INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

ᵂᵉˡᶜᵒᵐᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵐʸ ᵇˡᵒᵍ

[manonwillpower]

𝗔𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗠𝗘 ' ｲ .

Ｉｚｚｙ． ２０ｓ． ｓｈｅ／ｈｅｒ.

୨ㅤ࣪ 𝖒𝖞 𝖒𝖆𝖓 𝖔𝖓 𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖕𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖗, 𝖎𝖘 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖎 𝖉𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖉 Ⳋ᧙

Ｍｉｎｏｒｓ ｄｏｎ＇ｔ ｉｎｔｅｒａｃｔ

(my requests are open! read guidelines before interacting with this blog. love ya!)

୨ㅤ࣪ Masterlist - Guidelines

[ladybvllseye]

every time i see this

i wanna do this

[kittennextdoor]

(18+) Your man is Mr. #hungwalk ݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆

Men who have a hung walk are the worst because they never seem to know they're doing it. They just stroll through life with that lazy, unhurried confidence, shoulders loose, chin raised, taking up entirely too much space in your imagination. Every step looks deliberate, like gravity pulls on them a little differently than everybody else.

He walks like his thick, heavy dick is always half-hard and demanding attention. You’ve seen it a hundred times — the way his jeans hang just right, the slight bulge shifting as he moves, the way he unconsciously adjusts himself when he thinks no one’s looking. But you’re always looking; it's hard not to.

Maybe it's the slight spread of his stance, maybe it's pure delusion on your part, but once you notice it, it's over. Suddenly you're watching him cross the room like a detective gathering evidence, trying not to stare while your brain supplies information. The worst part is when he catches you staring, asking you what you're smiling at while you're busy fighting for your life because he just walked across the room like he's being weighed down.

It is even more obvious when he sits down. He drops into a chair, pushes his hips forward slightly to get comfortable, and spreads his legs wide in that effortless man-spread. The thick bulge in his pants shifts heavily with the movement, settling prominently between his thighs like it needs all the room it can get. He leans back, one arm draped over the back of the couch or chair, completely oblivious to how obscene and distracting the whole thing looks.

You can’t help but stare every single time.

[manonwillpower]

ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ɴᴏᴛ.

Synopsis: Poindexter had been in the prison system for a while, struggling to conceptualize his wrongdoings. Life within an institution, escaping from it, committing heinous acts. He wanted to change for a part of him that grieved the good aspects of himself. Standing on guard with new mentorships, not expecting grace from life. Until he met a woman, who would just give him a glimpse of how much of his life really was rank. It just so happened to be his therapist. 

Warnings: Mature content 18+

Warnings/Mentions: Harsh language, Gun/weapons, mentions of harm/gore, Use of alcohol/drugs, S*icidal ideation, Toxic Relationship, Unethical Psychology Treatment (Therapy), ,Depictions of mental health - PTSD, OCD, Depression, and Panic Attacks, Eventual smut, Mentions of Stalking, Unreliable Narrator, Protagonist-Abilities, Domestic Violence (not Dex), hurt/no comfort.

Read before pursuing this fic!

I'd like to reiterate - I have nothing against fanon Dex! I love fanon Dex just as much as the canon version, write him however you'd like. In this fan fiction, I'd like to dive into the more canon version of him to write. It might be slightly ooc, due to his no apparent romantic attraction to anyone in the show. He's going to react how I'd interpret him reacting to certain situations, and that might be uncomfortable for the reader. He's a complex character, so he won't react like the average person to certain situations. This is your warning now!

Doc = generalized name (Didn’t want to use y/n)

A/N: Next chapter will continue what will soon happen at the ball hehehe ifykyk. The plot thickens, hope you enjoy!

Taglist: @bloomsberryfairy, @muffinbrown, @peanutbutterjellytime3000

Series: Part 1 (6.9k), Part 2 (6.2k), Part 3 (3.8k), Part 4 (4.8k), Part 5 (4.2k), Part 6 (4k), Part 7 coming soon

Grace Mansion - The ball 

Checking the time on her phone, she’d be five minutes late if she kept a steady walk. She couldn’t afford being late. Almost running in her heels, the sound of them scratching the surface of the concrete. She hadn’t needed to look at this presentable since the early starts of her career. She didn't care to even focus on the significance with those aspects of her appearance after her track record of a dating life.

Unfortunately, such talents were necessary for this sort of event. She’d been, almost too precise, with the look that she’d been trying to go for. Hair down, for once, with a dress that almost seemed casual yet uniquely formal at the same time. Black and white was the theme, which was the only thing that her and the mayor had in common was taste in such bland color choices. 

Her make-up, don’t even want to start with that. She had to call Janet, desperately asking for assistance at her place, and forgot to pay her back for the ride over. She had no clue what she was doing most of the time, luckily Janet always had the magic touch with the sort of thing. She’d have to pay her back for the ride, hopefully she’d make it out to do so. 

It didn’t help when Doc didn’t really have a mother for these important years in her life. To teach her how to look presentable to such occasions. Always stuck with what was comfortable, she would walk in with the same suit she wears to work if she had the chance to. 

I knew I had to make an impression, not sure what kind though. Enough to be noticed, maybe approached. Attracting the crowd, maybe I’d get the eyes of the devil himself.  

For now, she focused on trying to find Alexsis in order to fit in. It was a bit harder knowing she’d show up so late to the occasion. Walking towards the steps, security checked her pouch, then took her invitation. Feeling a sudden rush behind her, she turned around. Grabbing her pouch from security, laughing shortly after identifying the person who’d been in her peripheral. 

“Murdock?”

He’d looked in her direction for a moment, seemingly surprised to hear her voice, "You're here too?”

They both started walking into the venue, she humorously added, “Seems like it.”

Smiling at her clear reference, he’d started to pass the security team. Walking inside the building itself, the venue was enough to make her jaw drop a bit. Large tall tables at the center, beautiful gold accents engraved everywhere she’d looked. There were a lot of people here already, crowding the tables with chatter. Music was heard in the back of the venue, soft enough for people to enjoy their conversations while others listened to the performance.

She had walked forward, feeling the air between Murdock suddenly drift. It’s been unsettled as to where they’d leave off after that night. The kiss, it created this awkward tension between them. Trying to address it professionally, she’d still held high respect for the man for the shared moment together. 

Murdock is a good man. I’m sure he’d be open to keeping this cordial between us. 

“Sorry for being blunt, but are friends still a good place for us?”

He’d been internally grateful for her assurance. Even though he’d know there is a soft place for the woman, he felt the shield of impenetrable armor the moment he met her. He’d respected her personal boundaries, knowing he’d be a hypocrite to try to get her to change. 

He’d held his arm open, motioning her to take it, “That depends, you gonna get my tab next time?”

Laughing, taking his arm, “Run out of that big attorney money already, Murdock?”

He’d laughed at the comment. Her ability to make potential awkwardness of rejections have been her specialty for some time, looks like she may have a competitor. Guiding him towards the center of the venue, he’d let go of her arm. 

He looked in her direction for a moment, before asking, “So, what brings you here?”

Trying to avoid the obvious truth, she settled for a half version, “Well, I’d been invited as a plus one by my director. She seemed pretty adamant about my presence at this event, since the mayor held me with high regard. So, I thought about it and said ‘might as well.’” 

Murdock, demeanor changed, was suddenly still as a board. 

Not really noticing, she thought to ask the same question. He’d adjusted the collar of his dress shirt, unsure of what to do with himself. Almost, as though he didn’t hear her, he’d turned his head slightly. 

Eyebrows contorting a bit, concern in her voice, “Everything okay, Matthew?”

He’d been unable to get any words out, almost looked painful, “H-hey, I think it’s best if yo-”

“There you are.”

A woman, wearing a beautiful white dress, held this expression of annoyance on her face. Looking at the two of them, almost as if making conclusions in her mind in a split second. When she’d seen Murdock walk from where we stood, chasing after her, hoping to explain himself - that’s when she’d recognized her. She was Heather Glenn, the most well known psychologist in New York City. 

Murdock was a plus one for Heather Glenn? Guess he had a type or he actually expressed his need for some professional help. Not my problem. 

She wondered what he tried to tell her. 

Looking around the place, she finally spotted the woman she’d been trying to find ever since she’d arrived. Alexsis, wearing an a-line cut dress, finally noticed her with a polite wave. Ushering her over to the gentleman she’d been speaking with.

“Let me introduce you two. -, this is the man I spoke about. His name is Buck Cashman, he works with Mayor Fisk.” She opened her body for the man to introduce himself.

Alexsis hadn’t been lying about the man, if anything she didn’t express enough. Darkened features complimented his sultry voice. He’d been clean, head to toe, with the posture of a man of the king's guard. 

“Hello, Doctor -. It’s nice to finally meet you. Mrs. Morgan told me a lot about you.” He reached his hand out to shake hers.

Hand gently meeting him in a handshake, she greeted, “It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Cashman.”

Turning over to the woman beside him, he brought his hand to her shoulder lightly.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Morgan. Would you mind if I took Dr. - away for a moment?” Asking with a small smirk from his lips.

Nearly swooning, forgetting she’d been a married woman, she’d tried to ignore the effect the man had on her, “No I wouldn’t.”

Opening his arm for the other woman, motioning for her to follow with a statement.

“I’d like to formally introduce you to the mayor, miss. If you’d be open.” His arm rested to his side for her to intertwine.

Hesitating a moment, she took his arm, “Of course.” 

Cashman nodded towards her director with a small smile, soon disappearing as soon as he led the woman in his arms towards the mayor. Holding a steady pace, he only held his gaze forward. The shift sent goosies down her skin, suddenly feeling intimidation by the way he’d now carried himself.

Being man of the hour, the mayor made his presence known just shortly after. Looking over at the mayor himself, her heart paced slightly. He’d been far more impressionable than initially reported, holding this sort of unspoken language to him that he wasn’t the type that people liked to mess with.

He’d been holding a woman in his arms, one with a bright red dress that complimented the slick back style she kept her hair in. She’d held a sort of uniqueness to her, one that held a masked replica of herself that many might’ve never looked twice over.

It was one that felt cold yet warm, the type that held empathy while admission to darkness. A level of understanding that the woman observing felt ultimately drawn towards. Since she was a similar woman herself. 

That had to be Vanessa Marianna Fisk. The mayor’s wife.

Noticing Cashman, the mayor whispered something into Vanessa’s ear before making his way to his office where he’d met the two with an acknowledging stare. 

Cashman ushered her towards the office, following closely behind, “This way, miss.”

Heart jumping in her chest, the hollow ringing in her ears being replaced with the loud shouts of her breath. With the sudden spike of anxiety, she’d been unsure where it truly manifested from. 

She knew one thing for sure, it was written from the very skin on her bones. This man might be the person she’d been looking for, who was able to find this information about her. 

My past, my present, even my future. It made sense, almost solidified in stone. 

Being ushered into the Fisk’s office, one made by the venue, the agent shut the door behind them. Fisk being behind her, her gaze following every movement he’d made until he’d reached his place behind his desk. Her nail, characteristically, is already making its way to her nail bed. Turning to face the mayor, she’d thought to make her best out of this situation.

“Why don’t you have a seat, doctor? Don’t mean to waste any of your time here.”

Walking to the chair in front of him, sitting with a heightened sense of dread, she tried to remain uniquely professional. 

Him, sort of smiling, learning forward, “I just wanted to congratulate you with your case, doctor. It takes courage, for someone your age, to go on the stand and counsel such a man for some time.”

Letting the breath she’d been holding escape my lungs, she thought to at least express her gratitude, 

“Thank you, Mayor Fisk.”

Thinking, maybe this is all this was. A way to congratulate her accomplishment, maybe it was all harmless. She only thought of this for a second - only one. It died once Fisk got out of his chair, started to pace by a nearby window.

Thinking it was over, that’s all he’d wanted to say, she got up for a moment.

“Sit. Down.”

Breath catching in her throat, suddenly feeling mind controlled. She sat back in the chair. Nail infusing in her nail bed, at the cusp of bleeding. Eyes glued onto Fisk, he’d stopped his endless pacing. He’d just stared out the window while he spoke,

“You know, when I was a boy, my goal for the longest time was to rid the city of its grime and sickness. Have it be reborn into a better world for the people.”

His campaign when he ran for mayorship seemed counterintuitive, since his ideals only spoke with the intention of being a corrupt dictator. Wanting to control the city with his values, rid the streets of vigilantes. The shots of gunfire still echo her apartment, bad people rid the streets knowing their government would target the wrong people. 

Fisk, still talking out the window, hands behind his back, “I can see that…people of your profession have the unique quality of helping the grime of this city. To make them better for a new world. While I’d admire it, it takes a lot of patience. Can’t say it’s effective most of the time.”

Ironic, considering he had a therapist. 

He’d walked towards where she sat, attention drawn to her expression, reading the nervousness written all over her face, “What would you say to that, doctor? Do you believe this city is in need of rebuilding, one that is necessary?”

Is this a test?

This is a loaded answer, but ideally she would say yes. Not the way Fisk goes about things, but it should change to help those in need. Her profession contributed to a lot of what Fisk would consider “sickness,” but the sickness was sitting right in front of her. Her focus is to help those affected from the sickness of this world, those horrible entitled people seeking to make lives so much harder than it needed too. 

She pondered on the question a moment before answering, “I do, Mr. Fisk. I believe there should be a city where change is needed.”

Sitting back down in his chair, he opened the drawer to his desk and took out a file. He placed it on the desk in front of him, sliding it over to her.

Scooting forward, she’d opened it. 

Eyes opening, mouth parted slightly. She had immediately shut the file with a hint of disgust.

It was more photos of me. Of me with Janet, while we smoked out back. My walk with Murdock that night. More photos of my parents. The security footage of that night I’d gotten shot from that man in the alley, even when I’d ran away to avoid suspicion. 

Seemingly fine, even though anyone who was in my position would've been killed. Should’ve been killed. 

Fisk is the one that knows about me. 

That answered her question. The bastard that blackmailed her - it was him. Sitting as though he owned the world in his hands. 

Looking at Fisk, anger bubbling in the back of her throat, “What is this?”

Fisk leaning back, smiling, “This life, there should be order. I despise those who feel self-righteous enough to look past the law. How things should be done!” Jumping once Fisk’s hand slammed the desk. Fisk, trying to calm himself down, looked towards the wall of his office.

Feeling emboldened to speak, grimace etched in her features, “The act of perjury was bestowed upon me. It’s not who I am. I had no other options - you rid me of them.”

Smiling, he pushed forward, “You insult me, doctor. To think I’d ever put those I’d care for in a position as you have with yours. So disgustingly naive.”

