about me ⋆｡°✩ my name is mari. nineteen. filipino. writer.
fandoms ꩜ .ᐟ starwars, dc, marvel, the boys, jjk, bts, smallville, the bear, tlou, the hunger games, st. denis medical, the office, the paper, b99, yellowjackets, supernatural & yandere tropes
request ⋆˚꩜｡ request are open, might take me some time to do them though so please be patient. if you also js want to chat, send me an ask or a dm :D
love ⋆˚࿔. matcha, valorant, style savvy, reading, writing, makeup, drawing, bts, skz, pierce the veil, sleeping with sirens, paramore, clairo, ethel cain, the 1975, niki, musicals : hamilton, heathers, deh, mean girls
GENRE: Dark Romance, Psychological Horror, Yandere, Romance, Lawyer AU, Monster AU (note: Ticket Taker takes a more human appearance in this)
RATING: 18+ / MATURE / EXPLICIT / Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
WORD COUNT: 14k+ (it a biggie)
CONTENT WARNINGS: obsessive behavior, stalking, manipulation, unhealthy attachment, toxic dynamics, possessiveness, non-consensual themes, female terms/references, sexual harassment in the workplace, rape, kidnapping, physical violence, forced impregnation, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of blood, biting, profanity, power imbalance/workplace abuse, threats/coercion, breeding kink, size difference, monsterfucking, inter-species relationship, cum inflation/bloating (belly distention), implied babytrapping, slight ooc for ticket taker?
a/n: i was inspired by a few fanart where he's particularly dressed in a suit, can you blame me for finding a suited, mysterious man sexy. I'd include it here, but I didn't want to risk issues with artists, especially if I wasn't sure who it was by. also I'm not a lawyer, so I apologize if anything is inaccurate, I did try my best to research!
When the job offer from Cirque Firm landed in your inbox less than a day after your interview, you didn't question it. It didn't matter that the firm was made up mostly of monsters - non-humans. It didn't matter that your parents were terrified for your safety. You were more afraid of overdue rent, shut-off notices, and unpaid loans. As long as your paycheck cleared, you couldn't care less if you'd never be able to see your boss' face fully.
reader discretion is advised
"You're fitting in quite well."
The cigarette is burned halfway down between your lips, dead ash scattering across your black slacks as your head snaps toward the voice you immediately recognize.
His voice is smooth as always - controlled in a way you could never replicate, you'd even say elegant. Always punctual, direct, and utterly intimidating at times.
Immediately, you're met with a half-visible face - a thick shadow cast over pale skin, a shadow so dense it completely conceals his right eye. His left eye remains untouched enough to see the vast grey swirling around his pupil - and the fact that he's watching you so intently. As always, his gray hair is parted uniformly, swept and gelled to one side with a few deliberate strands spilling around the frame of his face.
Distantly, you remember Doc, one of the lawyers who mainly specializes in medical malpractice cases, explaining his species is sort of an enigma - referred to as 'Unknown'. The appearance ranges from human-like to sometimes the face being a complete shadow. Information is limited about them.
He has a slight lean while he stands next to you, yet he towers over you regardless with his abnormal height - you'd guess well over seven feet.
Despite this, he still tries to meet your eyes, something you've always noticed: how he tries to incorporate as much eye contact as inhumanly possible, like he has to remind himself to blink. His arms are loosely intertwined behind his back, the long grey coat he's wearing hanging around his neatly suited form.
Shit, you internally curse. You're quick to shove the burning bud of the cigarette into the built-in standing ashtray next to you before throwing it away.
"Sorry, I didn't think you'd come out here, sir," you apologize immediately, dusting off your slacks from any fallen ash.
You know it stinks like cigarettes - you know you stink of it - and you know that your boss isn't particularly fond of the smell of cigarettes or anything that remotely smells ‘dirty’.
Within your first week working with him, you remember how his face would wrinkle in disgust when the stench of tobacco wafted too close to the courthouse doors.
However, when you glance up, you don't see his expression twisting. All you see is that calm, polite smile peering down at you.
He gives a low hum. "I just wanted to check up on you. I didn't mean for you to waste it."
"It's better if I do - for my health," you sigh, tucking the small box of cigarettes into your purse.
You've always thought about quitting, not that you have the actual motivation to do it. You worked enough dead-end jobs that barely had anything to do with the degree you poured your years and money into. Inevitably, you picked up bad habits from your old coworkers.
