly poised to take the shot as promised.
As he watched, you walked around your bedroom in circles. He could see your mouth moving at certain points, but no sign of you talking on the phone. It was clear you were in distress, but made no attempts to get help.
He already had access to your phone line. Throughout the night into the next day, you didn’t try calling the police, not even once.
It seems New York is catching on, those scrubs in uniforms can’t help you. If you want justice, you have to take it yourself.
He continued to watch you with a detached expression, not taking the time to consider why he hadn’t finished the job yet.
He watched as you left to take a shower, coming back a bit later in loose pajamas. He watched as you put a show on your tv, your distracted expression half aware.
You eventually found the television insufficient at calming you, and started digging through the haphazard boxes of puzzles on your shelves.
His fingers practically itched at seeing it, old habits compelling him to march in there and line everything up neatly.
He shook it off, eyes trailing to where you sat on the floor beginning the edges of a very large landscape puzzle.
You were losing yourself in it, the frown in your eyebrows lessening the more progress you made through the picture. Eventually, you had calmed enough that there was almost a smile tilting your mouth.
His eyes stayed there for a moment, wondering what a full smile from you would look like. He definitely hadn’t seen one today, and no search online showed any pictures of you exhibiting anything other than mild discomfort or apathy.
He could almost imagine it, the plush of your lips tilting up, then slowly growing. How your eyes would crinkle, glinting up at him.
At him?
At him?
The fuck was he doing?
He had a job to do, a job he was paid quite handsomely over, and he was sitting here on his ass playing make believe.
He whipped the rifle in position, capturing your face in the scope. He didn’t really need it, your shot was clear enough, especially with his abilities.
Even though it was simple, the clearest shot in the world, his fingers never pressed the trigger. He sat there, as the sky darkened into reds and melted into a dark navy, never taking a single shot.
He couldn’t even pretend that the sick worm inside of him wasn’t hungry for more. He didn’t try to act like he wasn’t coming back the next day.
He thought that would be enough. One more day of observation would be enough to satiate him. Just one more.
Dex felt like the sad sons of bitches at the liquor store on the corner. Just one more bit, I can quit any time I want to.
But he did need just one more bit, and he could quit any time he needed to. This was nothing like Jul-
He broke that train of thought with a snarl. Tonight. Tonight he would end this game and get it over with. She got off work at ten, and when she did he’d be waiting there. After that, it be simple, one shot to the head and she wouldn’t be his problem anymore.
Moretti didn’t exactly ask for proof of delivery, nobody was stupid enough to question Dex after he worked a job. If he said he did it, then he did it.
Except he didn’t do it. Moretti hadn’t asked, and he didn’t tell. But the man wasn’t an idiot, he’d find out eventually.
Even more reason to get rid of you as soon as possible.
He had the plan solidly in his mind. Wait until you walked in with your guard down, lodge a knife in your throat before you could blink.
This night, you took a bit longer than usual. Dex was dully aware that this didn’t bother him. He wasn’t upset by waiting, there was a tingling anticipation within him.
Eventually, you walked through the door, shutting it behind you with a click. You didn’t notice him at first, stretching out your neck and the muscles in your back.
You dropped your coat to the ground, stepping over it without a second glance. You were still shifting your head from side to side, trying to alleviate some tension.
He would be able to do it almost immediately. With his hands on your neck he could target the exact points of your muscle pain. His index finger flinched at the thought.
His eyes flickered to the flash of skin on the side of your neck, words coming out of his mouth before he could recall the plan he came in with.
He was barely even aware of what he said, just your response. He watched with rapt attention as your eyes widened, taking him in.
As your eyes scanned his frame, he could feel his hips shift forward slightly.
A myriad of expressions flickered through your face, fear, surprise, anger. He took them all in with delight. The buzz of anticipation from before rose to a crescendo, he couldn’t wait to see what you’d do.
Would you beg? Offer to pay him for your life?
Despite coming in your apartment with a clear directive, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d do if you asked him to spare your life.
Not important, focus.
You didn’t do anything he expected. Instead of a blubbering mess, you were composed, if not a little annoyed.
If he didn’t already know it before, it was clear you valued your small possessions. You seemed to care about the puzzles more than your own life.
It made him angry.
Who were you to throw him off? Why were you doing this to him? This is not how this was supposed to go.
He got within a hairsbreadth of your face, trying to intimidate you. Break the facade. It didn’t work, you only seemed more annoyed by the attempt.
Until you weren’t. Something about his stance towering over you seemed to ignite a thought process. He wasn’t a mind reader, but he could tell the cause of your discomfort pretty easily.
He let you go quickly, as if he were burned. He would not hurt you, not like that.
Dex weighed his options. Killing you would make things a lot simpler, both with Moretti and the urges in his mind. This is what he knew best, the only real thing he’s good for. You would be no problem to take care of.
Only issue? The more he thought about putting a bullet in your head, the more he was sure that was the last thing he wanted to do.
This wasn’t even his typical area. The snitches he usually tracked down had blood on their hands, a dark past they were scrambling to escape.
You weren’t necessarily a good person, you didn’t volunteer at food drives or regularly give to charity, but nothing warranted your death. There was no scale for him to equal.
You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He’d reached his decision. Fuck Moretti, he’d deal with that weasel bitch later. For now, he’d have to get you shuffled off to bed.
There was something he was itching to do since he got there.
He didn’t show up that day.
Your off day was spent with anxious anticipation, like he would randomly jump out of your cabinets and scare you shitless.
Despite your worry (hope), Knives never showed. You took a page out of Matthew’s book and gave him a nickname, if only to avoid calling him ‘the man’ in your head.
The more you thought about it, the more perplexed you were.
A masked killer came into your home, had a fairly civil conversation with you, then did your chores?
No matter how much you thought about it, none of that made sense. You should have been dead days ago. If they decided not to kill you, they should at least know by now you weren’t going to snitch.
You didn’t even consider calling the police.
You groaned, head tilting back against your apartment elevator. Your day at work had been relatively uneventful.