Anger slowly dissipated while she processed his words, knowing that he’d been right in some way. Knowing that her actions ultimately put a target on their head - no matter how many times she’d pushed them away. 

Accepting her situation, she’d thought of the questions she’d internally made. 

“What do you want from me?” Her gaze fell on the file in front of her.

Fisk, feeling all the more prideful of her submission, went on, 

“Getting into this career, it comes with boundaries. Boundaries that…you’d probably seem familiar with. I intend to keep them, which is why..when loose threads are apparent - it’s distracting. It’s like a wrinkle in clothing, no matter how many times you’d iron it over. It’s still there - making its presence.”

He paused a moment, before continuing, “Poindexter, is a unique wrinkle. While many tried, his presence is still threatening to tear what I’ve built for myself - for my people.”

Chewing at the side of her cheek, she’d absorbed his words. Wondering what he possibly could want from her. She’d tried to treat him - yet the mayor put her in an impossible situation that would only make trying to redeem Poindexter nearly impossible.

Looks like the mayor had been just as disgustingly naive as she’d been. 

Sliding the file over to his side of the desk, flipping it over to assumed medical records, “So, how does this include you, doctor? That’s a question probably relaying in your head for some time.”

Prodding at the ink of the coroner's decision of the autopsy of her ex-husband, he’d held a stare at her that held malicious intent, "You're capable of doing what is necessary - to be efficient.” 

He sees you, a haunted voice crept in her ear. 

Tears brimmed her eyes, shaking her head.

“So many reports documented, people wondered if you’d been making it all up. Wondering if the woman in apartment three-hundred two had been calling for attention each time the police showed up to their complex. Domestic disputes - with no evidence on your flesh.”

Motioning his fingers to the security footage, continuing, “You’d wanted those wounds to stay - to finally have somebody understand. But you couldn’t. That…man knew this too.” 

Her legs started shaking, having been read so thoroughly of her life. Being ripped raw for what felt like the first time ever. The side she’d thought to be taking to the grave - no longer possible.

Staring at her face now, noticing her tears, priding off of them, “So you ironed him out. That feeling you must have felt…well. A feeling that was familiar to myself.” 

Fisk’s hands meddled with his own, “When I was twelve-years-old, my mother had been…beaten by my father. It manifested a level of anger that no child that age should’ve ever experienced. That’s not the type of man…I’d ever want to be with my wife.”

Her throat bobbed, realizing where this was going. 

“So, I killed my father with a hammer. And when I stood over his body, I remember having this feeling…the moment. I figured you’d understand it.”

Her hand was bleeding from the pressure of her nail, nearly shaking in her lap. The lack of hesitancy to the admission of murder wasn’t something that surprised her, but it was the brutality of the crime that made her uneasy. He’d been a child - a place where patterns of relationships and developmental milestones manifested.

Not wanting to acknowledge it, but she felt that was the reason as to why she’d held so much resentment towards her mother. They’d been the same - she felt weak that she couldn’t break generational curses.

Fisk prodded at older medical records, ones that had her full name etched into the ink, “You’d tried to rid of the feeling, by fitting yourself within a place that helped others out of similar situations as you. Giving them a false sense of reality..”

You're not lost, Dex. You never will be again. No one gets to take that from you, not ever. 

There was finally a level of understanding as to why Dex held such high regard for the man, because he’d been almost too good at getting in someone’s head. Impressionable, manipulative, and patterns of antisocial personality disorder. He’d been a man with a vendetta - one that she saw right through. 

Poindexter would have a hard time looking past these patterns - since his autonomy was imprisoned by Fisk. Isolating him and removing the only outlet of a proper influence from his disposal. His North Star - Julie Barnes.

Fisk continued, “A reality…that you’ve set for Poindexter. It seems to have stuck further than what is deemed…professional. You’d visited him weeks after sentencing, offering him counsel. Tell me doctor, have you ever offered such consideration to your other…patients?”

Clenching her jaw, looking to the floor, she’d answered honestly, “No, sir.”

Smiling, haven caught her clear submission to the situation, “Poindexter, tends to be a bit unpredictable. No young woman should…put herself in a situation with a man like him.”

For the first time since stepping into that office, she smiled. Even better, she laughed.

Fisk, confused with the reaction, held a tight expression that was hard to read. Some may say it was him trying to analyze the situation, or refrain from losing it.

She stated, “I’m not sure what you're implying, Mr. Fisk. He’d been my patient, one I’d held high regard towards considering my whole career was on the line.” 

The kiss she’d envisioned in her mind was like an intrusive thought. Having her breathe a bit harshly out her nose, ignoring the sensation down her pelvis. 

Fisk smiled at that, predicting her answer, calculating his response.

“Well, that’s good to hear, Dr. -. That makes this a lot easier.” 

Fisk grabbed a small card from his desk, sliding it over to the woman at the other end of the table. It had a number etched into it, clean like it was promoting cleaning services. Yet, it had a familiar name on it. Buck Cashman, the man that stood outside of the room they both resided.

“I don’t ask for favors, doctor. Since you have a unique disposition in your hands…I’d think you’d feel a lot more inclined to do this for yourself.”

A disposition he primarily created, mind you.

Quirking her brow, she’d listened to what he’d say next.

“I need you to get rid of Benjamin Poindexter.”

Shock jolted down her spine, causing her eyes to open til the whites of them peaked through. Heart racing in her chest, not knowing how to process what the man just asked her to do for him.

“He’d been moved to the general population this morning. Knowing him, it probably would lead to his ultimate escape. He’d been calculated - knowing how to get out of situations many deemed as impossible.”

Huffing to herself, shaking her head. Bestowing this kind of task onto her was a nearly impossible situation itself. Benjamin Poindexter wasn’t just some ordinary man, he’d been one with immense skill. Inhumane levels of accuracy and strength. What was some woman going to do against a masked assassin, known as Bullseye. 

He’d continued, “Knowing him, he’d try to go after anyone who’d…stood out.”

Her breath shook, knowing the look he’d given while giving her testimony. Life without a possibility of parole, he’d definitely try to even the scales. 

“You hold me in high regard, Mr. Fisk. To think I could murder a man who’d shown no clear intent to harm myself. With my ex-husband…it was all self defense.” 

Fisk slammed his fists on his desk, standing up with a shout, “So that’s what you call self-defense! Murdering a man who’d been showing signs of rehabilitation! Just because he’d been proving that he’d been better with another woman…knowing he’d shown no clear sentiment towards you!” 

She’d been nearly burrowed in her seat, leaning back with a dreadful look on her face.

He spat out in disgust, “So selfish.” 

It was selfishness. Yet, it had been complicated than a generalized assumption of events. Something she didn't feel the need to explain herself, not like he'd care to listen.

Yet, it was the selfishness he needed. He’d wanted the woman to see that her masked selflessness was just hiding the human reality - that people are selfish. Cruel with their ways, knowing given the situation anyone can be their worst enemies. 

He slammed the photo of her mother on the desk, giving way to the wood, “Keeping her safe…is something you’d give anything to protect. Marrying at a young age - provided security. Doing what is necessary…protecting your people.” 

Fisk took a small breath before continuing, “Security that I could promise as you do this for yourself. So…wasted potential as yourself doesn’t go rotting in a cage like Poindexter.”

Isn’t that the life of a deranged person like myself? To rot in a cage, like some animal. 

That’s when it hit her, something that popped a few screws loose in her head. The morale that had been fabricated through her years, hoping she’d be seen as a normal person. Yet, she wasn’t. Fisk saw her potential - knowing she spent years searching. 

He saw who she was and thought of her as useful. 

Even though the guy is a piece of shit, he might be the ticket to finding a version of yourself you’ve never known before. 

Her breath shook, finally caving into the situation she’d now found herself in. Knowing her reality was about to change the moment the words fell out of her mouth.

“Why me?” She bit the side of her cheek. 

Fisk sat down in his desk chair, finally realizing that he’d finally gotten into her head. He tried to muster up any reassurance, knowing her situation to be unique to her normal nine-to-five she’d accustomed herself towards.

“Youre a lot more capable than you’d give yourself credit for, Dr. -. Some that you have yet to realize.” He’d reached to another file in his desk, one she’d grown all the more tired of seeing. 

Once she’d handed it to her, she opened it with a vulnerable gleam in her eye. Once she’d made due to what the ink stated, her mind was made up. Shutting the file, she looked at Fisk once more before getting up from her chair. 

Locking eyes with him, before stating, “I’ll do it.”

-

A/N: A bit nervous publishing this one. I didn't know if people would like the character getting involved with Fisk, considering a lot of people hate him. Just to reiterate, she doesn't like him either. There's a parallel that I saw with her and Dex with wanting to feel important, so I thought he'd fit as a bad role model for her. Along with the blackmailing as persuasion lol. Hope you like this chapter! Thank you for your support!

Previous Chapter/Next Chapter coming soon

[roxxmo]

north star | part seven

summary: dex tells you it's all going to be okay. you have no choice but to believe him.

pairing: benjamin poindexter x f!reader content/warnings: 18+ (mdni), SMUT!, unprotected p in v sex, toxic relationship dynamics, obsessive behavior, implied surveillance, stalking, allusions to birth control tampering, pregnancy scare, impact play, ownership kink, intoxication/alcohol use, emotional distress, no use of y/n, canon divergent word count: 6.6k A/N: happy to be back at the Dex factory 🫡 hope y'all enjoy this one!! i actually kind of struggled with writing this chapter, what does it say about me that i think it's easier to write Dex POV now lmao. i think all who are familiar with Bullseye can see something has changed at the end of this chapter...

divider by: @uzmacchiato

← previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter → (COMING 7/13)

Years later, people would ask you when you knew. 

Officers, lawyers, therapists, friends, family. They would sit across from you with that horrible look on their faces, pity and judgment masked as sympathy. They would tut, shake their heads, lower their voices like they were speaking with a child, and say stupid things like, “God, that must have been horrible.”

“Why didn’t you leave?”

“Why didn’t you ask for help?”

Like you had been waiting for them to ask, like you had some dramatic single moment prepared for them. The kind of moment people knew from movies and books but turned a blind eye to in real life. Real life, of course, was both far less exciting and far more complicated. 

Because the truth was, Dex had been an amazing partner. And you loved him dearly. 

There was nothing horrible. You didn’t want to leave. You didn’t want help. He was everything to you: a lover, a best friend, a constant in your life you could always depend upon. 

After you first slept together, you and Dex had become practically inseparable. I became we, mine became ours. It was natural and more than welcome. Nothing could beat the feeling of leaving school at the end of a hard day and finding Dex already waiting outside the main gate, your favorite coffee in hand. Or waking in the morning with him beside you, arm slung across your waist, his mouth already pressing soft, sleepy kisses onto your face and neck as the morning light crept through the bedroom window.

Meals for one had shifted to meals for two. Sunday morning trips to your favorite bakery down the block were better when he was with you, holding your hand as you strolled in the park afterwards. Life with Dex was just…better. 

He loved you, and you loved him. Dex made that quite clear the first time you had sex, when he had confessed his feelings at the height of his climax. Chloe had been shocked when you admitted you said it back. 

“Girl,” she had sighed, running both hands down her face like a disappointed parent. “Be so fucking serious right now. You were literally dick-notized into telling him you loved him.”

You had shrugged, because maybe it was a little true, and countered that it didn’t change what you felt for him. Yes, maybe it was a little quick. To go from stranger to neighbor to boyfriend to “I am in love with this man” in a matter of three months could be seen as fast, but…it was true. 

You loved each other, and despite the questions others would pester you with years down the line, nothing had made you question that fact. If anything, every action Dex took seemed to reinforce it.

Especially when, about two months into your relationship, your period was six days late.

Every day that passed, every time that stupid notification had pinged on your phone reminding you, Hey! Your period is late and you’re probably pregnant!, the pit in your stomach grew. Your cycles were never perfectly regular, but six days was abnormal. You were on the pill, but…it wasn’t perfect. Some days you were late. Other days you would reach for that little tin foil packet in your nightstand drawer only to find it missing, then miraculously discover it hours later on the bathroom sink or the kitchen counter. Oh well, you had thought, popping a pill well past the scheduled time. Work was hard, you were forgetful. Dumb excuses like those.

Normally, this disruption wouldn’t have been a problem, considering you had been quasi-celibate (if you didn’t count your fingers) for months before Dex. But, of course, Dex happened. And so did endless rounds of earth-shattering, mind-numbing, world-changing sex on every available surface in your apartment. Rounds that almost always finished with him inside you. 

So maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise that your period was late. But for something like that to happen so early, literally two months into your relationship? You wanted to vomit. 

You spent the entire school day circling the possibilities in your head. Any minute not occupied by work was filled with dread over the impending dissolution of your new, amazing relationship. You had to tell him. But what would you even say?

“Dex, remember all the times I begged you to come inside me? Well, about that…”

Surely, he would break up with you. He was a man, after all. And most men, or at least the ones you knew, would have died at the prospect of that kind of commitment.

Dex, of course, was not most men. 

The last bell signaled the end of the school day. You took extra time gathering your things, dreading the conversation waiting for you outside. Finally, you emerged from school, and sure enough, Dex was in his usual spot by the front gates, styrofoam coffee cup in hand. 

“Hey, baby,” he greeted you with a peck to your cheek before pulling you into a tight hug, like he hadn’t just seen you eight hours earlier. “How was school?”

You tried to muster a smile as you hugged him back. Was this the last time he would hold you like this? “Um, fine. Boring, I guess.”

Something in your voice gave you away. Dex pulled back, hands still on your shoulders, concern already etched across his face. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Dex, I’m fine, I just–” you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. You had to tell him. There was no other way. “I need to tell you something.”

Dex’s fingers tightened on your shoulders. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. “...what is it?”

You swallowed. No going back now. “My period is late.”

Dex didn’t move. His hands stayed on your shoulders, grip so tight you couldn’t move if you tried. His face was still fixed on yours. His eyes didn’t blink once. 

“Dex?” you asked, stomach dropping. 

He blinked in rapid succession, like he just realized he was still present in the conversation. “Sorry, I– how late?”

“...Six days. According to my app.” The anxiety was building in you. It was going to be over. Dex would freak out, he would run, it would all be over. That fear spilled out of you like lava as the words suddenly rushed out of your mouth. “But I–I haven’t taken a test yet. It could be nothing, like, my cycle gets weird sometimes, and I just wanted you to know, so we could–”

Dex said your name firmly, attempting to interrupt you, but you kept rambling. 

“--and I mean, worst case scenario, I don’t want you to feel like I’m, I don’t know, like, trapping you or something–”

“Baby.”