If it wasn't alcohol, it was weed. And if it wasn't weed, it was tobacco.
You deemed, now in a professional and legal environment, more people are willing to find you credible if you stink like a cigarette rather than a pothead or alcoholic.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to freak out on you," you break the silence with a soft chuckle, although you can feel the head buzz from the cigarette diminishing. "What was it that you said earlier, sir?"
"That you're fitting in quite well." His posture straightens slightly when a mother and daughter walk by, pushing into the courthouse doors while still keeping their eyes on him. "I believe it's been almost five months now. Doc and I were worried once we hired you that you'd have trouble navigating the firm with its particular demographic."
You nod, understanding where he's coming from.
"I just want to make sure you're adjusting well." There's something careful in his tone, measured - genuinely concerned.
Your hands intertwine in your lap, fingers threading together as you vaguely note how dry they are.
"It's definitely new - everyone there is always so different, it's hard to keep up at times." You offer him a small, honest smile.
"And have they been treating you well?" His question comes out slightly sharper than before. There's an edge there, though his expression remains perfectly neutral save for his eye narrowing slightly on your expression - protective, almost.
"Everyone is nice and treats me well, I swear," you confirm, your voice light, reassuring. "It's just nice to learn and experience new things - new people."
You mean it, too. The firm has been welcoming, if occasionally overwhelming.
"That's good to hear." His eyes momentarily leave your form to nod simple greetings toward other lawyers, some you recognize from past trials, a few faces don't ring a bell. Once they pass, his gaze returns. "I'd hate to be an ignorant boss."
You shake your head practically before he's finished his sentence. "Never," you state so confidently the polite smile on his face falters before returning as something warmer. "I've never been more thankful to have a job like this and to have a boss like you."
His eye crinkles slightly. "I'm happy you're here as well. I'd hate to lose such a capable employee."
Your eyes stray away, something warm blooming under your skin at the compliment. You try not to swell with too much pride.
You opt to look toward the shuffling crowd on the sidewalks.
He seems to follow your gaze as well - you can see his head turn in the corner of your eye.
When you look, the diversity is immediate.
Maybe years ago there would've been just humans - people just like you walking up and down the busy street, walking out of the surrounding stores, walking their dogs, or heading to work.
Now, it's more than humans.
Beings that you couldn't put a name to, even if you tried. Beings with vibrant skin colors, or sometimes having no color with translucent skin. Beings with longer or shorter limbs compared to a human, hands that could completely envelop your head with room to grab more. Some beings with abnormalities jutting out from their heads down to their toes.
You're so used to someone sticking out from a crowd of humans that you'd start questioning if there wasn't any at all.
"Do you miss working with humans?" he asks with hesitancy in his words, his tone cautious.
"I do work with a human," you tease. "That janitor I see once a week if I'm lucky."
He gives a low chuckle. "I'm certain that one human doesn't count as 'working with humans'."
You smile before a sound of uncertainty escapes your lips. "Obviously, this is a new experience - y'know, working with non-humans," you pause, trying to find the right words. "But it's not like it changes anything. I'm content regardless if they look like me or not."
"Many humans, unfortunately, don't share the same sentiment," he counters gently. "We've hired a few humans before who found the lack of the same species unnerving and quit soon after. I can understand if you'd feel that way."
A brief breeze of morning cold curls around your body momentarily, enough to send a small shiver up your spine. You lean back onto the cement bench, the cold rock immediately flooding the little warmth you had on your back through your blouse.
"I just think people act like humans are better than they really are, like they'd waste opportunities because of that," you add. "That they're above anything not human."
He gives a soft hum.
"Sometimes they can be," he responds simply. His tone is understanding, thoughtful despite what arises.
You're not sure how to respond. His words hang in the air and you're unsure what exactly he means. Sometimes he says things you can't personally understand as a human, and you're sure you've said things he wouldn't understand either.
You can feel his eyes on you once more. Something you've also noticed - he'll tend to continue watching even if you're not looking.
It was uncomfortable for the first month or two; it made your heart beat a little harsher and louder against your ribcage, afraid that he might be debating whether the job was a right fit for you.
As time passed, you've learned to welcome it as something comforting - as if he's always listening and processing your words even if they hold no meaning or require no response.