Nobody really spoke to you much, sans Matthew who always had something to say. This time about your dark circles and whether or not you had a mental breakdown. And he wondered why his girlfriend left him.
You crack open bleary eyes to look at yourself in the metal walls and wince. Maybe they had a point, you wouldn’t talk to yourself either looking like this.
There was prominent darkness under your eyes, framing the haunted look within them. Your face was pinched in a permanent frown, and you lifted up a hand to relax the expression.
The elevator doors opened with a ding, and you started the trek over to your door. You raised a hand to unlock it, pausing half way.
Putting your keys back in your pocket, you tried the handle of your door. It opened easily.
Your heartbeat quickened but you didn’t halt your movement, continuing inside the apartment. Everything was just like you left it earlier, dim lights and the tv on as background noise.
You took slow steps to the center of the room, spinning in a circle. He wasn’t there.
The living room and kitchen were both empty, and you didn’t know whether to be happy about that or not.
Why would he just leave your door unlocked when he wasn’t even here? There were robbers in the area, what if someone happened to try your door?
You ran a hand through your hair, barking a laugh. You had forgotten for a moment who he was. He was not a friend or visitor that would care whether or not you were robbed.
But why would he clean your house then?
You weren’t sure if you’d ever find the answer to that last question.
Still on edge, you tip toed towards your couch, where you unceremoniously dumped your bag and coat. Stretching out your shoulders, you walked towards the bedroom.
You were expecting a boiling shower with warm pajamas to slip into before crashing. You were not expecting a six-foot something man to be leaning over your bedside drawer, rifling through its contents.
“Hey!” You said, equally in surprise and indignation. “That’s private. Put that down.”
Brown eyes flicked up to you from where he’d been reading your notebook. It wasn’t a diary per se, but it held some personal thoughts you’d rather stayed private.
Knives leisurely sat the book on your bed, putting up his hands in faux surrender. “Were you looking for me?”
His voice was just as gravelly as the first night, snaking over your ears. It was much lighter however, he sounded almost… happy?
You cleared your throat, fighting back a shiver. “What?” Did he see you searching your apartment like a goof? Probably.
You could see his lips curl into a smirk beneath the mask, capturing your attention for a moment.
You wondered what he would look like without it.
You could see more of him in the daylight, like the light eyelashes framing his eyes and the similar tone of his eyebrows. The mask was filled out with a sharp frame, and you could see the cut of prominent cheekbones under the fabric.
“Nothing. What’s that about?” He nodded towards your notebook he had been reading.
He was still holding his hands up, for what you had no idea. Maybe he thought it was funny to act like you were the one in power here.
“It’s a notebook, you write in them.” You didn’t care to go over your innermost thoughts with a stranger, briskly avoiding the subject.
His eyes flashed in an emotion you couldn’t place, hands finally coming down to rest at his sides. “How was work?” He asked placidly.
What?
The hell?
Your eyes burned with tears that had yet to fall, sucking in a sharp breath to compose yourself. “Haven’t you had enough? I have been waiting for the day you finally-“ you waved your hands around animatedly. “And then you just-“
He only stared on with the same solid expression.
You took another breath, “Are you going to kill me or not?”
“No.”
You swore you could feel your heartbeat hiccup, “No?”
Before you could pull it back, the words were out of your mouth. “Why not?”
You regretted the question immediately, watching as his eyes darkened.
There was a stretch of silence, and you were wondering how to do damage control when he spoke again, “Because I don’t want to. You…”
His gaze rakes up and down your frame. “You aren’t my North Star, no, something else. I want to find out what you are.”
Your words were little more than a whisper. “What I am?”
He sauntered towards you, slow as if walking towards a spooked animal. Or like he was hunting one. He only stopped once he was directly in front of you, toe to toe.
“Yes, I’m going to watch you and learn you. Why I feel this urge to-“ he cuts off abruptly, eyes widened in surprise.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
It seems like he wasn’t even prepared for what the answer was.
You stared at him, heartbeat still thundering in your ears. It was silly to believe a masked intruder from his words, but you did.
Nothing about that seemed like a lie. Despite what he’d initially found you for, he didn’t look like he wanted you dead. So, you believed him.
Your only worry was what he would do with you.
“O-Okay.” Was all you said before grabbing your clothes out the dresser and locking yourself in the bathroom.
You could only hope you turned fast enough that he didn’t see the redness in your face.
He was gone from the bedroom when you got out the shower. Everything was put back in its place, there was no sign of him. It made you wonder how many times he looked through your things without you knowing.
It should’ve made you unnerved… it didn’t.
He said he wanted to learn you. That you weren’t a north star. What did that mean? Why were you kind of excited about finding out?
You sniffed the air, there was a smell drifting from your kitchen filled with spices and butter. Like it were activated, your stomach suddenly released a large growl.
It seemed no matter how shocked you could get, there were still more surprises, Knives was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. You could see your oven was on as well, the light showing loaves of garlic bread on a sheet inside.
“You should go start a puzzle, it’ll be another five minutes.” He spoke without turning around, still continuing to stir the pot on the stove.
There’s a breaking point in a persons life where they stop asking questions. You were at that point.
So you pushed aside the wonder of why he was cooking, or where he even got the ingredients from, and sat down in your lounge chair.
You froze. It smelled like him. Gunpowder and metal, with a tinge of spearmint, the chairs leather still held a hint of him. You wondered how many times you could breathe it in without him noticing.
He was still focused on the food…
No. Stop. Get yourself together. You can’t just turn into a weirdo at the first attractive man you meet. Who’s to say he’s even attractive? He could be hideous under that mask.
You glanced over at him, eyeing the broadness of his shoulders and the muscle shifting under cloth.
You didn’t notice before, but he had taken off his gloves. His hands were big but deft, he probably would’ve made a good piano player in another life.
The evidence of this life was there as well. White scars marred his hands and trailed up his forearm to disappear under his shirt sleeve. You had no doubt they continued to the rest of his body too.
You tried to remind yourself of what those hands could do, why they were dangerous. Unfortunately your brain didn’t think it was that important at the moment, because the only thing you could remember is how they felt on your face.