Your rambling stopped. With embarrassing clarity, you realized that hot tears had welled up in your eyes. You gave a choked laugh and ducked your head, avoiding Dex’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m just…really scared.”

Without another word, Dex pulled you into him, holding you tight in his arms. One of his hands reached up to grab the back of your head, stroking your hair. For once, the roles had been reversed and he was the one soothing you. 

“You don’t need to be scared,” Dex murmured. “Everything is okay.”

Jesus, why did he have to be so perfect? A small sob escaped from you. “But it’s literally not okay, Dex. We practically just started dating. Everything would change. But…I know there are options so–”

The hand in your hair stopped moving. “...Options?”

Your throat tightened, and you buried your face deeper into his chest. He smelled like your laundry detergent and vaguely of gunpowder. You wondered, briefly, if he had gone to the shooting range that day. “I mean…yeah. Options. I don’t know, whatever we’d decide on.”

“There’s nothing to decide on.”

Your throat tightened. Dex must have sensed the confusion, or the first small seeds of protest growing in your mind, because his hand started moving again, slow and careful against your hair.

“What I mean,” he continued, voice soft, “is that you don’t need to scare yourself right now, baby. You don’t need to stand here thinking anything bad is going to happen. If you are pregnant, then it’s going to be okay.”

His mouth brushed your temple. “I love you. I’m not going to leave. I would never do that.”

“You promise?” you sniffed. 

He kissed the side of your head. “Promise.”

And so, the two of you had walked back to your apartment, hand-in-hand, and you knew with absolute certainty that Dex was right. He would never leave you. No matter what happened, it was going to be okay, because he would always be there for you. In fact, for one brief moment on that walk, you allowed yourself to imagine a life: the two of you walking just like this, except with someone small between you, swinging from both of your hands. Maybe with Dex’s hazel eyes and your smile. It was a quick image, but it made you happy. 

All your worries, and all those tentative future imaginings, quickly disappeared when you returned to the apartment and changed into pajamas that evening, only to find a patch of blood on your underwear. You emerged from the bedroom victoriously, waving the bloodied pair of panties in the air like a trophy.

“Guess who’s not pregnant!” you had whooped. 

Dex had looked up from the book he was reading on the couch, and for a second, nothing on his face moved. He slowly set the book down. Your smile had faltered a bit as he stood and crossed towards you, eyes fixed on the fabric in your hands with such strange, concentrated focus that you became aware of how ridiculous you surely looked. 

He stopped in front of you, and stared down at the blood like it was evidence. Like he was trying to understand it. 

You laughed awkwardly and pulled your hand back. “Sorry. I realize that’s probably super gross, waving period panties around. I just…wanted you to know.”

Something passed over his face like a shadow. You didn’t know what it was in the moment. Disappointment, maybe? No, it was sharper than that. Colder. 

But then Dex blinked, and you thought maybe you had imagined it all. His mouth arranged into that careful smile you loved so much. 

“You’re probably cramping,” he said casually, already reaching for you. His hand settled at your waist. “Do you want me to get your heating pad? Tea?”

You exhaled and leaned into him. “Yeah, thank you. That would be nice.”  

Dex kissed your forehead, became your perfect boyfriend once again, and soon, you forgot about the whole thing. He was good at that. 

You would have thought that, after the pregnancy scare, you would’ve learned your lesson. Wrap it up. Try to stop your birth control packet from vanishing every other day. Maybe cut back on the rabid fucking. That would’ve made sense, right?

Wrong. 

You did not learn your lesson. In fact, if anything, the ordeal made you want to jump Dex’s bones even more than you already did (if that was humanly possible). 

Just like Dex’s presence, sex was constant. Waking up in the morning? His mouth was already open and hot against your neck, his fingers sliding under your sleep shorts to toy with your already-wet pussy. Making dinner? You’d take a break halfway through chopping ingredients so he could bend you over the counter and fuck you from behind. Taking a shower? You made the mistake of showering without him once and learned your lesson. Showers were the perfect place for Dex to whisper how pretty you were while he hiked your leg over his hip and slowly slid his cock inside you, suds still clinging to both of your bodies.

Before bed? Sex. Watching a movie? Sex. Just got off the phone with your parents? Sex. Trying to grade papers? Sex. 

Sex, sex, sex. 

More often than not, you walked with a limp and had bruises from his hands on your hips. You had never been in a relationship where sex was such an anchor, but you wouldn’t have had it any other way. Your sexual chemistry was out of this world. He was so precise, so focused while he fucked you, it felt almost supernatural. There were times you reflected on how Dex must have learned how to be so good with other partners and became quite irrationally jealous that any other women got to have him the way you did now. Because, Jesus Christ– if you had Benjamin Poindexter even just once, surely all other men were ruined for you. It wasn’t every reason you loved him, but it certainly helped. Any moment you could have him on you or in you, you wanted it. Maybe it was just because it was so good. 

Or maybe it was because, when Dex was inside you, hips driving into yours, hands pinning your wrists above your head while he panted against your skin, you felt like he was finally being himself.

In daylight, outside the sheets, Dex was careful. He closed up when you asked too directly about the orange prescription bottles he had moved from his apartment’s bathroom cabinet to yours, or when you talked about his time in the Army, or wondered what his family was like. He gave you pieces, never the whole thing.

You learned he didn’t have a good childhood and that his parents weren’t around much. He enlisted in the Army as soon as he turned eighteen, and that’s how he got recruited to attend Quantico after he left. With these facts, you deduced he certainly had some mental struggles, which would explain the frequent need for reassurance, the anxiety about small things like you taking the train alone or not responding to his texts, and the medication. But who didn’t have their own problems? You didn’t want to pry, you just wanted to accommodate. You didn’t need to know or analyze every single piece of him to love him.

But in bed, Dex gave you everything. 

It was like it was the one place where he could stop being so careful. It didn’t matter if the kisses were sloppy with saliva or you knocked teeth, or if Dex was too loud when he would spill inside you, or if he got too excited and finished within seconds. He was just him in those moments, the honest version who didn’t need to be perfect, and you loved it. 

Though, you would admit that the honesty could be a lot, at times. 

There was one instance in particular. You had flaked on Chloe (again) for your usual Friday wine-and-pizza after Dex had come home and seemed disappointed you wouldn’t be able to spend the evening with him. 

“I feel like we barely got to see each other this week,” he had murmured into your neck, clinging to you from behind as you attempted to sort laundry on the bed. “Besides, work has been shit… I was really looking forward to spending time with you.”

Who were you to say no to that? 

So, after one quick text to Chloe with the usual excuse along the lines of “my sexy FBI boyfriend has a hard job and loves me too much :(”, both your previous plans and hopes of folding laundry were forgotten as you straddled Dex and sank onto the hard, veiny length of him. 

Soon, the only sounds in the room were the slap of skin against skin and your mingled moans of pleasure. 

Dex’s hands gripped your hips, urging you to ride him faster and faster until the rhythm became uncharacteristically aggressive. 

You gasped, air knocking out of your lungs, as he met your downward movements with a thrust, his cock hitting deep enough in you to send a spark of both pain and pleasure through your entire body. When you finally regained your breath and looked down at him, Dex’s face had gone strange beneath you. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, mouth parted as he stared up at you like he was witnessing something holy. 

“Dex?”

His hips jerked up into you, desperation bleeding through the movement. “Don’t stop, please.”

The words made your pussy flutter around him. “Babe, I’m not–”

“No, I know, I know, I just–” he panted, and suddenly you felt his hands shaking where they held you. He thrusted up again, making you moan. “Just– fuck, just tell me.”

“I’m not going to stop.”

His throat bobbed, and his relentless movements of forcing you to bounce on his cock faltered. “I…I mean, I want you to tell me that… That I’m yours.”

Startled at this seemingly random request, you tried to stop yourself completely, settling onto his hips, but Dex chased the movement and bucked his hips back into you. 

“Please,” he said, voice cracking around the word. “Please, baby. Tell me.” 

…if that’s what he really wants, you thought. Odd, but not completely unusual. You’ve heard of worse requests while getting pounded.  

You leaned forward, bracing yourself on your forearms by his head as he continued to drive into you. Your lips brushed his. “You’re mine.”

His eyes rolled back, a broken groan leaving him as his head flopped against the pillow. 

“Again, please.”

“You’re mine, Dex.”

“Ooh, fuck. Tell me you own me, baby, please.”

Your pause as you tried to think, even in your cock-drunk haze, as to why your docile boyfriend was now wanting to be treated like property. The hesitation was not acceptable to him, apparently. His fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, hard enough you were sure it would be purple in the morning. 

“Please, baby,” he whined, eyes wide and wet. “Please tell me I belong to you, I’m begging you.”

Normally, you would have stopped and tried to have a conversation with him about why he wanted to be treated like property in a relationship you very much attempted to make equal. But Chloe was right– in moments like this, it was like you were hypnotized by him. 

You were still bent over him, your breasts pressed to his chest, your mouth open against his as he split you open again and again. When you looked down between your bodies, you could see his cock, shiny with your slick, plunging in and out of you. The sight made your thoughts scatter. Your mind went fuzzy, overwhelmed by heat and the frantic way Dex was looking at you.

“Dex, fuck–” Your voice came out breathless and rough. “I own you. I own you.”

His reaction was immediate and violent. His eyes squeezed shut as a full-body shudder rippled through him.

“Again,” Dex begged. “Please, again.”

“I own you.”

“Yes,” he choked. “Yes, baby, fuck–”

“You belong to me.”  

Dex made a sound you had never heard from him before, something primal and almost painful. His hands clawed their way up your back, pulling you down harder until there was no space left between you, until his breath was hot and damp against your mouth.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he whispered, “Hit me.”

Your hips stuttered. What the fuck? 

“Dex, w-what?”

His eyes opened. It was like the mossy color of them had shifted into something radioactive and feverish. 

“Hit me,” he repeated, more frantic this time. “Please. Just–just make me listen.”

Even in your lustful fog, you knew this was an unusual request. Your beefy FBI boyfriend wanting you to…hit him? “Dex, I don’t know if I should…” 

“Please.” His voice broke. He looked like he was going to cry. “Please, baby. I need you to. Tell me I’m yours and slap me.”

You should have stopped. You should have known better. 

But Dex thrust up hard, grinding against the deepest part of your cervix, and the pleasure punched the thought clean out of your skull. You moaned, nails scraping against his shoulder, your cunt clenching around him as he stared up at you like he would die if you denied him.

You lifted your hand before you could think better of it.

The first slap wasn’t hard. More shock than force, your palm catching his cheekbone with a sharp little crack that made both of you go still.

Dex reacted like you had just shown him the entrance to heaven.

His hips snapped up into you, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as his cheek began to flush beneath the mark of your hand.

“Fuuck,” he sobbed. “Fuck, yes. It’s so fucking good, baby.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. He had stopped his upward thrusts into you, so you took control, grinding yourself down onto him. Instead of bouncing up and down, you switched the rhythm to a steady but vicious rock, grinding against him, his cock still fully seated and twitching in you. The coarse hair on his pubic bone tickled your clit with every grind against him. You were using him, and he liked it. You couldn’t stop. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” he gasped immediately. Dex’s hands had gone still on your hips, gripping but letting you move. He wasn’t in charge anymore. “Only yours.”

Your body had separated itself from your mind. There was no rationality left, only the chase for pleasure. Your palm came down hard on his face once again, and his whole body arched beneath you. 

“You belong to me.”

Dex nodded fervently with his reddened face, looking up at you with the most adoring expression like this was the only truth he had ever understood.

“I belong to you,” he sputtered. “I belong to you. I love you.”

It didn’t take long for both of you to finish after that, your cunt spasming around him, milking his cock as he groaned your name and repeated again and again: “I belong to you. You own me. I love you.”

So…yes.

Maybe the honesty could be too much at times. But, fuck it. It was hot, right?

Sex was just a reflection of your connection, your devotional and adorational and absolutely loving tether to Dex. Everything about him, about what you had, was so simultaneously intoxicating and grounding that it became easy to let your life fold around him. 

Everything just kind of…narrowed down. To only you and him. 

Dinner with friends became coffee with friends, long calls became texts, and then apologies about how busy school was. Solo errands became easier when Dex came too. Your phone stayed closer to your hand, because Dex got worried when you didn’t answer. Your apartment was strange and too quiet when he wasn’t in it. 

But still, none of that felt like you lost anything. 

It just meant, in the mind you would later think of as warped, that you gained love. You gained Dex. 

Which was why it felt so strange, almost unnatural, the first night Dex told you he couldn’t come home until the next morning. 

He had told you while standing in your living room, already dressed for work in his FBI jacket and gray slacks, holster slung across his waist. You hated when he wore that jacket because it made you stupid and wet. 

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” Dex said, checking the watch on his wrist for the third time in five minutes. “It could be early morning.” 

You looked up from where you were curled on the couch. “Early morning? Must be important.”

Dex’s mouth tightened. “It’s just a…work thing.”

“Work thing,” you hummed, tapping your finger to your lip like you were very seriously considering what a ‘work thing’ could mean. “Very specific. Thank you.”

That earned you a small smile, but it didn’t last. Dex was distracted and cagey in that way he got when whatever was happening inside his head had pulled him somewhere you couldn’t follow.

“So…what kind of work thing?”

“Just a protective detail,” he answered, shrugging nonchalantly. “Nothing serious.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “You? I thought you were more of a…you know.” You mimed holding a rifle.

Dex huffed. “That’s exactly the point. It’s kind of complicated.”

“FBI stuff?”

“FBI stuff,” he confirmed, then glanced away.

You watched him cross the room to the window, where the precious fern that you should probably thank for your relationship sat on the sill in its little terracotta pot. Dex touched one of the drooping leaves, frowning. 

“I think it needs better light…” He turned the pot slightly. He adjusted one of the leaves, then another, shifting the pot until it faced more toward the room than the window.

You didn’t think anything of it. Dex had always been particular about things and also had become the de facto plant-whisperer in apartment 416, remembering to water everything you would have probably let die. He noticed details you didn’t, fixed little problems before you even knew they existed. It was just another way Dex loved you. 

He turned back to you. “Chloe’s still coming over tonight?”

“Yep!” You sat up on the couch, crossing your legs under you. “I think she’s pretty excited. It’s been like, what, maybe three weeks since she’s been over? She keeps joking you’re holding me hostage.”

Dex’s cheek muscle twitched, and you rolled your eyes. He could be so sensitive sometimes. 

“Babe, you know she’s joking. She loves you!” You opened your arms up. “Now, stop pouting and give me a kiss goodbye, please.”