There's a moment of uninterrupted silence between the two of you. The sounds of the morning city life fill it in, whether it's cars abusing their horns, music playing, or the unintelligible conversations of those passing.
Another cold-nipping breeze combs through the both of you. You can hear the trees rustle above you. You try to keep your teeth from visibly chattering. You wonder if you should throw on your coat right now.
Before you can though, you notice a white gloved hand come into view, palm facing upward and stretched toward you. It's a familiar gesture; he always offers his hand coming out of cabs in addition to always holding the door open whether it's a car or a building.
You don't mind now as much as you did before; you'd joke about 'chivalry not being dead' to avoid the awkwardness of it all, attempting to beat him to the doors in order to hold them open for him.
You'd even joke that he's the epitome of a gentleman, to which he graciously denied.
After enough times of him doing it automatically and telling you that it really is fine, you just followed through, swallowing that lump of pride that would rise to your throat. You realized he was doing it because he wants to - not to prove anything.
The corners of his smile soften when you slide your hand into his palm, your purse hanging off your shoulder with your coat in your free hand. You've always distantly noted the size difference between your hand and his.
"Let's get you warmed up again," he says softly, something kind glinting in his gaze before it shifts toward the courthouse doors. "We should go over the details one more time."
A small hum of agreement leaves you as you stand up, pressing some of your weight into his hand when you do. Your heels make a soft clack against the pavement.
You can vaguely feel the warmth from his thumb gently caress the skin on your hand as he holds it.
There were specific things you would try to avoid, especially working with non-humans.
Topics you'd rather avoid - cases you'd rather not speak about.
You watch absentmindedly as the dark brown liquid sputters and kicks before a steady stream begins to pool into your white mug.
You try thinking about other things: your parents and how they're doing, whether you locked your door this morning, or if you switched your load of laundry into the dryer before you left - however, the thoughts are almost minimized, taken over by the face of that younger female who sat in the witness box. Her face was pitiful, her eyes a puffy red as if she'd been sobbing for weeks - which was more than likely.
"How did the case go?" a certain playful voice speaks up in the droning silence of the break room. It makes you flinch a little too hard.
You turn to see the green-eyed, curly haired lawyer that was the most opposite of your boss in every way. The green diamond that runs through his eye always glows too intensely.
You open your mouth to speak - to joke about something and change the topic. However, you're barely able to muster a word before another voice speaks.
"Harlequin," another voice cuts into the silence. A voice sharper, but softer. You remember having to constantly lean in to hear him speak.
Long white hair, lazily tied up in a half-pony with two lines cutting through both of his eyes, a small tear drop at the end on the right.
"Boo," Harlequin whines, his boy-ish nature always makes you smile as if you were watching a child. "Can't I ask how our little human's day was?"
Pierrot exhales a little too harshly. "Again, she has a name - and really - you need to watch your mouth. If he hears you - "
"Yeah, yeah," Harlequin dismisses with a lazy hand wave, shooting Pierrot a smirk which makes Pierrot's frown deepen.
You assume they're talking about your boss. They refer to him as 'T' or 'Mr. T' on paper and in person most times.
The name is so simple yet awkward when it comes out of your mouth. You've always opted for a simple 'sir' or 'boss'. However, they always speak cautiously around him, you've noticed.
You remember when Harlequin said something when he was referring to you a month ago - you didn't know what it was though, no one told you.
Not even your boss.
Pierrot had accidentally mentioned it when you asked why Harlequin was suddenly put on a week's leave. With enough push, you managed to get a brief explanation, yet he did so while his golden eyes glanced nervously around the office, specifically focused on your boss' office.
You're not sure why. Your boss is anything but harmful - sure, his voice raises during court, sometimes his words are sharp and strict, but it's not like he'd beat them up or something.
He's a lawyer - not Batman.
You chalk it up to hierarchy and your boss wanting to maintain a friendly environment, despite what Harlequin really said about you.
You remember when Harlequin came back and his words were hesitant. There was a distant look in his eyes when he spoke to you. It took a week before he started speaking to you normally.
"So?" Harlequin pushes. "I heard it was pretty bad."
The cogs in your head turn more slowly than normal, pictures from the crime scene and her face - her body - overcrowding your thoughts.
"Well," you swallow. "It was definitely a case - I mean I've seen worse - it just - "
"It's different," Pierrot finishes for you, sensing your discomfort. "And I'm sure it's something she'd rather avoid bringing up, Harlequin." He shoots Harlequin a nasty look, devoid of the usual kindness he shows you. The norm for the two; they always had an odd yet tolerable distaste for each other, constantly bickering.