You shook off the thoughts, blindly grabbing the closest puzzle box to you, it was a city landscape.
The pieces tumbled onto your living room table, sound echoing throughout the apartment. The only other sound past your moving pieces was the crackle of fire in the kitchen.
You needed some background noise.
You clicked on the tv, the low droning of the weather report filling the empty space. The screen had half your attention, but that was enough for your ears to perk when you heard the next segment of the news.
“And here we have the aftermath of another brawl from the vigilante known as Daredevil, he was in this very warehouse last night when the reports of gunfire started-“
The newscaster was one you’d seen before, usually for the more serious cases around the city. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she continued her warning.
“-advising all citizens to report any vigilante activity to the NYPD or AVTF whenever you become aware. If you do encounter Daredevil, do not engage-“
The tv went out in a wink, making you flinch. Like a bullet, a flying quarter had hit the power button dead center on your remote. Didn’t need many guesses to know where it came from.
The man in question was sauntering over with a steaming plate, glaring at the tv like it had personally offended him.
“You could’ve just asked me to turn it off.” You mutter, loud enough for him to hear you.
He didn’t answer, setting the plate in front of you with a clink. “Eat.”
You looked from him to the plate of food, then back again. It looked wonderful, a creamy heap of pasta with sautéed vegetables and garlic bread. It was all neatly arranged on your only kitchenware you hadn’t chipped.
You only wondered why the hell he had cooked it.
He seemed to misread your trepidation, leaning down to tug up a corner of his mask and shovel in a bit of the pasta. “Not poisoned. Not my style.” He said after a thick swallow.
The flash of lips, regardless how quick, distracted you. You stared on as a pink tongue flicked out to swipe at his mouth before he tugged the mask back down. It took you another few seconds to get it together.
“I know. You prefer to give people a million paper cuts.”
To your surprise, knives barked out a laugh, “That’s one way of putting it, sure.”
You turned to the food and started eating in an attempt to bypass the awkwardness. It was hard to suppress a groan when the first bit hit your mouth, the food was as good as it looked. If not better.
Do all hitmen take culinary classes or was it just his hobby?
You thought he would find something else to do, maybe vanish into thin air like he’d never been there at all, but the man chose to sit right across from you on the couch.
Dark eyes fixated on you as you ate in complete focus. He didn’t seem to want more conversation, just be a spectator. His only movement was circling a small knife around in his hand, but the movement didn’t seem threatening, more absentminded than anything else.
You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you were finishing the meal in record time, only clearing your throat to speak once you’d cleared the last bite, “It was great, thank you.”
He was grabbing the plate from you before you could even offer to clean up, making his way back to the kitchen and placing it inside your dishwasher with the other used pots and pans.
“Really, you don’t have to-“ you started, but he was already finished and walking back over to you.
“I know. I don’t have to do anything at all, advantages of self employment.” It was clear by his tone and the crinkle of his eyes that he was smirking. He took his time walking back to the couch, this time spreading his arms across the back in the appearance of complete comfortability.
What he said made you curious, “You don’t work for the man at the train?”
He tilted his head as if considering the answer. “I don’t work for anyone,” a new tinge of bitterness coated his tone, “but if you’re referring to the bozo who took a hit out on you, yes. I was the one given the assignment.”
“Ah, I figured.” The response came out more nonchalant than intended, but he truly didn’t tell you anything you hadn’t already suspected.
“You’re not bothered by that?”
You shrugged, “Nah, I trust you.” You meant for it to be fully sarcastic, and almost succeeded, but there was a bit of honesty that shone through. Against all better judgement and sound mind, you did trust him.
He stared at you, only providing a small scoff and muttering under his breath as response.
With the newfound silence, you decided to follow his earlier request and complete the puzzle that was started. You almost invited him to do it with you, but your mouth closed with a snap after looking over at him.
He seemed to be lost in thought about something, dark blonde eyebrows furrowed as he stared somewhere out your window.
Your eyes went back to the puzzle, the only sounds being the soft scrape of the pieces and faint breathing. You grimaced while reaching for some of the further pieces, the movement had aggravated the neck pain you usually had after a long shift.
Rolling your neck in a circle only slightly helped, there was still a crick in the muscle that most likely wouldn’t go away until after a lengthy soak in epsom salt.
Your distracted mind was only half aware of the other figure rising from the couch and making his way over to you.
“Sit back.”
You looked behind you in surprise, wondering how he’d gotten right behind your chair without you knowing. “Why?” You weren’t really concerned about the request, just curious what he intended.
“I can’t keep watching you do that without doing something. Sit back.” He tapped the headrest for emphasis.
Okay, bossy.
You rolled your eyes but did as he asked, sliding back to fully rest in the chair. It was a moment of nothing until you felt warmth against your shoulder blades.
You let out a full body flinch at the contact, but his hands didn’t falter, continuing a path from your shoulders into the sides of your neck. Strong thumbs dug into the muscles and nerves causing you pain, and you couldn’t keep a satisfied sigh from seeping out.
You practically melted into his hands as they traveled over every aching part of your back. Every time he dispelled a knot it knocked a quiet sound out of you.
It was firm but precise, every drag of his warm calloused hands left a tingling sensation in their wake. You couldn’t help but think about what else his hands could do…
The idea created a burning within you. The smell and feel of him so close was dangerous, and you were already wanting more of it. Needing more of it. You were absently aware of his breathing kicking up, almost delving into a pant in your ears.
He eventually slowed down, rubbing his fingers in circular motions on the top of your spine before retreating completely. He didn’t retreat too far, barely taking a step back as he stood behind your chair.
You didn’t look at him, focusing on calming your breathing and not appearing like the mess you were on the inside. You didn’t need a mirror to know your the flushed expression you wore.
You opened your mouth, then closed it, not trusting yourself to beg for his hands to touch you again.
He spoke before you could work up the nerve of a response, “I have to go.”
“Wait-” But it was too late, he was already closing the front door when you turned around.
Knives arrived more frequently after that night.
He didn’t stay as long, or touch you again, (much to your disappointment) but he would usually pop in without rhyme or reason with gifts and a bit of conversation.