Dex obliged, coming to the couch and leaning down over you, one hand braced on the cushion beside your hip. He pressed his lips to you slowly, lingering like he didn’t want it to end. He tasted like toothpaste. 

“Text me if you need anything,” he murmured, lips still against yours. “And don’t forget the lock the door.”

You pulled back, then swooped back in to press one last quick kiss. “I always lock the door.”

“Remember to check it twice.”

You sighed fondly. “Yes, sir.”

Dex kissed your forehead and straightened. Before the door clicked shut behind him, he looked back at you one last time. “I love you.”

You knew he did. Everything told you that. “I love you too, Dex. And be safe, okay?”

Dex nodded. And then, he was gone. 

For a few minutes, you just sat there, staring at the closed door and wondering what exactly Dex was walking into. You tried not to think too hard about it. He was FBI. He had been doing this for years. He knew what he was doing.

Still, you hoped he would be okay, and whatever “protective detail” meant was just that it would be a boring night. 

Before the apartment could start feeling too empty without him, Chloe showed up like the Tasmanian Devil, bursting through your door with a greasy box of pizza in one hand and a $6 bottle of wine clutched victoriously in the other. 

“You bitch,” she announced, kicking the door shut behind her. “You can totally tell your apartment has a man in it now, and it’s disgusting.”

You blinked. “Um…hello to you too?”

“No, seriously.” Chloe set the wine and pizza on the kitchen counter and looked around the apartment with a horrified look. “It’s like I can feel him here. Like a fucking FBI ghost or something.”

You laughed, getting up to lock the door behind her. Then, because Dex’s voice had already lodged itself in your head, you checked it again. “I already feel like you’re going to be in rare form tonight.”

“Rare form?” she mused, opening up your cabinets and helping herself to a wine glass. “I think that should be expected, considering I haven’t seen you in years because Mr. Blonde and Handsome is, like, brainwashing you into forgetting you can leave the apartment.”

You sucked your teeth. 

Chloe had made it…known (for lack of better words) that she wasn’t exactly the biggest fan of Dex before. Mostly, her complaints centered around him being the reason the two of you didn’t see each other as much anymore. You understood, but at the same time– you had your own life. She was your best friend, but she wasn’t entitled to every single spare second of you. You lived with Dex, for God’s sake. Of course you were going to spend more time with him. 

Still, you wanted to mediate the two of them. You wanted Chloe to like him. Or, at the very least, stop acting like he was some kind of parasite slowly absorbing your social life.

“He’s not brainwashing me, Chloe,” you tried to keep your voice light as you took the glass she had filled to the brim with white wine. “It’s a new relationship, you know how it goes. It’s the…honeymoon stage, or whatever they call it. We just like being around each other.”

Chloe huffed and continued filling up her own glass. “Sure.”

You desperately wanted to change the subject. You lifted up your glass. “Okay, enough about Dex. I love you, we haven’t seen each other in weeks, so let’s just have fun tonight, okay? Let’s cheers.”

A smile finally broke across Chloe’s face. “Aww, you know I can’t stay mad at you when you say cute shit like that.” She raised her glass. “Fine. No more boy talk. Cheers!”

The two of you managed to stay true to that rule for a good portion of the evening, stuffing your faces with pizza, downing the entire bottle of Moscato before cracking open another from your fridge, gossiping about old classmates from college, and discussing crappy reality TV with the kind of passion usually reserved for political elections. For a second, as you watched Chloe animatedly explain her winning strategy if she ever got selected for one of those dumb dating competitions, it felt like it used to. Before Dex.

You even checked your phone and saw only one text from him.

Dex: Lock the door, baby. Please.

You: already did twice!! love you be safe please ❤️

Dex: Good girl. I will. Love you too.

Things were good.

That was, until you reached the bottom of the second bottle of wine.

Chloe was sprawled across one end of the couch, swirling around her fourth glass. There was a glint in her eye beginning to form that warned she was ready to be a little too honest with you. 

“No,” you said immediately, wagging a finger at her. 

She raised her eyes in mock surprise. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re doing…that face.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hummed, taking a long sip from her glass. “Besides…I’m surprised you even remember what my face looks like…”

There it was. “Chloe, stop. I thought we said no more talking about Dex.”

“I’m just joking with you, babe,” she drawled, sitting up a little straighter. She pointed an accusatory finger right back at you. “Besides…I didn’t say anything about him. You’re the one who brought it up, which kind of implies you feel like–”

“Chloe, I’m serious.” You put your glass down with a thunk on the coffee table, maybe a little harder than needed. This was all so…Chloe. You dragged your hands down your face, which had already become flushed with wine. It certainly didn’t help this conversation that you were more or less drunk at this point. “Dex is my boyfriend. I love him. I love you, too. Can you just, like…be happy for me?”

Chloe scoffed. “Happy for you? I mean, yeah, I guess I’m happy you’re getting good dick every night. But how am I supposed to be happy if I never see you anymore? Besides, I haven’t even met Dex–”

“Which is exactly why you need to stop talking about my relationship like you know him,” you interrupted her. Your face was more than flushed now; it was hot. Something was bubbling inside you, sharp and mean. 

“You’re right. I don’t know him,” Chloe stood up  from the couch at this point, hands on her hips. She was pissed. Her mouth was starting to do that twitchy thing that only happened when you were in nightclubs and someone spilled their drink on her shoes. “I don’t know him, because I’ve invited both you and him out multiple times, and every time you say no. I have made every effort to try and get to know him, be his…I don’t know, a friend or some shit. And Dex has made zero effort, because he wants you to himself, obviously.”

“That’s not true, Chloe. Dex is shy,” you stuttered, rising from the couch to meet her. “He…he has anxiety, he gets nervous meeting people–”

“Okay, I’m sorry, but it’s not my problem your boyfriend is a fucking weirdo–”

That was the line. You set one boundary, and Chloe had crossed it. Drunk or not drunk, what happened was irreversible. Something snapped in you, and whatever had been bubbling began to spill out. You marched straight up to her, eyes twitching. You were furious. 

“You know what, Chloe? I think you’re just jealous,” you snapped, spit flying from your mouth, only inches from her face. “You’re just jealous because something good finally happened to me. I have a partner who actually loves me, who actually wants to come home to me at night, and you’re mad because you don’t.” 

The second the words left your mouth, Chloe’s face changed. The twitch in her mouth stopped. You saw, in that moment, not the sarcasm and wine-fueled bravado. You saw your best friend. 

“Wow,” she said softly. Then, she nodded, like she had just decided something. “Okay.”

Your stomach dropped. “Chloe–”

“No, it’s fine.” Chloe went to the door, her movements stiff and unsteady as she grabbed her purse and shoved her shoes on. “You’re right. Clearly I’m...I'm just some pathetic, lonely, jealous bitch.”

She yanked the door open, then paused in the hallway, one hand still on the knob. You thought she might say something cruel back, even the score. Instead, she just looked at you.

“I seriously hope he’s worth it.”

Then she left.

You stood, frozen in your spot in the middle of the living room, staring at the door. 

You knew you had fucked up.

Even drunk and defensive, still shaking with anger, you knew that was a fact. You knew those words would hurt her, so you used them. But what she had said about Dex? Chloe had sat in your apartment, laughed with you, then acted like the person you were in love with was some kind of freak. She crossed a line, period. 

You tried to repeat that to yourself as you gathered the dirty plates and empty glasses from the living room with trembling hands. 

You weren’t wrong. Dex wasn't wrong. Chloe was wrong. 

By the time you dumped the wine dregs into the sink and tossed the pizza box into recycling, your anger had already started to blister into something worse. Guilt, maybe. Or hurt. Or worse, clarity.

You turned off the living room lamp, and went straight to bed. You were still drunk enough that the hallway tilted when you walked, but not drunk enough to avoid the hot tears that began streaming down your face as you tucked yourself under the covers. Even as you drifted off into a thick, wine-clumsy sleep, you were still crying. Muffled and pathetic, your face pressed into Dex’s pillow because it smelled like him and because you wished he was there to make it better, like he did for everything else. You wished Chloe hadn’t ever come over in the first place. You wished it really could just be you and him. Forever. 

Hours later, you were brought out of your restless slumber by a sound at the front door. A key sliding into the lock, then the door creaking open. 

Dex. 

You didn’t move, too exhausted, heavy with sleep and a pulsing headache. The bedroom was still dark, but the beginnings of bluish light had crept in under the curtains. Early morning. 

You heard Dex pause outside the bedroom, something soft but weighty hitting the floor. His shoes, probably. 

The mattress dipped behind you, and Dex climbed into bed. You could feel that he hadn’t changed– the cool buttons of his shirt brushed against your shoulder as he settled behind you. He didn’t kiss your cheek or ask if you were awake like he usually did. He just slid his arm around your waist and pulled you back, flush against him with an involuntary grunt. 

“Dex?” Your throat was hoarse, wrecked from crying and sleep.

“Hey, baby. I’m here,” he murmured. There was something off with his voice. It sounded strained, thin. He tucked his face into the back of your neck before you could turn to face him, his breath hot against your skin. Dex pressed his lips against the nape of your hairline. “I’m sorry I’m so late.”

You sniffed. “I missed you. Did…everything go okay? With work?”

Silence. 

“...Yeah. It was nothing.”

You knew that was a lie. But you also knew not to pry. So instead, you intertwined your fingers with Dex’s hand that had found its way beneath the oversized shirt of his you were wearing, resting against your stomach. 

“Okay,” you said, voice hushed. “I’m just glad you’re home.”

Dex gave a shaky exhale. His body stayed curled tightly around yours, tense in a way that didn’t match the soft circles his thumb had begun rubbing against your skin. 

“You fought with Chloe.”

You opened your eyes in the dark. His thumb kept rubbing circles. “How…how did you know?”

“Your voice. You’ve been crying.”

Of course he had noticed. Dex always noticed. You turned your face into the pillow, the cover of it still damp with your tears. “It was stupid. Just…just her being Chloe, I guess. She doesn’t know you.”

Dex’s hand moved up from your stomach to your ribs, holding you more securely against him. “She hurt you, didn’t she?” 

“Yeah, but…I said something really awful to her,” you whispered, shame twisting your organs. “Like, really awful. I’m…I don’t think I’m a good friend.”

Dex was quiet for a moment before he finally said in a low voice, “She hurt you first.”

It should have made you feel better. Dex was right. Chloe said a horrible thing about the man you loved. She took what he couldn’t change about himself and used it as a knife. But, did that give you the right to do the same thing to her? Your best friend? 

“I-I don’t know, Dex.” Your voice had gone wobbly. “Maybe I should apologize.”

Dex’s arm tightened around you. A reminder that it was him, warm and real and wrapped around you, while Chloe was gone. It was just him. Him and you. 

“Don’t think about her right now, baby,” his mouth moved against your neck, words vibrating against you. “She made you feel bad about us, and you don’t need that.”

You heard a noise from outside, a car passing over wet pavement, the soft hiss of tires floating up through the dark.

“You don’t need her.”

A tear slid silently across the bridge of your nose and into the pillow. 

You should have told him that wasn’t true. That Chloe had been there before him, that friends fought. You should have asked him why he never wanted to meet her. You should have asked him where he had been all night, why he still had his clothes on. Why his voice was changed. 

But you didn’t. You just felt another tear trickle down the same path, but this time it landed on your top lip. Your tongue darted out, tasting it. It was salty. It made you want to speak, so you did. 

“You’re right.”

taglist

🏷️: @maximumcoffeeme @triceraquake @ugh-whytho @bibiishin @starlitflora @genya1617 @lostfallenangelsblog @weallhaveadestiny @pomme-meadow @itzrachel04 @hoeforicecream @fivedicksinatrenchcoat @silas-fanfic-favs @pns123tf @attheheartofmylove @tvangelism @appalost @kaydynvsty @ichanelvxgue @snowwythegloww

[clawxmoon]

18+ mating press with dex

you're lying on your back, legs bent and lifted high. dex stands between them as he lifts them over his shoulders. your knees press against the solid warmth of him as he adjusts your calves draped along his broad frame. he pushes forward into you. slowly dragging his cock inside you inch by inch. the stretch is unreal. he fills you completely, the angle of your legs on his shoulders allowing him to sink deeper than ever before.

every inch makes your body twitch and shake. his hands flex against your thighs where they rest on his chest, thumbs rubbing into the soft skin to ease the pain. a breathy gasp escapes you as he bottoms out. your back arches instinctively off the surface beneath, toes curling at how utterly deep you feel him. dex's chest rises with controlled breaths above yours, muscles taut with restraint even as his cock pulses inside you from sensation.

you look up at him with half-lidded eyes, your mind hazy from being previously overstimulated. dex looks back at you with eyes filled with hunger, his jaw is tight and you can see your own slick dripping from his chin. you can tell he's trying to hold back a grunt, teeth clenched hard as his fingers aggressively dig into your skin. your walls are pulsing tight around him, not letting him go. soon after, dex starts picking up the pace.

you're completely lost in the pleasure, whimpering loud each time he hits that one spot. you hear him groaning above you. you hear the skin slapping harshly in the dark room while the bed creaks. dex watches carefully and intensely the way your chest moves up and down. then his eyes move to your fucked out face - mouth agape, eyes rolled back, fingers wrapped tightly around the sheets. he feels his dick twitching at the sight, he also feels your pussy clenching in response and his head rolls backwards with a loud grunt.

"fuck..."

dex curses himself - holding back on his orgasm. usually he'd last until you were finished but tonight you're especially tight and he's incredibly deep and all he can think about is cumming inside you. your head is hitting the headboard, the room is turning so loud you're starting to feel embarrassed but all you can focus is dex and the way his cock drags in and out of your cunt. he looks mesmerizing from above - broad shoulders that are keeping you steady, large biceps flexing as they hold your legs, face red and scrunched in pleasure.

it takes just a few more hard thrusts for you to finally reach the climax. you feel the sounds of skin slapping getting sloppier and wet. your mouth hangs completely open, eyes shut tight, eyebrows pinch up together - you feel almost dizzy from the orgasm, seeing stars. dex had been waiting for you for such a long time that he follows right after. you feel the warmth spreading all over your body as he comes apart on top of you. strong arms holding him up on the either side of your head for a second before completely collapsing over you breathless, still inside.