Pierrot motions towards the coffee machine. You take your steaming mug off, moving over to allow him to brew his own cup.
Harlequin's smile lessens by a fraction. "I know, but it's something she'll have to get used to," he states while looking at Pierrot. He glances over to you after. "It happens a lot more than you think. Sometimes it can be the other way around."
"Really?" The words surprise you a little as you take a sip from your mug. "A human kidnapping a non-human?"
Pierrot hums in agreement as the machine sputters. "Yes, not every non-human is bigger than a human by default."
"A lot of humans see us as pets if we're small enough," Harlequin adds. "Although, this case was pretty brutal. I'm surprised Mr. T let you accompany him. Usually he brings Doc to those."
The case was indeed brutal. The defendant was a non-human - the build on him was insane - the only way you can describe it without saying terrifying. Easily reaching eight feet, two extra arms. Everything about him was bulging - muscles that strained against the bright orange prison uniform, as if threatening to rip at the seams.
The defendant had captured a young female he'd been stalking for days. She didn't even realize he was stalking her before it was too late. Months had passed before she managed to escape far enough where police could intervene. You remember the massive swell of her belly, a bump not comparable to a human pregnancy - something disgusting coiled within you when your eyes immediately caught it - the thought that some non-humans were able to do that - and that, biologically, it was possible when physically it shouldn't be.
The defense attorney tried to justify that he was acting out of insanity. Insanity that was emphasized due to the nature of his cycles: phases that some non-humans experience like a menstrual cycle, except it makes them impaired with an insatiable amount of lust and aggression.
You try to force a small smile on your face despite feeling uneasy.
"It's better for me, exposure and all that," you justify. "I just couldn't believe it got that severe."
The coffee machine sputters before ending. A small tune plays to indicate it's finished.
Harlequin leans over the tall granite island, his head being held up by his hand as he watches you.
"Would you date a non-human?" Harlequin's question comes out slowly.
Pierrot's head snaps to him a little too harshly with narrowed eyes.
The question throws you off. Not that you haven't thought about it - you're just not sure if you want to share the answer, as it might be taken the wrong way.
"Harlequin," he warns with a harsh tone.
"What?" Harlequin asks innocently. "It's a genuine question. It's not as big of a stigma as it was before."
"Yes, but it's not something you should be asking her - "
"Asking her what?" A smooth and deep voice interjects.
Both Harlequin and Pierrot perk up before their bodies still a little too robotically, as if caught doing something exceptionally bad.
You look over to see your boss standing at the door. His white collared shirt rolled up neatly slightly below his elbows, his security card attached to a lanyard still around his neck but tucked into his breast pocket.
"Just discussing the case, Mr. T," Harlequin says quickly while straightening his posture. He's already halfway out the door, saying something about a lot of work to do. He's the laziest out of all the lawyers here - you sometimes wonder how he gets anything done.
Pierrot's smile doesn't exactly meet his eyes as he greets your boss with a simple 'good morning, sir', following Harlequin. Although, you notice he glances at you with a look akin to pity before leaving.
Your eyebrows furrow slightly at the expression, watching the two leave the break room with urgency. You glance back at your boss, that swirling grey in his eye always catching your attention first.
"Well," you begin, "they were in a hurry, I guess." You take another sip of your coffee. You ignore the way your boss' left eye momentarily dips down to your mug - or, at least, you think it's the mug he's looking at. "What did you do to them? Whip them or something?" A chuckle follows after, indicating you find that idea ridiculous.
He doesn't say anything as a beat passes. He sighs lightly before that usual polite smile follows. "You'd think that," he responds. "What did Harlequin ask before he left?"
You hum, before waving your hand as if it wasn't anything serious, because it really shouldn't be. "The case - how it was and all. Of course, him always being nosy, he asked whether I'd date a non-human."
The corner of his smile twitches. "I see. I've warned him before. I'll have to talk to him about his rashness."
"No need," you say easily and lean against the counter. "It's a fair question, I guess."
You add the 'I guess' part loosely. The question threw you off, but it wasn't something worthy of a harassment report, not to you at least.