You never asked him for anything, but he somehow always knew what you needed.
A new detergent when the old one just ran out, some more butter in the fridge, your favorite ice cream when you were craving it.
As far as you remembered, you never told him what your favorite flavor was, nor did you ever have one in the freezer since meeting him. He still knew.
Someone knowing so much about you should’ve probably unnerved you, but it only gave you a sense of serenity. You didn’t have to worry about explaining yourself to him, there was no pressure on your end. He just watched, and learned.
Except in one area. He seemed to be oblivious to your attraction to him, not flirting with you even once. There were his snarky remarks and knowing smirks sure, but that seemed to be less hitting on you and just more of who he was.
Unless, he does know you’re into him and just doesn’t feel the same so he’s ignoring it.
You brushed the thought off, sighing as you unlocked the door to your apartment. It was really no use wondering about it, even with all the time spent with Knives, you barely had a clue what was going on in his head.
Besides, after the day you’d had it was hard to think about anything else.
To say it was a bad shift would be an understatement. You’d overslept that morning, rushing through your morning routine but still arriving twenty-five minutes late to clock in.
It was a rare busy day in the store, and you could barely push past people to get to your register.
“About time.” Matthew shot you a dirty look between filing away the bills in his hand.
Your job was severely understaffed, and today was no different, which meant that in your absence Matthew had to handle the hordes of people on his own.
You gave him an apologetic nod, waving the next person in line over to you. Soon enough, the lines dwindled into nothing as the rush passed.
You wiped your sweaty hands on your pants leg, signing out of the POS to go work on other things. A stack of boxes caught your eye, and you moved closer to start unpacking the items inside.
“Go do the inventory. He wants it in the front on the orange display.” Snapped Matthew behind you. He was pointing at the very boxes you were already walking towards.
You didn’t bother correcting him in saying you were already going to do that, instead giving a curt nod.
“What, you can’t speak today? Didn’t take your meds?” He raised a brow, grinning at you.
Breathe, don’t let him get to you.
“I’m just going to do my job.”
His grin only widened at your answer. “Heh, okay. You do that.”
You ignored him, quickly pulling a dolly from the back transport the boxes to the front of the store.
You wiped a hand over your brow, starting to sweat with the effort. It would be a lot easier with two people, but like hell you were going to ask that asshole.
Matthew wasn’t really nice to anyone, except maybe the new hires he wanted to flirt with, but you still never understood why he seemed to hate you so much.
Because you’re always the odd man out, the one no one really likes, the one-
“Shut up.” You spat out the words, making sure you were quiet enough for no one else to hear. Matthew didn’t need more ammunition to call you crazy.
You directed your attention to the store display and away from your bleak thoughts. You couldn’t help what others thought of you, the only thing you could do at the moment was finish the stupid display and move onto your other work.
You vacantly slapped the folded clothes onto the shelves, mind drifting elsewhere.
I bet knives never had to work in retail.
You’d be very surprised if he ever had a real job before. Trying to imagine his scowling face behind a cash register made a chuckle bubble within you.
He’d probably stab someone on his first day.
Shit, he can stab Matthew for all I care.
You half scolded yourself at the thought, realizing how fucked up it sounded to wish that someone stab your coworker. You weren’t as upset by the thought as you could’ve been.
There was a sharp creaking noise, and before you could react, the metal shelf you had been stacking on crashed down on your arm.
“Shit-” You jumped back to avoid falling with it, but the damage had been done. The edge of the shelf dug a cut down your forearm that was already spurting blood over you and the merchandise.
“Oh no, shit, shit, shit-” You couldn’t think straight, only standing there in a panic as you gripped your bloody arm.
“What the fuck did you do now?” If you thought Matthew was mad at you before, he was pissed now. “I asked you to do one simple thing and you can’t even do that? Who’s gonna clean this shit up?”
He’d left a customer at the desk to see what the sound was, but he didn’t seem to care about their existence as he yelled at you.
“Fuckin disability hire, can’t even stock a shelf. I don’t know why you’re standing there, you should be-”
You didn’t wait for him to finish, bumping into him as you rushed towards the back room with tears in your eyes.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry in front of him, he’s not worth it.
You ignored his calls for you to come back, slamming your work locker open and grabbing your things. You didn’t even bother clocking out, only stopping by the lunch corner to grab paper towels and wipe down your arm.
The harsh wind from outside only aggravated your eyes more, but you steeled yourself against the cold.
You got plenty weird looks on the train ride home, but nobody said anything to you. It was probably the mix of blood staining your hands and scowl that discouraged conversation.
A ten minute ride followed by a brisk walk brought you back to where you were, standing at your apartment door with an aching cut.
You shouldered the door open with your uninjured side, immediately dropping your things to the ground once you were inside.
The cut hurt like a bitch and was still freely bleeding, but you shouldn’t need stitches or anything dramatic. The med kit from under your sink in the bathroom should more than suffice.
You turned the corner towards the bathroom, but stopped short at the figure standing there.
The visitor was more expected than not these days, but you didn’t think he’d be here this early since he usually met you after your shift.
“What did I say about taking care of your things?” He half turned from the window where you assumed he’d watched you come in.
You’d usually muster up something equally as playful in response, but this time, you were not in the mood.
He seemed to sense the shift, whipping his head over to you. It didn’t take long for his eyes to rake over you, gaze landing on your right arm.
“Who did that?” His demeanor changed completely after seeing the injury, voice turning steely.
It only took a few strides for him to reach you, hand snapping out to grasp your forearm. His eyes were blazing with anger behind his mask and he looked two seconds away from disemboweling someone.
Even though you knew his anger wasn’t with you; it still took a moment to stutter out a response, “No one, I-i did it myself. Well, not did it, it wasn’t on purpose. An accident at work.”
Your clarification didn’t seem to calm him much.
He stepped to your side, scooping an arm under your legs to pull you to his chest, his other arm supporting your back. He walked towards your bathroom with purpose.
You let out a squawk of surprise at being airborne, “Hey, I can still walk. It’s just a cut, you don’t have to carry me.”