[manonwillpower]

ꜱᴜʀꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴅᴡᴇʟʟɪɴɢ - ᴜɴᴛᴀᴍᴇᴅ!ᴢᴏᴍʙɪᴇᴀᴜ

Synopsis: A transferring wildlife biologist to Yosemite National Park, moves in a day before a catastrophic death of Lucy Cook shook the community. Investigating, agent Kyle Turner uncovers a larger issue from the death of the young Jane Doe. Exploring depth of the wilderness, keen eye to helping animals, she’d noticed the impacts of a mysterious sickness affecting the national parks wildlife. Outstanding usage of artillery, she’d met her match with a well-known wildlife expert, the prospective deer hunter. Taking a trophy for the biggest pain in the ass she’d ever known - that's just scratching the surface. Oozing of mucus, aggressively reactive acts, seething mouth filled with froth; some may confuse a rabies. No one would've thought it was the start to the end of humanity. 

Warnings: Mature content 18+

Warnings/Mentions: Harsh language, Forced proximity, Older!Shane, Implied Younger!Reader (older than twenty-five), Usage of weapons, Descriptions of harm to animals (wildlife), Blood/Gore/Harm, Hurt/Comfort, Use of Alcohol, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eventual Smut, Public Indecency (outdoors), Small Fluff, Zombie AU, Disturbing Mentions of Zombie behavior (biting, eating, and harming people), “Made-Up” virus.

 A/N: Turning this into a small series! I hope to sort of feed the community of five Shane fans with this one. Getting stuck in the apocalypse with Shane Maguire…what fun! Love y'all, stay safe!!

Series: Part One (3.6k), Part 2 coming soon

Before Outbreak....

Fingers enthralled within the waves of the water between her fingertips, life within the water brought her enough silence to ignore the life beyond the surface. Bringing that reality that she’ll have to accept her losses - ignoring the call of her beloved aspirations within the water bubbling around her.

As she resurfaced, wiping the water gathered on her lashes, she took one last look of the lake where she’d grown from. Her youthful spirit dwindled to the acceptance of reality, which was apparent with how tired she’d grown from just treading the water. Motioning her back to the sun’s rays, she settled for a float above the surface. 

Trees dancing with the sound of swooshing wind were drowned by the water’s deafening ability, calming her senses. The lake water had been perfectly cold, enough to relax the aches from one of her legs. Sun cascading over the horizon line, just nearly about to set for the night. 

Noticing the figure of an older woman - grey hairs sticking from her low bun. Orange headband holding her hair back - matching the set she wore from a clothing brand she’d conditionally held her loyalty towards. Treading the water gently, ears adjusting to the sudden ring of earth’s song. 

“Hey Peach, we gotta get you going. The trailer is out front.” Her mother had informed her from the dock by their familial lake house. Her eyes glanced towards the noise, smiling at the woman that waved back at her.

 Swimming over to the dock, grabbing the towel perched on one of the pillars, she walked over towards the lake house after her mother. As she made it to the bathroom, she immediately started to remove her swimsuit. Changing out of her clothing, drying before putting on undergarments, a loose shirt, pants that mimic her uniform. Jumping into her socks and shoes, wrapping her wet hair into an updo, she made her way to her father’s car out front. 

Giving him a hug, tears threatening to spill if he’d so mentioned one sense of emotion from his mouth. He gave her the keys of his truck, feeling compelled to give her the truck in exchange for her Subaru. Even if his daughter felt awful for taking his “car child”, he wanted to make sure she’d been safe for the drive over. Not wanting the Surbaru to land dead in the middle of nowhere, as she had gotten swallowed by a bear.

Whatever that meant. 

“You promise to call, okay? They have wifi there, right?” Her mother anxiously fumbling with her words while grabbing her daughter's hands.

Smiling, she squeezed her mothers hands, “I’ll be safe and make sure to call every now and then, okay? I love you, mama.” After she hugged her mother, she made her way to the driver's seat of the truck. 

As she smiled towards her parents, overlooking her family lakehouse for one last time like she’d been parting from a tangible part of her soul. Aching reaching her heart, not wanting her parents to worry, she put the stickshift in drive before waving goodbye.

Driving to Yosemite was peaceful, with tall mountain ridges enough to touch the skyline. Trees waved to the soft breeze, which she felt with one of her hands out the window. Sounds of music out of the radio, as she hummed to the tune. The yellow and orange hues of the sunset paint a picture of the beautiful landscape. As it had grown dark, stars were shining within the open sunroof. 

As she pulled into the cabin where she’d reside for however long she’d stay, not yet having a clear plan for occupational sanction. She’d already moved in most of her bulkier furniture that week with movers, she’d been thankful that she’d only had to focus on her small menial items to move into her residence.

Her cabin wasn’t the most beautiful sight, even if she’d have to pay for the subsidized rate. It was better than living in a tent. Even if she’d been doing fieldwork for a long time, having her own space besides work had given her some sanity. 

While decorating the remainder of her cabin, she finally had a chance to settle from a week of moving to the national park. 

Her family loved nature, always visited national parks whenever they had the chance to travel. Yosemite was by far their favorite. It was the most visited out of the bunch, which had ultimately made up her mind where she’d hold her office. As she kicked her boots off, collapsing onto her queen bed as the weight of the drive finally caught to the ache of her legs. Exhaustion overriding her need to eat, she immediately passed out without changing out of her clothing. Nor did she check her cabin to lock the doors - which was a gift for living in the wilderness. Her mind remained peaceful as though she’d tread floated upon a lake’s surface - granting silence as she slept. 

One of the last full-nights rest she’d received for a very long time. 

–

As she woke, glancing at her watch, she sprung up from the bed with an urgent sense of panic.

“Shit!” The exhaustion weighed on her so much she forgot to set an alarm the night before. 

She’d been late, really late. 

 The type of late that had you trip over nothing, causing the individual to get even more irritable. She’d been hopping into her pants, before tripping when the bottom loop got caught on her right leg. Causing her to let out a grunt as her face planted onto her mattress. Speeding through her morning routine, shoving a protein bar in her mouth, she made her way to the front of her cabin. Latching the car door, throwing her back pack in the passenger, before settling in the driver's seat as she munched on the bar in her mouth. 

Turning the gas, she’d immediately peeled from the parking spot in a hurry to make her way to the station. Hopefully the supervisor doesn’t chew her out for this. 

As she made her way to the Eagles Hall, parking with a scurry. Running to make a sanction in the front office, noticing the other rangers watching the out-of-breath woman nearly fall over due to the panic. 

“Easy, ranger. Deer’s not goin’ anywhere." Paul Souter, an older gentleman with a whitened beard held one of his hands out with attempts to ease her panic.

“Sorry, sir. Missed the alarm, it won’t happen again.” She tried to relax her panic.

He laughed, reassuringly stating, “I know it won’t. You're the new wildlife expert, right?”

There was an unsettling quiet in the lodge just then. The rangers turned to their computers with no attempts to hide their curiosity. Not wanting to notice the clear seldom look on their faces, she turned to the chief with a known stare. Nodding to his question with a small smile.

Motioning with his hands to follow, guiding her to receive her artillery. A hunting rifle, with a handgun to settle in her utility belt she’d been personally assigned. After filling the paperwork, she’d made sure to prepare for a backpacking journey. 

After walking from the lodge, Souter had informed her of something before she’d made her way to monitor her favorite wildlife settlements - deer.

“You’ll first shadow our specialized wildlife expert before going off on your own. Assuming you’d been the transfer we’d heard about, I’d doubt you’d need it. It’s just protocol.” He’d informed her. 

A crinkle of her brow motioned upward, wondering who’d this mysterious person had been.

She smiled, questioning, “Well, what’s their name?”

He hesitated a moment, before replying, “Shane Maguire, he’d been the oversight for the park’s deer population. Careful, he’s a handful.” 

Laughing, having a bit of nerves behind them, she stated, “How so?”

He patted her back, reassuringly, “It’s best if you just learn for yourself.”

She’d dealt with her fair share of uptight superiors before, so she’d thought this would be easier than the time she fought a boar in the Channel Islands. Historically, it was a time where the fox species had been nearly eradicated on those islands, which wildlife experts took into account when handling the invasive species. So finding a wild pig in a “free zone” was definitely a surprise. Luckily , she made it out alive with her limbs still intact. 

Shaking her head, she lowered her gaze to the floor with a small smile, ”Nothin’ I haven’t dealt with.”

Holding a can of bear spray, sarcasm etched in his monotone verbiage, “I’d take this just in case.”

Giving him a small breathy laugh, she took the can to put in her backpack. Motioning to exit the station, she noticed a pair of rangers making their way to Souter. One looked to be an ISB agent, something must’ve come up due to his urgency. A woman with brown curly hair, strutted right beside him. Whether she’d been curious, it was their department - not hers. 

Going into this occupation - there were small luxuries. One of them being that she didn’t have to deal with people. Which she’d always been internally grateful for, besides the fact that whoever her promoted ranger had raised a bit of a reputation in the area for not being very approachable, considering the immediate shift of her fellow park rangers. 

So she decided to venture on her own, avoiding the strait-laced rangers for her first day on the job. Introducing herself a bit to the new climate was an established ritual of hers, especially when training to learn how to scope the mass of this national park. 

Yosemite was about the size of Rhode Island - typically bringing close to a hundred-thousand people on the daily. Knowing this information, she decided to gain more experience on her sleeve in order to feel confident with the scale. 

Leaving her assigned vehicle, she veered off the park trails to the routes closest to wildlife inhabitants. Her boots move through the shrubbery, reaching in her utility belt compartment to grab a small pair of binoculars. Finding a herd of deer in open vegetation - peaceful. 

The type of quiet she felt when her head was submerged in water - the absence giving her a unique sense of self-love. Finding the nonexistent call of her inner conscious; lacking the babbling unimaginable nonsense. As she looks at the herd submerged in the foliage, she always felt a connection for a shared understanding.

As she lowered the binoculars, she continued her journey towards the depths of the park. Marking her journey throughout with visual markers, she’d taken confidence with her active recall.

Taking a break on a makeshift bench, made from a fallen black oak, she chewed on some chess mix while sipping on her tin bottle. A call on her buzzing radio vibrated off her waist, urgent information tying into the assumed large scale operation taking foot in the park.

Explains the unknown ISB agent, she thought.

A young woman, Jane Doe, fell off the ledge of El Capitán with a bludgeoned force with two climbers. Had been found dead with immense blunt forced trauma to the head. She’d been in her early twenties, identity unknown. Looks to be a possible coyote attack due to deep tissue wounds on her legs, the main supervisor called it in to the wildlife experts to take a look into any unusual behavior. 

The hinge of her jaw twitched a bit, holding a bit of remorse for the woman who’d been found. Recognizing the national parks' dark history. It has been known to be the most well known national park for the large scale of missing persons cases. Nearly forty had gone reported, which irked her to the bone. 

Knowing someone can waltz into the same park she sat peacefully in, then to never see their loved ones again. Some part of her knew that if she’d ever put her guard down, she could end up just as vulnerable as these poor people. These families are trying to find their lost loved ones, just holding onto hope with any semblance of faith. 

She could only imagine the ache of a loss affecting her parents, that’s why she made sure to be absolutely thorough as she trudged through the open wilderness. Practicing her artillery, holding herself to the standard that her life could dwell in an open sanction. Having a foundation back on base usually kept her grounded, knowing she’d eventually have to hit reality. 

Socializing - something she’d held no significant enjoyment towards.

It’s not like the woman had an awful childhood that affected her overall development into adulthood, she has amazing parents. It’s just that her social circle was more like a halo rather than a surrounding bubble - she’d been entirely alone.

Her significant relationships had dwindled as soon as she made it into her career. Not like she had any pursuits of a love life - only the ones that left the morning after. She’d just felt the luxury of wanting to settle for someone wasn’t entirely in her realm. 

Her love life had been reduced to aiming her scope with the sounds of rustling tree branches and the distant callings of songbirds. The smell of grass and mildew weighing her senses as muddened dirt started to coat her uniformed shirt. 

A life suited for a woman whose job took up her sense of purpose. She’d been fine with it regardless - giving her a sense of pride rather than insecurity. 

Peaking into her scope, she noticed a pack of coyotes walking through the oak with a prance. Not seeing the woman glued to the floor as she’d quietly observed their behaviors. Wild coyotes rarely acted aggressive unless provoked, even then they are usually accounted as being startled then start conflict.

They usually pick on something a bit smaller in size - like squirrels or rabbits. If caught in a neighborhood, usually household pets that were about the size of a terrier or a house cat. Nothing like a full grown adult woman, that was unusual behavior for them.

As the pack fell out of sight, she’d started moving towards the trails where the environment held usual coyote activity. Open meadows or usual trails occupied these populations, usually individuals trailing behind the pack.

Passing by an older couple on one of the trails, reminded her of home even if she’d just left. She’d asked if they’d seen any unusual coyote activity as they walked in the region, which they gave her little information.

“Coyotes? No sweetie, it’s just been me and my husband. Seen a couple of ‘em birds, hopefully not a bear. No coyotes yet. Which is weird, since my husband usually spots them in order to scare 'em off when we hike around here.” The older woman assured her. 

Smiling, she’d written in a small notepad, before walking off, “Thank you for your time.”

Just as she’d been on her way to the trail's end, she’d overheard the couple speaking in a hushed tone as she left. Overhearing the couple conversing with odd coyote behavior, which pushed her stride while continuing the search. 

–

As she made her way to the station, she ran into a couple of rangers standing out front. The sunsets gleam showcasing on the wood lacker of the station's exterior. Looking up, she’d seen the ISB agent look straight at her with a curiosity that caused him to walk over to her.

The man had been older, wrinkles around his forehead and soft crows feet around his eyes. He’d been wearing a green collared shirt, along with blue jeans that held his bandage around his belt. Greys overthrowing his natural hair color, he’d had a matching beard to go along with his ruffled hairdo. Tall enough for her to look up slightly, intimidated by his physicality. 

Eyes widening a bit from the sudden movement, greeting him first, “Good evening.”

Not even granting her an introduction, he’d been , “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

Rather than it being a welcoming statement, it felt like more of an observation. Something he’d noticed from years of being a part of the park, which was an emboldened first impression.

Hesitating a bit, she’d answered him, “Just transferred today. I’m the new wildlife conservationist, sir.”

He’d looked at her up and down, assessing her from the bone, then reached out his hand, “Kyle Turner.”

He’d been a man of a few words, which meant it was easier for her. Reaching his hand to shake it, he’d immediately started his initial meaning of interrogation for the case of the unknown young woman.

“Have you heard of any strange coyote activity near El Capitán?” He raised his eyebrows with his hands resting on his hips. 

Reaching for her notepad, she’d handed it over, “Spotted some packs out near the Clemmons Gap. Drove over to where some of the known populations were at, but people never saw anything out of the ordinary - so to speak. Some old couples found it unusual that they never saw one on their hike, since they’d always have to scare them off. Nothing after that.” 

Turner just hummed, handing the notepad back to her, “Seen Maguire around? Does he have anything?”