He nods slowly. You hope he doesn't really talk to him - talking to Harlequin after that first warning was miserable. You wanted to avoid talking to him at times because it felt like he was walking on eggshells every time, that or he'd try to speed up the conversation even when it was about work.
"What was your answer?" he asks suddenly, his tone a little too curious. You're expecting him to add 'if it's okay' or 'only if you want to say'. But it never comes.
You take another sip of your coffee, using the few seconds as the coffee floods your taste buds, debating whether to give the honest truth. He is your boss after all, an understanding one though.
"It definitely would depend."
"Depend. How?" You notice his body tenses slightly, but he covers it up by crossing his arms over each other.
"Mostly depends if it can even work physically," you explain. You continue when he nods, but something about his pupil is a little too dilated while staring at you. "I mean a human can only handle so much. My apartment isn't exactly built to house a ten foot person, or if biologically it would be an issue later in the future - like he ages faster or slower than me, or if I wanted kids. It just depends if we can make it work."
"Would you want kids with a non-human?"
You straighten a little against the counter, confused why he's even asking that. You assume it might be due to the plaintiff today.
"I don't really want kids regardless, but I guess if the right person comes along, maybe. Even then though, probably not for a while. I'd hate to lose such a good job," you add the last part with a soft smile. He returns something similar, but not enough for something you can describe as genuine.
He hums a little too loud. He seems to be thinking of something - there's a distant look in his eye as his jaw clenches momentarily.
"How about you?" you ask. "A human partner and all that."
You'd think the question was inappropriate for your boss, at least. However, given the subject and his insistent questions, you assume it's fair to show the same curiosity.
"I have no issue with it, at all," he answers a little too quickly. "I'd like kids, but I'd be willing to wait too, until I couldn't."
You internally question the 'until I couldn't' part. Not expecting it as you consider the man so patient and attentive.
"Really?" you add absentmindedly, feigning a small amount of interest, although you're not particularly looking for a response.
"Yes," he breathes out with a particularly large exhale, an edge to the single word.
You hum in response and turn around, deciding to brew another mug. You pull your favorite flavor pod from the organized tray next to the machine and slide it in the designated spot.
Almost as if the building sensed the growing silence, the AC kicks on, filling the room with a low white noise.
"Whoever it is, I'd like to meet them," you pause as the machine begins to sputter again. "You'll make a good father - they'll be lucky."
You glance over your shoulder to notice his visible eye a little too fixed on your face. You thought you might've seen his eyes dip down from your head to your feet, but it was too fast for you to really find concern.
A smile spreads wide onto his face. You're taken aback by how far it stretches upward.
"Once I have her, I'd consider myself the lucky one."
You note the pronoun 'her'. He must already have someone in mind.
The fact doesn't really shock you - you know well enough that many find him attractive, many stare a little too long at him before you're popping up right next to him like a gnat, handing documents into his hands.
You try not to stand too close when it happens, not wanting to start any rumors. You couldn't even count the amount of clients you've had that talked to him a little too comfortably for it to be professional anymore, even when others were present - like you.
You're not sure why you're not particularly attracted to him - sure, you've caught yourself staring sometimes, he's obvious eye-candy - but not really your type.
You've already concluded the conversation has ended when his phone rings. He excuses himself hesitantly, giving you one last glance as if he was trying to figure something out before his legs are leading him to his office.
Something shifts after that conversation, not enough for you to reasonably bring it up, even if you wish you could.
As always, his stare is piercing. However, it's undeniably noticeable now, even when you're not talking to him. His gaze finds you among the masses.
You're grateful when it's trying to navigate through heavy crowds to reach certain locations. His gloved hands are always reaching for yours, fingers threading through yours more intimately than you'd like before he's pulling you close, weaving through people with ease.
You notice your smoke breaks are constantly interrupted by him. Even when he doesn't speak. You don't mind the silence since he's always been like that, but there are times when his questions are slightly jarring.
'Is smoking really that nice?'
'No, if anything it's bad,' your tone exceptionally playful that day, the buzz after a particular draw from the lit cigarette in your mouth felt too good. 'Don't do it, sir. You're too young to die.'
He was visiting so often during your breaks that you stopped putting it out. If he didn't mind, you'd rather make the most out of the twelve dollars spent.
His laugh follows, it's genuine and doesn't match his usual temperament. He mentions something about him not being that young.