“Blood loss causes dizziness, and it looks like you’ve already lost too much.” Someone would’ve thought you were bleeding out by how aggravated he sounded.
You didn’t want to mention that the main reason you were dizzy was his close proximity, not the injury. You were closer to him than you ever were before, and you couldn’t stop yourself from taking in a deep whiff. Blood, metal, mint.
He knocked your bathroom door open with enough strength to make it rattle, marching over to your closed toilet where he set you down gently but firmly.
As always, he knew where you put everything, so you didn’t have to direct him as he pulled out your small med kit.
It was just the buzz of the fluorescent lights for noise as he rummaged through the kit, occasionally pulling out select items he’d need.
You watched as hazel eyes narrowed in concentration, stomach doing a flip at how focused he was on helping you. How caring.
There was a mix of disinfectant and many bandages on the counter (more than you’d probably need), and he looked over them quickly before washing his hands and snapping on latex gloves.
“It’s going to hurt, you can hold onto me if you need to.” Was the only warning you got before he was gripping your arm with one hand and wiping down the cut with the other.
The antibacterial liquid was cold and stinging, you let out a sharp hiss at the stab of pain. As the blood was cleaned away, you could see that the cut was a bit deeper than you thought.
“I-ah, you don’t think I’ll need stitches, right?” You were a bit scared to ask, his frown had only deepened once he started working on you.
“No. It’s not to that point, but you’ll need to keep it wrapped tightly for a while so the skin can join back together.”
And he was right, after cleaning the wound thoroughly, he stuck some hefty bandages over the opening and wrapped it all in a tight cover of gauze.
He tucked the end of the fabric inside to secure it, and tugged off his gloves to clear away the mess of dirty wipes and wrappers on the counter.
You didn’t bother thanking him, knowing by now that he wouldn’t accept it.
You looked down at his work, neat as usual. You startled as a pill bottle was being shaken in front of you, eyes focusing to read the label.
“It doesn’t really hurt that much.”
He shook it again, insisting, “It will later, take one.”
You knew there was no chance of changing his mind, and it didn’t seem like the worst idea, so you grabbed the container and swallowed down one of the pills.
Satisfied, Knives leaned back against the wall opposite you, muscular arms folded over his chest.
Despite his quietness, you could still sense the underlying anger rolling off him. Knowing the answer, you asked anyway, “Are you upset?”
“Explain what happened.”
You hesitated for a moment, then started the retelling of what happened that day. You kept your composure for the most part, voice only hitching when you repeated what your coworker had said about you.
Knives stood stock still through it all, watching with that calm dangerous air that he had.
By the time you were done, you felt the telltale signs of tears, but you pushed it down again. You didn’t want it to bother you, but it did. After a life of dealing with rejection, it still stung.
A warm hand lifted up your chin, thumb swiping away tears you weren’t aware had fallen. “You don’t deserve that, none of it. It won’t happen again.” There wasn’t an ounce of question in his tone, he was sure of it.
You let out a weak laugh, sniffling. “I could only hope, he’ll probably be worse after today though. Especially since I left early.”
He hummed, “I’ve always disliked the name Mathew, all of them are annoying.” He sounded like he usually did again, slightly amused as if he were in on a joke that you weren’t.
You laughed again, stronger this time. “I can’t say I’ve had experience with that many Matthew’s to agree with you.”
He ran his thumb over your cheek one more time before backing away. “Trust me, they are. You should take tomorrow off.”
There he goes again, giving demands veiled as suggestions.
“I would love to, but unfortunately some of us common folk need jobs, and if I call out again I’ll probably be u employed. I’m sure you’ve never worked one, so it’s hard to understand.” Your tone is playfully mocking, but it’s the truth. There was no way your manager was going to be okay with that, plus, you needed to make up for the money lost by leaving early.
“I have.” He adverts his eyes to your left, “worked a job that is.”
You perked up, it was rare that the man offered information past what model his knives were, and you didn’t want to lose the opportunity to learn more about him.
“Oh really? As what?” You kept your tone light, to not seem like you were prying.
“An officer.”
“Like, a police officer?”
“No. Not exactly.”
You blinked in confusion.
He shifted in his stance, like the conversation was suddenly making him uncomfortable. “Agent, would be the better term. I-” He paused, finding the right words. “I locked away the monsters of the world, and protected the people I needed to.”
You cocked a brow, “So, you were a spy?”
He huffed, giving you a look. “No. How the hell did you get spy out of that?”
“You are amazingly vague at every answer, I figured it would fit.” You shrugged, wincing when the movement aggravated the skin of your arm.
He zoned in on the expression, eyes narrowing again. “You should go to bed, especially if you’re insisting on going to work tomorrow.”
It was clear that was all the answers you’d get out of him, this night at least. You let out a huff of breath, using the counter to pull yourself into a standing position.
There was a wave of wooziness, and you fought to keep balance. Clearly the pill was doing its job.
An arm snaked around to your back, steadying you as you walked to your bedroom. As if there were an invisible barrier, he stopped at the threshold. In the dim lighting, you could only see the dark outline of him and the glint of metal strapped to his person.
To anyone else it would be menacing, terrifying even, to have the attention of the killer focused on them. You only craved more of it.
“There’s soup in your fridge if you want it. Change the wrapping in the morning, it shouldn’t cause any issues before then.”
You could only blame the strength of the pain pill for your lack of restraint, “Do you have to leave right now?”
A pause. “I do. I have something else to take care of.”
You tried not to take it as a dismissal, but it hurt nonetheless.
Something else. Not you.
“Right, okay.” The disappointment was obvious in your voice.
Steady steps made their way over to your bedside, “I don’t want to, but are some things I need to do. I’ll see you soon.”
You could barely make out the shape of him standing over you, drowsiness and the pain medicine muddling things together. “Aye, aye captian.”
A deep chuckle, and then a quiet response, “Dex.”
Dex. It suits him. You couldn’t tell if you’d said the name aloud or in your head, already giving way to unconsciousness.
The last thing you felt was a hand lightly trailing down your face before blackness.
Other than feeling like a sledgehammer hit you, your next day at work was uncharacteristically peaceful.