Ahh, so about that.

Sweat threatened to dappen her forehead, being honest with her situation, “Well, I’ve never met the guy. So I have no idea.”

His brows raised a bit, “Well, Souter said you’d be shadowin’ him today. Holding out on your superiors already?”

Sighing, she looked away slightly, “Not like many people talked about him kindly. I could've found him, but if Souter had been so open about me, then he'd assured his confidence with my ability to be on my own. I need no babysitting.”

“Well,” He granted her a small smile. 

“Better explain to him why he’d been waitin’ for you. I’d be sure to tell him what you just said. He’d receive that well.” Turner tapped her shoulder and walked back to the rangers standing out front. 

Mouth agape, she’d turned around to the sound of scuffling shoes along the gravel. She’d made eye contact with another ranger, one that held themselves differently amongst the others that she’d met that day. 

He’d been older as well - yet he’d not shown it through his physicality. His shoulders had been protruding within the confines of his loose grey shirt. Exposed forearms that held muscle definition, along with the biceps that held onto the strap of his scope bolt-action rifle. While he’d be unmistakable for a gentleman on the bachelor, his gaze held no semblance of any gentleness.

“There she is.” Maguire started to slowly clap, humorously.

God, strike me down or this weirdly attractive older guy just might. She told herself. 

Trying to remain professional, she smiled a bit, “I am she.”

“Miss Santa Cruz herself.” He’d walked over to her now, standing about a social distance away from where she’d stood. 

He knows about my past settlement. She relayed to herself.

That initially shocked her, which made her silent. No superior ever really talked about her background other than to initially hire, but other than that she’d been set free into the confines of the wilderness, like some cave man - woman?

He held a smirk, one that meant mockingly, “Gonna tell me why I’ve been sitting like a dumbass for seven and a half hours waiting for you?”

Snapping out of it, she replied jokingly, “I wouldn't be that rude to yourself.” 

She meant it as a joke, he didn’t laugh though. Feeling her mouth dry, she’d licked her lips as she lowered her gaze. Clear embarrassment written across her facial features.

He’d finally responded with a huffed out breath, “Hilarious. Do that again and your ass is being sent back with the damn foxes. Understood?”

Gulping, she turned her gaze to his, “Yes sir.”

“Bright and early, ranger. Be late and I’ll have you running laps around the damn park.” He’d left her standing alone after the statement. 

Not even giving her a sign of farewell, he’d made his way to the station without giving a passing glance. Turning toward the group who greeted him welcomingly, Turner gave her a humorous glance that acknowledged her current discomfort.

Maybe, she’d have to hit that reality check sooner rather than never.

–

A/N: Can't wait to start this! Shout out to @slut4dilfs4ever for the idea!

First Chapter/Next Chapter coming soon

[onlineqtgirl]

wish i had an older man to secretly make out with during the forth of july fireworks, preferably benjamin pointdexter but im not picky

[medusas-daughter]

Of course they don’t like Milly Alcock’s Supergirl. She’s a grown ass woman with zero love interests who spends the movie saving her dog, casually dismantling a sex trafficking ring while she’s at it, and preaching the importance of being good, not nice or smiley or cheerful but good. I for one adored the movie and I really hope I’ll get to see more of Alcock’s Supergirl she’s now my favorite iteration of her and I love her so dearly.

[marielism]

wb studies

[manonwillpower]

Petition to get Wilson on that Quinn app NOW. I will pay for the damn subscription.

[clawxmoon]

I'm jus gonna leave this here... 18+

dex leans down, one hand holding your jaw to tilt it up. large palms cupping your cheeks with pressure. he doesn’t let you look away.“eyes on me," he growls. your body feels overwhelmingly full - each thrust sending waves of pleasure through you as he keeps pounding into that perfect spot. your lips part on a shaky moan - high-pitched and helpless as the pleasure crashes through you.

your eyes roll back for just a second before his voice snaps you back to reality. “be a good girl n' don't make me repeat myself,” he demands as you try to speak but another moan slips out. dex suddenly pushes into you harder, changing the angle completely. tears prickle at the corners of your eyes from how full you feel - how much sensation is flooding every nerve.

finally, your eyes, still glassy from tears and overwhelming pleasure, lock onto his. they’re hazy, unfocused as you force yourself to hold his gaze like your life depends on it. you don’t dare blink too long. don’t even consider glancing down or away because the moment your eyes start to drift, he notices instantly - his expression flickers with mild disapproval.

tears start sliding free at the overstimulation, the fullness is unbearable in the best way possible. dex's dark eyes are full of hunger and danger. the eye contact alone sends shivers down your spine. your body tenses suddenly - every muscle locking as the climax rips through you like lightning. a loud, unrestrained moan tears from your throat, raw and unfiltered. you stay locked onto him with pupils dilated, lips slightly parted from uneven breathing.

"atta girl… that’s it."

[nucl3arxxiv]

thinking about matt😌

[yunyuu]

12 yo me & me at 21

[manonwillpower]

Are you sure Love me not is your first fanfic?? It’s soooooo good, and Im loving the way you write the characters. Please add me to your tag list 🫶🫶🫶

Yes!! This is my first fan fiction, I always loved to write but never published anything. Thank you for your support <3 Also, yes of course!

[clawxmoon]

── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ DISTANT LOVER

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤwhen you left you took all of me with you

ᯓ tags │ divorced couple, slowburn, angst, smut, rough sex, jealousy, fingers in mouth, pinning, missionary, doggy, idk what else, manhandling, overstimulation, toxic relationship, bit of aftercare though <3│ word count: 8.2k

soft golden light spilled from hanging chandeliers, reflecting against polished glass and dark wood. the low murmur of conversations blended with the distant clink of silverware and the occasional laugh drifting from neighboring tables. outside the tall windows, evening had settled over town.

you felt beautiful tonight. not because anyone had told you so, but because for the first time in a while, you’d looked in the mirror and liked what you saw.

the dress hugged you perfectly, elegant and chic. your friends insisted you bought it because, you deserve to feel pretty again. the fabric hugs you just enough to remind you that you’re still capable of looking at yourself without immediately searching for flaws. your hair is done, your jewelry catches the light every time you move, and when you caught your reflection before leaving home, you almost didn’t recognize yourself.

everything about tonight felt like an attempt at something new. or maybe an attempt to finally let go of something old. your date smiles from across the table.

“you look nervous.” he says with a sweet smile.

“do I?”

“a little.”

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” you admitted with a quiet laugh, feeling warmth creep into your cheeks.

he didn’t interrupt when you spoke, didn’t rush to fill every silence, didn’t seem uncomfortable when conversations drifted into deeper topics. he listened carefully, asking follow-up questions that made it obvious he’d been paying attention all along. weeks ago, over text, you’d casually mentioned your favorite dessert from childhood. tonight, without prompting, he ordered one for the table because he remembered.

it was thoughtful and still, some stubborn part of your heart kept making comparisons it had no business making.

when he reached for his glass, you noticed how measured his movements were. no restless tapping of fingers. no bouncing knee beneath the table. no constant scanning of every doorway like he expected trouble to walk in at any second.

shane had never sat still. you hated yourself a little for noticing.

soon after, the appetizers arrived. conversation drifted from work to old stories to embarrassing childhood memories. he continued talking, telling an old funny story. you laughed at the right moments.

he laughed too when he realized he’d successfully made you smile.

“see?” he said. “I’m getting somewhere.”

“you are.” you chuckled.

you wondered if this was what peace was supposed to feel like. for a moment, the conversation flowed so naturally that you almost forgot why your shoulders had been tense since sitting down. he leaned back in his chair, shaking his head as he finished his story.

“some people only hear what they want to hear.”

your smile disappeared in an instant. you’ve heard that sentence before. your fingers tightened around the glass.

suddenly the restaurant vanished; the music vanished; your date's voice vanished and all you could hear was shane from years ago.

rain hammered against the windows of your old house. the one you’d shared with him. the one you’d spent years trying to forget. you could still remember that smell of rain flooding the whole house. the ache in your chest.

you were standing in the kitchen as shane stood across from you.

“you’re not listening to me.” he shouted.

“I am listening.”

“no.” his jaw tightened. “you’re hearin’ what you want to hear.” he scrubbed both hands over his face before dropping them heavily to his sides.

the words landed like a slap. you remembered the exhaustion more than the anger. the feeling of having the same fight for months and trying to explain yourself - trying to explain why loving him wasn’t enough anymore.

he’d looked tired too. older than he should’ve. but neither of you knew how to stop hurting each other.

deep down, you both knew trying harder wasn’t the answer anymore. the marriage was already breaking. neither of you wanted to admit it.

somewhere in the living room, the television continued playing to an empty couch, voices muffled by distance.

you looked at him and saw someone you once loved with your entire heart. you also saw someone you could no longer reach.

“I’m tired, shane.”

he stared at the floor for a second. when he finally looked up again, there was hurt in his face that matched your own.

“what now?”

the question hung between you and neither of you could answer. but deep down both of you already knew. the silence stretched until it became unbearable. then he spoke so quietly you almost wished he’d yelled instead.

“if you’ve already decided to leave… just say it.”

tears blurred your vision before you even realized they’d started falling.

“I don't want to leave”

he turned away first, bracing both hands against the kitchen counter, shoulders rigid as if holding himself together through sheer force. you wanted him to come back, to argue harder, to tell you he’d change, to wrap his arms around you and promise that loving each other would finally be enough.

in that awful silence, with only a few feet separating you, the distance between you felt impossible to cross.

it takes longer than it should for the restaurant to come back into focus. the memory clings stubbornly, refusing to loosen its grip even as the warmth of the dining room settles around you again. the candle between you and your date burns with a steady flame, casting soft shadows over the table.

your chest still feels tight, your heartbeat uneven, and for one irrational moment you expect to look across the table and find shane sitting there instead, his forearms crossed, his expression worn thin by another argument neither of you knew how to end.

instead, there is only a stranger who has been nothing but kind to you.

he notices the way your eyes have unfocused, notices that you have barely touched your meal despite insisting earlier that you were hungry, and notices the way your fingers continue twisting the cloth napkin in your lap without you seeming aware of it.

he doesn’t rush you or fill the silence with nervous chatter. he simply waits until you finally look up, offering a small, understanding smile that makes guilt settle heavily in your stomach. “are you still with me?” he asks gently.

you force yourself to return the smile, though it feels fragile enough to crack if anyone looks too closely. “I’m sorry. I keep drifting.”

“you don’t have to apologize.” the honesty in his voice catches you off guard. there’s no suspicion, no irritation that his evening isn’t unfolding exactly as planned.

he’s trying to understand you. you nod and lower your eyes to your untouched plate, and realize that you’ve spent nearly the entire evening comparing him to someone you promised yourself to leave in the past.

it isn’t fair. he laughs more easily than shane ever did. he listens instead of interrupting. he keeps his voice level, even when he disagrees with something you say. there’s a steadiness to him that feels unfamiliar after all these years - part of you wonders whether this is what a healthy relationship is supposed to look like.

your date reaches for his water glass, then hesitates before taking a sip. “can I ask you something?”

you nod.

“if I’m overstepping, tell me.” he studies your face for a moment. “is there someone else on your mind?”

your throat tightens, and instinctively your eyes drift toward the rain-speckled window, where the reflections of passing headlights stretch across the glass. you could lie. it would be easy enough. you could say you’ve been busy with work or that first dates make you anxious or that your mind simply wandered. but exhaustion has a way of stripping people of their ability to pretend.

“I was married,” you say at last, your voice barely louder than the music around you. he nods once, inviting you to continue without forcing it. “we’ve been divorced for years.”

“do you miss him?”

the question opens something inside you that you thought had long since scarred over. you think about answering quickly, about reducing years of love and resentment into a simple yes or no, but the truth is far too tangled for that. what you miss isn’t a single person or a single memory. you miss believing that loving someone would be enough to save both of you.

you miss the certainty you carried when you slipped a ring on your finger every morning, convinced that every hardship could be survived if you faced it together. you miss the version of yourself who hadn’t yet learned that affection can exist alongside loneliness, that devotion can coexist with disappointment, and that two people can love each other desperately while still making each other miserable.

before you can respond, another memory overtakes you with the force of a tide.

the house is darker than you remember it being. only the weak yellow light above the stove cuts through the gloom. rain pounds relentlessly against the roof, and somewhere upstairs a window rattles in the wind. your suitcase sits by the front door, half packed, though neither of you has acknowledged it aloud.

“look at me,” shane pleads, his voice shaking from exhaustion more than anger.

the space between you feels wider than the room itself, filled with every apology never spoken, every conversation abandoned halfway through, every night spent lying awake beside each other without either person daring to break the silence.

you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. if you did, you were afraid you would stay. you kept your eyes fixed on the zipper of your bag, fingers trembling as you adjusted straps that didn’t even need adjusting.

“please,” he said again, taking one hesitant step closer. “look at me.”

you swallowed hard before finally lifting your head. the sight nearly unraveled you.

shane looked nothing like the stubborn man you’d spent months arguing with. the frustration that usually hardened his features had vanished, leaving behind someone who looked exhausted to the bone.

his eyes were red, whether from lack of sleep or the tears he refused to let fall, you couldn’t tell. his hands opened and closed uselessly at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but no longer believed he had the right.

“don’t do this,” he whispered.

“shane-" your chest tightened. "I have to."

“we’ll fix it.” his words came too quickly, tumbling over one another before he could stop them. “I’ll fix it. I’ll do better. I know I’ve screwed this up, I know I have, but just… don’t leave like this.”

you stared at him, heart breaking all over again.

months ago, those promises would have meant everything. now they arrived after too many nights spent crying yourself to sleep beside him, after too many conversations that ended with slammed doors and apologies that never became change.

“I waited for this,” you said softly. “I waited so long for you to say those things.”

“I’m sayin’ them now...so stay.” his voice cracked on the last word. he crossed the room until barely a foot separated you, close enough that you could see the faint scar along his jaw, close enough to notice the way his breathing had gone uneven.

“tell me what to do,” he pleaded. “I don’t care how hard it is. just tell me.”

you closed your eyes, looking at him hurt too much. with a shaky breath, he reached for your hand. his fingers wrapped around yours so gently it felt as though he believed you might disappear if he held on too tightly.

“I love you.”

he lowered his head, still refusing to let go of your hand, his thumb brushing absently across your knuckles the way it always had when words failed him.

“I’m sorry, baby” he murmured. “for every time I upset you. I’m sorry for all of it.”

you believed him but none of it was enough anymore. tears blurred your vision as you carefully slipped your hand from his grasp. he looked down at his empty palm as though he couldn’t understand where the warmth had gone.