'Do you particularly look for someone who shares the same habit?' He must've realized the question was odd, noticing the puzzled look on your face. He coughs awkwardly before adding: 'If you'd stop if they didn't like it. You shouldn't forget you're young too.'
You think for a minute or two before answering, flicking the ash onto the ground. 'It would be preferred - for me, I guess. Many girls would find it enticing rather than not. However, my lungs would definitely hate me and my partner if it happened.'
He smiles to your response, a peaceful silence filling the space as the only word, 'right', leaves his mouth.
You didn't think much of that conversation, until one day when he sat down next to you, his body brushing against you as he shifted, he was always so warm even when he wore layer upon layer.
You were about to ask him if anything was wrong when he beat you to it. He had asked for a cigarette so casually you almost dropped the one in your mouth when your mouth opened in shock.
'Sir, there is no way you smoke,' your eyes widening as you quickly let out a small 'shit' when you felt your lips lose the grip on the cigarette. You hesitantly hand him one from your nearly empty pack.
'Contrary to how you initially viewed me,' he said as he sparked the cigarette, 'I used to smoke. I had to stop because the smell clung to everything even when washed.'
You immediately noted how his lighter was one of those expensive wick lighters with a flip top, smooth silver shining. A thin fog of smoke left his mouth before he tucked the lighter into his coat's pocket.
You let out a shocked laugh that borders on a scoff, he brightens to it immediately, his body brushing against you again.
'Oh yeah?' you say a little too lightly. 'Are you trying to impress me or something?'
You'd usually have the mind to control the playfulness in your tone, but today it doesn't really bother you.
'That depends,' he says lowly, taking an exceptionally long drag from the cigarette, exhaling the thick smoke without any hint of coughing following, you can visibly see his body relax into the bench. 'Are you impressed?'
'Totally,' the single word dripping with sarcasm, you follow suit and take a shorter drag from your cigarette than he does, 'the girls will be crawling all over you soon. I don't think I'll be able to fight them off now.'
A low hum comes from him, you're reminded how close he is to you when you can feel his voice practically vibrate against your body. You'd say he was leaning into you almost.
'You won't have to worry about that. They'll know.'
Your eyebrow raises, but you don't question it too much. Enjoying the buzz that actually sticks.
Again, the conversation barely registers in your head afterwards.
Work started piling up in the office, you could tell during certain periods where very little of your coworkers came into the office, always having client meetings. You tried not to miss the occasional conversations during work, deciding that it was a good time to focus on getting ahead of your work: agonizing client phone calls, preparing and organizing documents for your boss, researching case materials.
However, you saw your boss more than enough. He was always there, right next to you, which is to be expected as his legal assistant. However, there were scenarios where you're certain you don't need to be present for.
One day he asked you to come with him without saying where specifically - you expected a location regarding a case, maybe a client meeting somewhere, sometimes it was lunch or coffee which was normal you'd guess - yet, you're a little confused when you find yourself walking behind him timidly as he's pushing a cart down an aisle.
An aisle belonging to a grocery store that surely required a membership you couldn't afford.
People stared - as always, either acknowledging an inter-species relationship that didn't exist, or just looking at him entirely. He didn't care at all, asking you questions about specific brands or products, he'd ask about your day even though you've been in the office with him the entire time.
When someone pushed their cart a little too close without you noticing, he always knew before you did. His hand pressed into your back or wrapped around your waist, pushing you closer to his side for the person to bypass without any obstacles.
His hand would linger. When it was around your waist, you'd note his hand would subtly rub up and down along your side. When it was on your back, he'd palm soft circles into it, the pressure deliberate.
It's hard for you to stop your embarrassment causing a sudden rush of heat running along your spine before reaching your ears. The red tint dusting the tips was obvious if they were visible.
You rejected the offer when he told you to throw anything you needed into the cart, casually adding he'll pay for it even when you joked about throwing a three hundred dollar couch into the cart. He returned a look, his soft smile deepening into a frown before the smile appears once more, a simple 'alright' leaving his mouth.
Things piled over each other - touches and stares too obvious for you to dismiss as him just being a gentleman. He was increasingly more comfortable than any of your previous partners.
You think the breaking point was when you entered the break room for another cup of coffee as every morning, only to find your usual flavored pod non-existent among the rest. It's never been that hard to find, but you shrugged it off. You opened the cabinet above you to already see the box of pod refills. The box was well within reach, you did have to stretch your arm slightly to completely grip the box with confidence, but still reachable.