Even though Matthew was scheduled alongside you for the week, he never showed up for work that day.
Or the next day. Or the next one after that.
He didn’t call out, and based on the grumble from your manager, hadn’t quit either.
You never said anything, never even thought the words in your head, but you knew what happened.
If you were really honest with yourself, you knew what was going to happen when you heard the assurance in his voice that you wouldn’t have any more problems.
Kni-No-Dex, was a killer, regardless of how he treated you. You knew how he solved problems.
You were a little nervous at how little it bothered you. You had the same tingling feeling you got when he replaced one of the lightbulbs in your apartment without asking.
Cared for.
But there was another problem, Dex was nowhere to be seen either. He’d never shown up again after that night, and you were starting to get concerned.
Even though he didn’t show up every single day, missing several days in a row was out of character for him. You could only hope that he wasn’t dead or arrested somewhere.
It seemed silly to worry about him, especially with how competent he seemed. You didn’t steadily watch the news, but everyone in the city had heard of a man in a blue mask who could lodge a knife in your head faster than you could blink.
Bullseye.
He’d never told you it was him, but you weren’t an idiot, all the traits aligned. Not to mention his name, Dex, most likely short for Benjamin Pointdexter. The man who was sent to prison a while back for murder.
You didn’t care about any of that. Your only concern was that he was M.I.A. and it was out of character.
Maybe he just got bored, found someone else.
You ignored the slithering thought, knowing it’s not true.
Despite not knowing all of his life, you knew him, he was obsessive to a fault. His cleanliness, the order of his knives, and seeing you all fell into a cycling routine that he didn’t stray from.
He wouldn’t just dissapear.
Your leg shook nervously as you focused on the television. The news was covering a recent stock drop or something related. You were half listening for anything that could be related to him.
You were sure that an extremely wanted convict being detained would make front page news, so if anything happened, they’d talk about it here.
So far, it was nothing of substance, just the economy and a new court case with the slime-ball mayor.
You were shaking your leg so vigorously that you almost didn’t hear it at first. Your hand shot out, muting the tv before straining your ears.
There it was, a soft shuffling sound coming from your bedroom. You jumped up, heart fluttering in your chest as you rushed over there.
You only stopped short of your bedroom door to grab a nearby book, just in case it wasn’t Dex in your room and you needed a weapon.
Turns out, it was unnecessary, you saw him immediately upon entering, slumped against your open window.
“Dex-” His name was expelled in a relieved breath, but you only grew concerned again the more you looked at him.
Dark patches covered his mask and the fabric of his suit. His gloves were on, but you could see the clear glisten of blood coating them.
“Hey. Thought you’d be asleep. I can go soon, just gotta take a breather.”
You scoffed indignantly, quickly going over to him, “A breather? Jesus, what happened?”
“Not Jesus, just me.”
You glared at him. It was not the time for jokes, definitely not as he was dripping blood on your floor.
“You can explain later, here.” You supported him under his shoulder as you guided him to your bed.
“Gonna get it dirty.” He pushed back slightly as you tried to sit him down, but fell back anyway when you applied more force.
“It’s okay, I have other sheets. I’m worried about you right now.”
You could tell he was smirking based off the look in his eyes, further proven by the next statement. “Worried about me?”
You didn’t even bother hiding the emotion in your response, “Yes, I do. A lot.”
That made him quiet, glinting eyes searching your face for any hint of a joke or lie. He seemed to find none, but had no response for you. It was hard to tell his full expression behind the mask, and you found yourself sick of it.
Besides, it’s not like you didn’t know who he was.
Your fingers curled under the edge, lifting it gently, but a firm grip on your wrist stopped you.
“Ben, it’s okay.”
His eyes widened in slight surprise at your use of his first name, but it did the trick. The hand holding you fell away and you pulled the fabric fully off his face.
You sucked in a breath at the injuries before you. A trickle of blood coated his blond grey-flecked hair where it stuck to his forehead, and there was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone.
The lips you had admired not that long ago were sporting a cut, but even with all that, Dex didn’t appear to be in a lot of pain. His face showed an openness and tiredness that you’d never seen on him before.
Without thinking, you raised a hand to brush lightly over his mouth, relishing in the slight flutter of his eyes as you did so.
You couldn’t stop, addicted to the reaction. Your hand trailed from his lips to the side of his face, and over his sharp jawbone. You mapped out everything that was hidden to you before, ignoring the smear of blood on your hand.
His piercing gaze stayed fixed on you as he pressed his head into your palm. His only other movement was twitching hands where they rested over his thighs. He stayed still, not trying to stop you or rush you, just accepting.
It wasn’t until your fingertips brushed over his throat that he shivered beneath you. The movement was nearly imperceptible, but he had definitely tilted his head back slightly to give you more access.
It made something swirl in your abdomen. How much he trusted you, how willing he was beneath your hands. How good he looked, injuries and all.
You told him as such, and his eyebrows knit together like he had been hit.
“Don’t say that, you don’t know what you’re starting.” His voice was weak, barely a whisper in the quiet of the room.
“I do.”
“No you don’t. You said you care about me, I’m not easy to care for.” The words weren’t said in self deprecation or a stab at sympathy, just factual. He truly believed that care and tenderness wasn’t made for him.
It sent a pang through your heart, for so many years you held a similar sentiment about yourself. You were difficult to understand, to accept but he did, and you could do the same for him.
“I know.” You held his face in both palms, a hairsbreadth away from him, “Neither am I.”
Your lips meeting his seemed to ignite action within him, hands that were previously dormant snapping up to grab at your hips firmly.
You were pulled down to straddle his lap, already feeling a poking hardness in the fabric. It was your turn to shiver, giving an experimental grind forward as you continued to kiss him breathlessly.
That caused a deep groan to flood from his throat into your mouth. He quickly found purchase over your ass to guide you into repeating the movement.
While you grinded over the hard length in his pants, his tongue explored the expanse of your mouth, flicking over the ridges and smoothness inside. You could taste the uniqueness of him, but also the metallic tang of blood from his lip.