“please,” he whispered one last time, his voice so quiet you almost missed it beneath the rain. “don’t make this the last time I see you.”

"I really wanted to stay, shane." your own tears finally spilled over. you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, holding him with all the strength you had left. for one fleeting moment he held you back just as tightly, burying his face against your shoulder as if he could memorize the feeling, as if enough memory could make up for what was about to happen.

when you pulled away, he didn’t try to stop you again. he only watched as you lift the suitcase and reached your hand on the knob. you stepped outside without looking back.

you knew if you saw the expression on shane’s face one more time, you would drop the suitcase, run back into his arms, and spend another lifetime trying to save something that had already broken both of you.

the rest of the evening passed more easily than it had begun.

by the time the waiter cleared the dishes and the bill had been paid, you found yourself grateful you hadn’t invented an excuse to leave early. it hadn’t been perfect, but it had been pleasant, and after years of convincing yourself that every first date would inevitably end in disappointment, pleasant felt like progress.

when you both stepped outside, the air carried the cool scent of rain. the clouds had finally broken apart, leaving the streets glimmering beneath rows of amber lamps. he noticed you fishing your keys out of your purse and immediately offered to drive you home instead, insisting it was no trouble when you politely protested.

there was nothing performative about the gesture. he simply opened the passenger door, waited for you to climb in, and drove through the quiet streets with the radio turned low enough that the silence between songs never felt awkward. the car eventually rolled to a stop in front of your building.

“thank you,” you said, turning toward him with a tired but genuine smile. “I had a really nice time tonight.”

“I’m glad.”

his expression softened as he looked at you, searching your face with a careful sort of hope that made your chest ache. there was no pressure in it, only uncertainty, the kind that comes with wondering whether the evening had meant the same thing to the other person. when he leaned forward slightly, giving you every opportunity to pull away if you wanted, your heartbeat quickened.

you almost met him halfway but suddenly, you froze. all at once you could remember another car years ago, another late night, another goodbye that had ended with shane stealing a quick kiss before you could even finish laughing at something stupid he’d said. you remembered the scratch of his unshaven jaw against your cheek, the smell of pine clinging to his jacket after long days outdoors, the way he would grin afterward as though he’d gotten away with something.

the memory struck so suddenly that you instinctively leaned back.

“sorry,” you murmured.

“hey, it’s okay.” he immediately retreated.

you hated how understanding he was. you hated that your hesitation had nothing to do with him. you closed your eyes for only a second, willing yourself to stay in the present. shane was years behind you. the marriage was over. the papers had been signed, the boxes packed, the house sold. this man sitting beside you had done nothing wrong except arrive after someone else had left too much of himself behind.

taking a slow breath, you leaned in again. just before your lips could meet, a familiar voice cut through the quiet night.

“well, ain’t this somethin’.”

your heart stopped beating.

shane stood a few feet away with one hand in the pocket of his jacket, shoulders relaxed, expression unreadable. there was no smile on his face, no obvious anger either, but the way he looked at the two of you made it clear he had been standing there long enough to understand exactly what he had interrupted.

“didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, the sarcasm making it clear that was exactly what he intended.

“what are you doing here?” your eyes widen at the sight of him. you haven't seen your ex-husband since the divorce, not even once.

“live nearby.”

“no, you don’t.” you caught his lie immediately.

“close enough.” his gaze shifted back toward your date. “hope she warned you she’s got expensive taste.”

after years apart, after all the promises you had made to yourself about moving on, the last person you expected to find outside your apartment was the man you had divorced. your date stepped out of the car and closed the door behind him. he remained polite, though you could sense the confusion in the way he squared his shoulders and glanced between the two of you.

“everything alright?”

before you could answer, shane spoke.

“you took her out?”

there was something restrained about him tonight, something cold. he wasn’t trying to win an argument. he wasn’t trying to explain himself. he was simply making his presence impossible to ignore.

“we had dinner.”

cars passed at the end of the street, their headlights sweeping briefly across the three of you before disappearing again. somewhere nearby, a dog barked behind a fence. otherwise, there was nothing except the growing tension that seemed to thicken the air with every passing second.

“you know,” shane said at last, addressing the other man rather than you, “thought dates usually ended a little earlier than this.”

“we lost track of time.” your friend answered evenly.

“must’ve been one hell of a conversation.”

“I enjoyed it.” you got involved in the conversation. "shane, that's enough."

his attention never left the man standing across from him.

“she tell you she was married?” shane’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes hardened. you felt anger rise immediately.

“don’t.”

“what? I’m having a conversation.”

your date remained composed, but his posture had shifted. he no longer looked like someone finishing a pleasant evening. he looked like someone trying to decide whether staying was worth walking into a situation that clearly had years of history behind it.

"you seem like a nice guy, but you should leave.”

the man looked from you to shane, and whatever passed silently between the two of you was obvious enough that he didn’t need an explanation. after a long moment, he exhaled quietly. “I think tonight’s enough for me.” you immediately shook your head.

“please don’t let this-”

he interrupted gently. “it’s alright.” he offered you a sympathetic smile, one touched more by disappointment than resentment. “I had a nice evening with you.”

he gave shane a brief nod that went unanswered, climbed back into his car, and drove away without another word. the sound of the engine faded until the street was completely still again. you watched the car lights disappear around the corner before turning back toward your house.

the front door slammed behind you hard enough to shake the frame, your footsteps echoing through the hallway as you dropped your purse onto the console table without caring where it landed. your hands were shaking so badly that you had to curl them into fists just to keep them still, every breath coming faster than the last.

the anger had arrived so suddenly that it almost drowned out everything else - embarrassment over the ruined evening, confusion over seeing him after so many years, and beneath it all, the familiar ache you had spent so long trying to bury.

shane opened and closed the door behind him. “we need to talk.”

“go home,” you said through clenched teeth. he stood a few feet away without answering. “you humiliated me.”

his jaw tightened. "watchin’ you kiss somebody else made me sick.”

you laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. "you walked in there like you still had some claim over my life. you lost that when we signed the papers. you lost that when you let me walk out of our house without fighting for me.” your voice rose until it bounced off the walls.

“I fought.” he took a slow breath.

“not enough!” the words tore out of you before you could soften them. “not enough, shane! I begged first. I begged for months. I begged you to listen, to stay, to tell me what was wrong, to stop shutting me out every time things got difficult. I begged until I couldn’t recognize myself anymore, and you looked at me like I was asking for too much.”

his own frustration finally surfaced. “because I didn’t know how!”

“and was I supposed to pay for that?”

silence hung between you for only a heartbeat before you kept going, years of restrained emotion spilling over all at once.

“do you have any idea what it felt like to spend every single day wondering whether my husband would come home and actually speak to me? do you know what it was like lying next to someone who loved me and still made me feel completely alone?"

shane ran a hand over his face with visible frustration. he looked away for a moment before meeting your gaze again. “you think I ain’t regretted that every day since?”

“it doesn’t change anything that happened, shane.”

for a moment the room fell completely still. then he continued, quieter but no less intense.

“you think there’s a day goes by that I don’t replay every damn conversation we ever had? every time you asked me to stay and I walked outside instead? every time I shut down because I was too proud or too stupid to say what I was feelin’? I know exactly what I did.”

“then why are you here?”

“because I saw you with him and I couldn’t stand it.” he stared at you.

another silence stretched between you, longer this time, filled with years that neither of you could take back.

you looked at him and saw the same man you had once imagined growing old with. older now, more tired, carrying regret openly where pride used to live. he looked at you with the same eyes that had first made you fall in love.

“do you know what hurts the most?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper despite the anger still burning underneath it. “I met someone tonight who was patient with me. someone who listened. someone who didn’t make me fight just to be heard.”

he swallowed but said nothing.

“and all I could think about was you.” the confession landed heavily between you and you hated yourself for saying it. “I went on one date - one - and when he leaned in to kiss me, I froze because all I could picture was you.”

shane's face tightened. “don’t tell me that," his breathing became uneven. "I don’t deserve to hear it.” for the first time that night, he looked genuinely shaken.

you looked at him through blurred vision, exhausted from shouting, exhausted from remembering, exhausted from carrying heavy feelings.

the anger that had filled the room only moments ago seems to leave him, replaced by something quieter, something that almost looks like disbelief. his eyes stay on you, taking in details he probably shouldn’t notice anymore but does anyway.

the way the soft light catches against the fabric of your dress, the careful way your hair falls over your shoulders, the earrings that move ever so slightly when you breathe. there’s a sadness in the way he looks at you, as though he’s realizing just how much time has passed and how many moments he willingly surrendered.

when he finally speaks, his voice is lower than before, stripped of every trace of sarcasm.

“you look beautiful.”

you don’t answer, but he keeps looking at you as if he can’t help himself. “no,” he corrects quietly, almost shaking his head at his own choice of words, “beautiful ain’t enough for it.”

his gaze lingers on the dress, on the way it fits you so naturally that it seems made for you alone, before returning to your face.

"I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look like this. I mean… I’ve seen you dressed up before, I’ve seen you on our wedding day, at parties, all those nights you’d spend an hour gettin’ ready while I was tellin’ you we were already late.” a faint, almost pained smile crosses his face. “but tonight…” he pauses, searching for words that refuse to come easily.

“tonight I looked at you standin’ beside that car, and for a second I forgot how to breathe. I kept thinkin’ that somebody else got to see what I used to wake up next to every mornin’, and all I could do was stand there wonderin’ how I ever convinced myself I could live without it.”

his expression softens further, regret settling plainly across his features.

"you’ve always been pretty. I probably didn’t tell you enough when I had the chance. but lookin’ at you now… I can’t believe I ever let you walk away.” he lets out a slow breath, eyes dropping for only a moment before meeting yours again.

for a moment, all you can do is look at him. the silence stretches between you, filled with memories of mornings when you stood in front of the bedroom mirror adjusting a dress for someone else’s wedding while he hurried you from the hallway, memories of anniversaries where you secretly hoped he might pause long enough to tell you that you looked nice.

memories of birthdays when you spent extra time doing your hair only to be met with a simple nod before he reached for his truck keys. he had loved you, you knew that now as surely as you had known it then, but so much of his love had remained locked inside him, unspoken until it became impossible to separate affection from absence.

shane’s eyes remain fixed on yours, carrying the weight of every compliment he never spoke and every moment he let pass without reaching for you.

“I was proud of you every day,” he says at last. “I thought you were the prettiest woman in every room we walked into. I’d catch people lookin’ at you and think to myself, that’s my wife. I just… I never said it out loud.”

you swallow hard, tears slipping free despite yourself. he opens his mouth as though searching for something that might undo the damage, but there is nothing left to say. no sentence can travel backward through time. no confession, no matter how sincere, can fill the silence that existed between you when you needed it most.

the room is silent except for the sound of uneven breathing and the faint ticking of a clock somewhere deeper in the house. your eyes remain fixed on each other, and it becomes impossible to tell where the anger ends and the grief begins.

every accusation that was shouted only moments ago seems to hang in the air between you, but so do the apologies, the memories, and the years you once spent believing you would never have to say goodbye.

he studies your face as though trying to memorize it all over again, taking in the tears you haven’t wiped away, the way your shoulders rise and fall with every breath, the way your hands remain tightly clenched at your sides because you no longer trust yourself to reach for him.

there is something desperate in his eyes, something that makes him look less like the man who interrupted your evening and more like the husband who watched you carry a suitcase out of the front door years ago, knowing he was running out of time and having no idea how to stop it.

he takes another careful step forward until only inches separate the two of you. close enough to hear the slight catch in your breathing, close enough that you can see exhaustion written across every line of his face.

“I keep thinkin’ about that last day,” he admits. “thinkin’ if I’d walked after you, if I’d grabbed your hand, if I’d swallowed my pride just once sooner… maybe none of this would've happened.”

before he seems to fully think through the decision, his hand lifts toward your face and stops just short of touching you, giving you every chance to pull away. when you don’t move, his fingertips brush lightly against your cheek, wiping away a tear that had escaped without you noticing.

“I’m sorry.” his voice is barely audible.

his eyes search yours one last time, almost asking a question he’s too afraid to speak aloud. then, carried by years of regret and emotions, he leans forward.

the kiss is messy, frantic - shane's lips crash into yours with no patience. his mouth moves clumsily at first, like he’s forgotten how to kiss you after all these years. your breath hitches from shouting and the shock of it.

he kisses harder when he feels your lips part slightly against his own. it’s not sweet or gentle; it’s hungry and desperate like both of you are starving for this exact thing without admitting it until now. one hand slides back into your hair while the other grips your shoulder tight enough that later there might be marks.

his breathing is ragged between kisses as if every inhale reminds him how much space has been between you two for so long.

shane’s hand grips the back of your neck, firm and urgent, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. his fingers tangle into your hair at the same time - messy strands caught between them as he pulls you even closer. there’s no space left that isn’t occupied by him now. his lips press harder against yours, insistent and desperate in a way that feels angry.

his mouth is warm but trembling slightly as it moves over yours again and again without stopping. your arms lock tightly around his neck automatically; one hand slides up into soft hair while the other presses flat against tense shoulder blades holding onto him as if afraid this will end too soon.

the kiss breaks for just a second - air rushes in, shaky and cold between your lips but neither of you pulls away fully. shane’s forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven and warm.