You only pulled away to breathe once the burning in your chest couldn’t be ignored. Chest heaving, you pulled back and watched as he did the same.
He couldn’t seem to see enough of you, eyes raking from your chest down your frame and back again. His lips were swollen and spit slicked, and you were sure you had a similar look of dishevelment.
His hands trailed up your spine and back down to where you sat on top of him. You could hear the swallow he took before speaking, “If I’m going to have you, it’s going to be all of you. If you go through with this, you’re not leaving me, you get that?” His voice was steady despite being out of breath, tone deadly serious.
You could read between the lines for the warning. There was no going back for Dex if you continued, no breakups, no do-overs.
Lucky for him you didn’t want any.
In lieu of response, you surged forward, attacking his mouth with your own as you drug yourself firmly over his crotch.
You gasped out a moan as the movement caught between your legs, right where you needed it most. But it wasn’t enough. You needed to be closer.
You shrugged off your top, throwing it to an unseen side of the room. Another shiver racked your body as lips made use of the newly exposed skin, nipping and sucking over your chest and sternum.
His fingers grabbed onto the latch of your bra, but you stopped him short. “No, get out of that suit first.”
He backed away from you with a half lidded gaze, trademark smirk flicking on his lips. “Yes ma’am.”
He seemed to enjoy watching you squirm as he unlatched all the zippers and buttons of his suit, moving much slower than necessary. The utility belt came off first, knives clinking as he threw them on your nightstand. The top part of his suit was soon to follow, dark fabric peeling away to reveal fair skin.
He wasn’t as injured as you’d assumed, just a dark blooming bruise on his ribs and left shoulder. Every other mark was old and weathered, the raised scars scattered across his torso spoke of years of pain.
You took him in unabashedly, eyes raking over pronounced pectorals and the defined abs that covered his stomach. Light hair dusted his chest and led in a trail past the waistband of his pants.
His smirk only widened as he watched you watching him. Patiently waiting, he sat there for your next move.
It was only fair that you lost the next bit of clothing, so you rose off him to shimmy out of your pants, leaving the underwear on.
His brow rose as he caught onto the little game you were playing. His pants came off quickly after, joining yours in a dark heap.
The only thing shielding the prominent bulge in his lap was dark grey briefs. They didn’t leave much to the imagination, clinging to the long rod of him and wrapping around solid thighs. You could see a dark patch in the fabric where he’d already started leaking, your core throbbing in response.
You settled on his lap again, smiling at the soft hiss he let out from the pressure. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, guiding him to your bra clasp as you trailed fingertips past the waistband of his briefs.
His fingers deftly unlatched the clasp, and the cover fell away right as you pulled his length free.
It slapped loudly against his lower stomach, smearing white across his skin and your hand.
His eyes weren’t focused on that though, only staring at your chest with intimidating focus. “God, the things I want’ta do to you.”
It was spoken under his breath so quietly, you were unsure if the words were meant for you to hear.
“So do them.”
He only laughed, leaning back on his elbows to watch you.
He knew what you wanted, he just wasn’t going to give it to you that easily. Your frustration only made him impossibly harder.
Despite his blasé act, you could see you were having an effect on him. Every rock of your hips made his cock twitch, a bead of white dribbling out the top. His neck and chest were covered in a flush, and every breath he took seemed labored. Shaky.
You decided to play his own game, fuck with him a little, “C’mon Dex, show me what you promised.”
You reached down, rubbing a thumb over the leaking slit between you. He let out a breathy moan, hips involuntarily bucking up into you.
You didn’t stop in your ministrations, leaning down to speak directly in his ear. “You said you wanted all of me, so take it. You have me.”
Your words caused another twitch in your hand. “You have me, I’m yours.”
The words were barely out your mouth when you were flipped onto your back, bouncing against the mattress. You let out a startled giggle at the movement, only sobering when you looked down.
The look Dex gave you made your heart stutter for a moment. The only way you could describe it was carnivorous. His eyes were dark and shadowed, and if you didn’t know him well enough to recognize the want in his expression, he looked almost pissed off.
It only made wetness pool in your core.
“You want this?” He left a trail of open mouthed kisses down your stomach.
It was a rhetorical question, but you nodded anyway.
“Where do you want me? Here?” He bit at your hipbone, soothing the flesh with a lick afterwards.
“Or here?” His breath ghosted across the damp patch of your panties, making you thrum in anticipation.
“Yes, right there.” Any more dilly dallying and you’d probably start begging. You had a feeling that’s exactly what he wanted.
“Hmm, interesting.” He ignored the area, trailing lips down your inner thighs. His hands gripped your knees, preventing you from closing yourself off to him.
He bit random spots all the way down your thigh, licking a stripe on the way up.
“Dex- c’mon.” You huffed. The feeling of his mouth on yours was amazing, but it wasn’t nearly enough and he knew it.
“Whose are you?” The words are spoken into your skin, in the crease of your hip.
“Yours.”
“And who do I belong to?” He grasped the waistband of your underwear between his teeth, dragging them down slowly.
“Me.”
You only saw the flash of a smile before his mouth was on you fully. You let out a shuddering moan as his lips latched onto your clit, sucking hard.
He juggled between your bundle of nerves and trailing his tongue down to your entrance, licking inside.
You could feel him groan against you as you grabbed a fistful of his hair, holding him steady.
Between your existing wetness and his mouth, you were soaking, juices dripping down to the bedsheets past his mouth.
His mouth traveled up again to focus on your nub while one of his hands snaked around to press two fingers against your entrance.
They slipped in easily, quickly building a rhythm trusting into you while his tongue lapped at you from the outside.
You couldn’t even make a sound as your peak quickly approached, your body just seized with the amount of pleasure rolling through you.
Your eyesight blanked out, and you took a few heaving breaths before you were able to find your voice again.
Even as your moans turned to over sensitive whimpers, he didn’t let up, only slowing down the movement of his hands and mouth. He seemed to be lost in the action, only focused on you and your enjoyment.
You had to yank his head back to get him to stop, and he did so with a bit of reluctance.
His hands trailed over you, running smoothing circles over your hips and legs.
Impatiently, you dug your heels into his back, nudging him upward towards you.
He followed happily, the same hungry expression on his face, except now there was a lack of tension. He seemed more relaxed, like he was the one who came and not you.
“I might not last too long. Don’t do this much, or at all really.” He analyzed your face after he’d said it, looking for any shift in your expression.
You were kind of shocked by the revelation, but weren’t put off by it at all. For a normal guy that looked like Dex, you’d assume they had a steady stream of people coming into their bed.
He wasn’t normal, and he definitely wasn’t the type to have one night stands. In fact, before tonight, you weren’t completely certain he was interested in sex at all.
You would’ve accepted him either way of course, but it was nice to know he shared the same want as you did.
“That’s fine, I just need you inside me.”
The words shocked a groan out of him, and he nuzzled his head into the juncture of your neck.
You could feel his hands wrap around your legs to reposition you accordingly.
He slid out of the last piece of fabric covering him and reached down to position his head at your entrance.
It slipped at first from the wetness, but after a few tries the tip caught onto you, slipping inside halfway.
The pressure punched the air out of you, mouth falling open in an ‘o’ shape. Even with his preparation it was a tight fit.
Dex let out a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan, dipping down to capture your mouth in his, siphoning heat into your mouth.
The taste of yourself on his tongue only heightened the experience, and you could barely catch your breath between that and his slow ruts forward.
Every movement pushed him further into you, and before you knew it he was sheathed inside you fully.
You both shuddered at the feeling, and you were sure you could feel every ridge and vein of him in your walls.
“Shit- you feel so good. I gotta pause for a sec.” He breathed against your mouth.
So you waited.
Until you didn’t.
His head tipped forward with a groan as you squeezed around him. One of his hands held your hip in a vice grip, sure to leave bruises later.
“Don’t do that.” His eyes flashed at you in warning.
You couldn’t even focus on a teasing response, you only wanted him to move.
Then he did, starting in shallow thrusts into you, building into longer drags where he pulled almost fully out before snapping into you again.
He grabbed your wrist, planting the palm firmly over his throat and guiding it to squeeze.
You followed the instruction even as his hand fell away, tightening around the corded muscles of his neck.
His eyes fluttered, hips stuttering before speeding up into a faster pace.
His breaths panted against your face as he pounded into you with quick succession. The angle shifted slightly, and he flashed a sharp grin at me hearing your higher pitch.
He pinpointed that spot, hitting it over and over again, only pausing to slip your ankles over his shoulders before continuing.
You couldn’t tell where you began and he ended, mind so blissed out. It was clear from your noises that you were reaching your peak again, and he slipped a hand down over your clit to accelerate it.
He didn’t rub, just pressed down his thumb firmly over you as you tightened around his shaft again.
The feeling of your fluttering walls made him follow right across the edge with you, letting out a shuddering moan as he pumped a few more times and released inside you.
All the strength seemed to sap from him once he came, body falling onto you heavily. You could still tell he was holding himself up a bit on his forearms in order to not crush you completely and you pulled him down solidly to increase the weight.
His rapid heart rate beat in unison with yours where you were pressed to his chest, the slick feeling of sweat and other fluids clinging to your bodies as he softened within you.
The time stretched on as you both sat there in breathless blissfulness, neither one eager to move positions.
His face hadn’t moved from where it sat nestled in your neck, warm breaths disturbing the strands of hair there. When he spoke, you felt it more than you heard it.
“You okay?” It was spoken with an air of unsureness that was unlike him. Based on what he’d said before, you had an idea of what his worries were.
“That was amazing.” And you weren’t lying, the entire experience had knocked a bit of your soul out your body and you were certain there’d be consequences of soreness the next day.
He made a humming noise, satisfied with the answer, and moved to lift off you.
A flare of panic lit up within you. Eventually, you’d have to go back to the real world, real responsibilities and concerns, but at the moment you didn’t want the stretch of peace to end. “Wait, not yet.”
He lowered himself back down immediately even though a frown creased his expression. “You need to get cleaned up, it might feel worse later.”
“Well,” you let out a soft chuckle, rubbing a hand along his scared spine, “that’s for later me to worry about. Just a bit longer.”
He didn’t make much argument about it, settling his head back over your chest where he gave soft nips at your collarbone.
Despite relishing the peacefulness, there was something else nagging at your mind.
“Hey Dex?”
He hummed out a response, still mapping you out with his mouth.
“What happened?” You didn’t have to clarify, you knew he knew that you were referring to the event that caused him to show up in your room covered in blood.
A soft sigh, and he was leaning back to respond, “The one who put a hit on you, he found out that I hadn’t exactly,” he paused deliberating the words, “followed instructions. He sent a team to finish the job, and I made sure that didn’t happen.”
“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” There was a burning in his eyes that showed the extent of violence he was capable of.
The idea of him choosing to not kill you even though he’d been ordered to do so, and fighting off anyone else who tried was… rousing to say the least.
His eyes tightened in a wince of overstimulation as you involuntarily tightened around him.
“It’s gonna be a bit longer for that.” He sounded like he detested that fact just as much as you did.
You grinned, “I’ll be counting down the minutes,” you were going to continue with something teasing, but the look on his face stalled you.
The light from your open window casted a bluish tint over his face, contouring the edges of features softly. He fixed you with a searching gaze, like you were the only thing worth looking at.
“I meant what I said before,” You started, “it’s no going back for me either. I’m with you.”
He traveled up to your face silently and your eyes fluttered closed in preparation. Instead of kissing you on the lips, his mouth pressed firmly over your forehead. The touch trailed down to press two consecutive pecks over your eyelids and finally melt against your mouth.
“I’m with you.”
You knew that no matter what was coming in your lives that you weren’t afraid, fully willing to delve into the future with the person that knew you best.
Div by: @pixopix
AN: boss makes a dollar, I make a dime, I wrote this on company time. So if there’s any typos or inconsistencies… sorry. It’s minimally edited from my flow of consciousness.
If anyone even reads this, lemme know what you think, is it good? Bad? Just meh? Lmk :D
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romaincrisis
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