“tell me to leave,” he whispers. “if that’s what you want, I’ll go.” his voice is barely there - soft like it always gets when he’s scared.

you don’t answer with words. instead, you tilt forward again and press your lips back onto his before the silence can stretch too long or guilt can creep in and this time you kiss him first with everything you have.

shane makes a quiet, desperate sound in the back of his throat when you kiss him first like he wasn’t expecting it but needed it more than air. instantly, his arms lock around your waist, pulling you hard against him until there’s no space left between your bodies at all.

his hands grip tight, one pressing into the small of your back while the other slides up to cradle where neck meets shoulder as if anchoring himself to you. every breath shudders through both of you. your fingers twist into his hair instinctively, tugging slightly which makes shane groan.

he breaks the kiss just enough to shift - his hands slide down, gripping your thighs firmly and in one single move, he lifts you off the ground. you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist as he walks forward, the bed creaking softly beneath your weight.

shane lowers himself over you - one forearm braced beside your head while his other hand finds yours briefly before your lips crash back together.

his hand is larger, warm and slightly rough from years of work he never stopped doing even after the divorce. calluses brush against your softer skin as his palm presses into yours. shane’s thumb begins to stroke lightly over your knuckles without thinking.

his hands move slowly and carefully as he begins to undress you. his fingers carefully find the hem of your dress - his touch light as he starts to lift it. the fabric is soft as he peels the dress up over your thighs first.

he leans in first, pressing his lips softly to the side of your neck - right where pulse beats. the kiss is feather-light at first, barely there. then he does it again, slower this time. lingering longer as his mouth glides upward along your throat, kissing a trail toward jawline without rushing

when he reaches below ear, a spot you always loved being kissed, the pressure increases. soft, open-mouthed kisses leave tiny damp marks behind, his breath fans over each new area right after each kiss.

shane’s lips continue moving from your jaw down to the slope of your neck. each kiss is delicate, almost worshipful: his mouth warm and slightly parted, pressing gently against skin with just enough pressure to leave a faint imprint.

he lingers at the hollow beneath your ear for a few seconds - kissing there twice before trailing lower along that tender column of neck. every inch gets attention, soft pecks right over collarbone bone.

his breathing stays even, controlled but you can feel it; hot puffs of air ghosting over dampened spots he just kissed. the pace remains unhurried like this moment isn’t meant to be rushed.

shane’s mouth travels downward. he kisses the curve where your neck meets shoulder - each press of his lips softer than the last but just as meaningful.

when he reaches upper chest - right above where heart pounds under ribs - the kisses slow even more. just savoring each small patch like it matters.

gradually, his hands rise again, fingers brushing sides before carefully finding straps at shoulders. he pauses just once more: glancing up at you silently asking permission before slowly sliding them down.

shane’s breath hitches as the straps slip down your shoulders, his eyes darkening with something raw, hungry but still careful. he doesn’t say anything yet - just watches for a second, throat moving as he swallows.

then his hands glide up your arms slowly, fingertips tracing skin before finally cupping your face.

shane’s hands slide down your body again. when you don't pull away, his touch grows bolder. shane unhooks your bra carefully - with familiarity, muscle memory from years ago. the straps loosen and slide off easily.

"god... I missed you." his eyes flick down briefly - staring, taking in the sight in front of him before he leans back down to kiss you again.

one of his hands comes up to cradle your breast gently - thumb brushing over skin lightly before leaning down to press a kiss right where heart thuds beneath ribs.

shane's teeth nips at your lower lip briefly before claiming your mouth again. his hands drop from your face - one fists gently in the sheets beside you while other grips hip a little too tight.

the shift is sudden: where tenderness was moments ago now there's hunger - raw and unfiltered as shane kisses you with years of pent-up frustration mixed in with longing. you don’t pull back.

his breathing turns heavier and less controlled as the anger simmers just beneath his touch. he kisses you deeper, harder; tongue sliding against yours with roughness.

without breaking the kiss, shane shifts his weight more firmly over you - pressing down gently as if testing how much space between your bodies can close. his hands trail down your body once again to softly slide down your panties. simultaneously, your hands reach for his belt.

after throwing the clothes on the floor, he positions you unexpectedly - lifting your legs up over his shoulders with strong arms. the angle shifts everything. "shane-" everything turns intense, vulnerable in a way that makes you gasp.

shane stares in your eyes for a second, admiring your expression and your bare body right in front of him. he lines up the tip at your entrance, gathering all the slick and pushing inside of you painfully slow. your eyes roll back at the stretch.

his rhythm starts rough from the start; every thrust is deep and forceful. the bed creaks beneath you as shane moves powerfully as he sets a relentless pace - each deep thrust making the headboard tap rhythmically against the wall. his muscles tense with exertion; arms flex as he holds your legs up, biceps bulging. you admire the sight of him.

his face is flushed, jaw clenched - every movement carries weight and years of separation. he doesn’t speak - just breathes hard through parted lips.

the room fills with sounds: skin slapping softly, shaky exhales, sheets rustling violently. shane pants heavily as he moves - his voice rough with emotion when he finally breaks the silence.

"fuck…" he gritted out between clenched teeth. his hips snap forward extra hard on purpose, driving deeper as if testing your limit.

he doesn’t slow down. every thrust becomes harder, sharper; hips slamming into yours with a force that shakes the bedframe. the headboard bangs louder now - thud after thud against wall.

"so fuckin' tight," he grits out through clenched teeth, voice ragged and strained - from how much he's feeling all at once. one hand leaves your leg to grip your thigh instead, fingers digging in slightly as he adjusts angle to go even deeper and rougher.

your whole body is overwhelmed - every nerve alight with sensation. the roughness doesn’t hurt but it's filling you completely, physically and emotionally. each deep thrust sends shockwaves through your core, a mix of pleasure and something achingly tender beneath it. too much and not enough all at once.

tears prickle at corners of your eyes. every sound shane makes, every harsh breath, they unravel you. you’re gasping for air between kisses that never last long enough; legs trembling around his shoulders.

shane’s grip turns dominant - hands large and strong. one hand pins your wrist above your head while the other grips your hip.

"eyes on me," he demands suddenly, voice gravelly with lust and when you do, his eyes are wild: dark with need but there's also something vulnerable underneath.

the moment stretches before he crashes his mouth onto yours again in a messy kiss full of teeth and moans. his groans are vibrating against your lips.

"fuck, fuck, shane!" you can't hold back the whimpers that turn into breathy cries whenever he hits that one spot.

shane’s size becomes undeniable - every thick inch stretching you in a way that borders on overwhelming. your body clenches around him instinctively, and the sensation makes his breath hitch.

he growls out your name, low and wrecked - the sound primal as he feels how tight you are. it’s too much for him.

your back arches off bed with a sharp cry. you feel him everywhere at once, the fullness, heat, pressure. you moan out his name without thinking. it makes him lose the last thread of restraint.

hands slide under you to haul you up higher against him as he drives into deeper still; every movement calculated now to hit that spot again relentlessly.

he doesn’t stop: keeps moving exactly like this because the way your hips jerk and legs tremble tells him everything. you’re close. a particularly powerful snap of his hips makes both of you gasp simultaneously.

"fuck, missed this- so fuckin' bad." shane’s rhythm turns almost punishing - relentless and deep, chasing that feeling neither of you can escape. every snap of his hips sends sparks through your nerves.

his muscles strain with effort - biceps flexed, shoulders tense - as he holds himself up just enough to keep watching your face. the sight fuels him: flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes glazed over with pleasure.

a groan escapes him when you clench around him again and suddenly shane buries his face in the crook of your neck, panting harshly as if trying to ground himself before losing control completely.

shane doesn’t warn you when he flips you onto your stomach and yanks you up onto your knees. his hands are firm as they harshly guide your hips into position before pulling gently on a handful of hair to arch your back.

"look at you," he growls low in your ear "you take me so fucking good." without hesitation, shane thrusts back into that same deep angle. the new position letting him plunge deeper than before.

your face presses into mattress as each powerful snap of his hips rocks entire body forward. shane tightens his grip in your hair just enough to yank your head back slightly, exposing the curve of your neck.

"just like that," he mutters against your ear before biting down gently on shoulder. his other hand grips your hipbone hard, fingers digging into your soft skin as he sets a brutal pace.

the slight tug keeps you arched perfectly for him - every thrust now angled to hit even deeper, making the stretch border on overwhelming.

"fuck, shane, shane-" you can feel how much bigger this position makes him seem: every movement amplified by how completely open you are for him.

shane’s hands roam greedily - one palming your breast roughly through the motion while the other grips your waist, thumb digging into the skin as he watches you fall apart.

your loud moans are driving him wild. without warning, shane reaches forward and shoves two fingers past your lips. he growls at how warm your mouth feels around his fingers. his voice is thick with lust as his wet fingers press down on tongue to muffle the moans.

with his fingers still in your mouth - shane leans over your back, pressing his chest to yours briefly. his lips find your ear as he keeps moving inside you, each thrust punctuated by a rough whisper.

"you're so loud, baby, gonna wake the whole fucking neighborhood."

shane's his free hand squeezes your breast again, possessive touches everywhere while he uses all of his force to overwhelm you.

shane finally pulls his fingers from your mouth, slick with saliva and immediately replaces them by crashing his lips onto yours in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. it’s all teeth and tongue. you can tell he’s pouring every ounce of pent-up emotion into this single moment.

he slides his hand between your thighs and presses the wet fingers on your clit, circling it so perfectly that it makes your knees shake. shane notices how you're losing your balance and firmly holds your hips against him, pushing his dick inside you even deeper.

"shane, I'm gonna-"

when you gasp against his lips, shane takes advantage to bite your bottom lip before growling.

"I know, baby, I can feel you." deep voice dripping with sweetness as he feels your walls fluttering around him. your entire body tenses like a coiled spring - muscles locking as the pleasure peaks suddenly and violently. it starts in your core.

it’s overwhelming - the climax hits you all at once, crashing over you in waves. your back arches even with shane still pressed against you; toes curl into sheets as everything inside clenches around him.

tears spill silently down cheeks because the sensation is too much to process: pure ecstasy mixed with shock at how intense it is after being denied this intimacy for so long.

uncontrollably you start shaking. every thrust from shane still moving inside you now feels amplified tenfold. your moans come out choked and broken - soft whimpers escaping between ragged breaths. tears keep falling silently because the intensity is almost too much to bear.

meanwhile, shane feels all of this: how tight you suddenly are around him, how your walls tighten and he groans low in his throat at the sensation.

shane doesn’t stop even as your body trembles through the aftershocks. he keeps moving, chasing his own release now, driven by how incredible you feel around him during your climax.

his thrusts turn erratic, less controlled and more desperate. every muscle in his body tenses with effort - the pleasure building rapidly inside him from the friction of you still clenching rhythmically.

with a guttural groan ripped from deep in his chest - he buries himself as far as physically possible. it’s intense: hot waves pulsing deep inside you while shane shudders above you. for a second, he freezes completely; breath held, eyes squeezed shut.

aftershocks still ripple through both of you, but slowly the intensity fades. shane carefully pulls out and shifts to lie beside you on the bed, creating a small space between your bodies. heavy breathing filling the room as oxygen is replenished.

he stares at ceiling with one arm behind his head - the other resting loosely on stomach. his chest rises and falls steadily now; heart rate calming back down.

the air feels thick. after a few minutes of quiet breathing, shane slowly turns his head to look at you. the hardness from earlier is gone - replaced by something softer, tired but tender.

without a word, he reaches out and gently pulls you toward him. it’s careful as if asking permission through touch alone. once you’re close enough, his arm wraps around your shoulders and tugs lightly until your head rests against his chest. he presses a soft kiss to top of your hair before resting chin there.

shane’s fingers begin to move - slowly stroking your hair in gentle, repetitive motions. it’s such a small thing, but so familiar the same way he used to comfort you years ago when you couldn’t sleep. his other hand traces lazy circles on your bare shoulder - skin still warm from what just happened.

the room is peaceful now: only sounds of steady breathing and occasional rustle of sheets as shane adjusts slightly to hold you more comfortably against him.

shane finally breaks the silence, his voice is low, softer than before. not quite a whisper but gentle, like he’s afraid to disrupt the calm.

"you okay?"

you nod slightly against his chest, too tired for full words right now. but shane feels the movement and understands. he presses another kiss to your forehead before letting his cheek rest there, his eyes slipping shut for a heartbeat.

“good,” he murmurs. “just wanted to make sure.”

his hand moves in slow circles over your back, absent and comforting, until your breathing evens out again. the tension that had lived in your shoulders for so many years seems to melt away beneath his touch.

you curl a little closer without thinking, your fingers wrapping around his biceps. shane smiles to himself when he feels it, the smallest thing, but enough to make something warm settle deep in his chest.

“there she is,” he says quietly, almost teasing. “been waiting for you to come back to me.”

you don’t answer. your eyes are already heavy, blinking slower and slower until they stay closed. he watches you anyway.

he watches the way your lashes rest against your cheeks, the way your face softens when you’re no longer carrying years of anger and grief, the way you instinctively seek him out even in sleep. he thinks you’re beautiful like this - because you finally look at peace.

you look safe. his thumb brushes over your shoulder.

he remembers every mistake, every cruel word spoken in frustration, every silence that lasted too long because neither of you knew how to cross it. he remembers signing papers he never wanted to sign, convincing himself that distance was easier than admitting how much losing you hurt.

looking down at you now, tucked against him as if you’d always belonged there, he makes himself a promise he doesn’t say aloud. he won’t let pride speak for him when honesty is harder. he won’t walk away because it feels simpler than staying. he won’t make you wonder if you’re loved when he has a hundred ways to tell you.

if he has to spend the rest of his life proving that this time is different, then that’s exactly what he’ll do.

you sigh softly in your sleep, pressing your face closer into his chest, and one of your legs nudges against his beneath the blankets.

“yeah,” he whispers with a tiny smile. “I’ve got you.”

his arms tighten around you just enough for you to feel the security of them without ever disturbing your sleep.

outside, the world keeps moving. somewhere beyond the windows, cars pass and distant voices drift through the night. but inside the room, everything has narrowed to the quiet rhythm of your breathing against his heartbeat. it’s steady and reliable.

you drift fully asleep wrapped in his embrace, the kind of deep, trusting sleep that only comes when you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

shane stays awake a little longer, not because he can’t sleep, but because he can’t stop looking at you. after all the years apart, after all the longing and regret and impossible wishing, you’re here.

and when he finally closes his eyes, still holding you against him, the last thing he thinks is that he’ll spend every tomorrow making sure you never have to question that you’re loved.

[feinv]

benjamin poindexter is a messy eater (p!link)

a/n. it's been more than a year since i wrote anything, so this is kind of an experiment and i'm rusty af. enjoy!!

it should have not surprised you, yet you never thought a man with a raging ocd and always in need to be in control of everything can allow his mind to shut off and get rid of the ability to form a thought.

he is not even aware that he is overstimulating you. his mind is blank, only coming back to his senses (not really) when he feels a slight pain shoot through his skull as you grip his hair tightly and push his head away, whimpering in both pain and pleasure as his drool – a mix of his spit and your juices – drips down from his mouth to your pussy.

but he doesn't stop. not when he stares at you with unfocused eyes. not when he tries to understand why the fuck would you push him away. not when he can't even remember how long he has been in that position.

the only function his body is able to handle is pleasuring you. he dives back in, his mouth sealing itself on your pussy lips like a vacuum as he sucks and twirls his tongue, slurping and practically making out with your clit. his big and strong hands hold your thighs open. you won't get away from him. ever. all you can do is take what he gives as he pushes your body closer to him and continues overstimulating the fuck out of you.

hours have passed since you officially lost the count of orgasms he gave you, and neither your please and pathetic whimpers and nor your glossy eyes will make this man stop the pleasant torture he gives you.

you just taste so sweet, and he is so obsessed ;)

# benjamin poindexter masterlist. | main masterlist.