However, another hand beats you to it. A white gloved hand coming into view, grabbing the box with ease, his arm not having to lengthen itself at all.
You didn't even realize someone had entered the room - much less him.
The box lands beside you with a soft thud. You open your mouth to thank him - a polite acknowledgment before you can step away and create distance.
But you can't move.
His entire body presses against you from behind. Not brushing. Not accidentally close. Pressing. The full weight of him pinning you against the counter, chest to your back, hips flush against you. There's no space. No air. No escape.
Your breath catches in your throat - a sharp, panicked inhale that doesn't fill your lungs. The heat that floods your body isn't embarrassment. It's fear. Your hands brace against the granite countertop, knuckles going white as you try to ground yourself, try to think, try to breathe.
You press forward instinctively, stomach digging into the counter's edge hard enough that pain blooms sharp and immediate. It doesn't matter. He follows. His body molds against yours, unyielding, suffocating.
He's not moving away.
He reaches up - slowly, deliberately - and closes the cabinet door. The movement is languid. Controlled. Like he has all the time in the world.
The door clicks shut.
His hand doesn't leave the cabinet. His palm stays pressed flat against the wood, arm extended above you, caging you in. You can see his forearm in your peripheral vision - the white fabric of his sleeve, the tension in the muscle beneath.
Then his other hand moves.
It settles on your lower back. The touch is firm, possessive, his fingers splayed wide. He starts to rub - slow, deliberate circles that travel up your spine, then down, then lower. The fabric of your shirt shifts with each pass, bunching slightly under his palm.
Your body locks up. Every muscle goes rigid. You can't move. Can't think. Can't do anything but feel the weight of him, the heat radiating off his body, the way his hand keeps moving - keeps touching you - like he has every right.
You can feel everything. The hard planes of his chest against your back. The way his breathing has changed - deeper now, more controlled, like he's restraining something. Each exhale is hot against the side of your neck, deliberate and slow. You can feel the tension coiled in his body, the barely-leashed control, the way his fingers press just a fraction harder into your back with each pass.
'Everything okay?'
His voice is right against your ear - so close his breath ghosts across your skin, raising goosebumps that have nothing to do with cold. The tone is casual. Light. Almost amused.
Like this is a game.
Like your fear is entertaining.
Your heart slams against your ribs so hard it hurts. Your pulse roars in your ears. You can't breathe - every inhale is shallow, useless, your chest tight with panic. Your thoughts are screaming at you - move, run, get away - but your body won't obey. You're frozen. Trapped between the counter and him, between the weight of his body and the threat in his touch.
This isn't appropriate.
This is wrong.
You try to steady your voice but it comes out shaking, broken. A weak, robotic laugh that sounds nothing like you, followed by a breath that rattles in your chest.
'All good' you manage, the words tumbling out too fast, too desperate. You don't even recognize your own voice.
You mumble something about needing to get back - an excuse so quiet it's barely audible. He doesn't respond immediately. For a horrible, endless moment, he just stays there. Pressed against you. His hand still moving on your back. His breath still hot on your neck.
Then - finally - he steps back.
The absence of his weight is immediate and dizzying. You stumble forward slightly, catching yourself on the counter. Your legs feel weak. Unsteady.
You don't look at him. You can't. You just move - fast, clumsy, your abandoned coffee mug forgotten on the counter as you escape into the hallway.
When you turn the corner, something makes you glance back through the glass panel beside the break room entrance.
You shouldn't have looked.
He's standing exactly where you left him. Watching you. His head is tilted slightly, that grey swirling pupil fixed on you with predatory focus.
And he's smirking.
Not a polite smile. Not amusement. A cruel, satisfied smirk that makes your stomach drop and your pulse spike all over again. Like he's just proven something.
Like he's enjoying this.
Your eyes snap back to the floor. Your hands are trembling. Your throat is tight.
You walk faster.
That smirk - that look - it follows you. It burrows under your skin and stays there, a cold, creeping dread that makes you want to run and never stop.
It truly terrified you.
Avoiding him was getting harder with each passing day. It was as if he'd take you everywhere now or he was everywhere all at once.
A message or two would occasionally slide onto your phone with a simple ring, sometimes even phone calls - asking what you were doing, where you were, and if he needed you to meet him somewhere.
These days, he doesn't offer a choice. His voice bordered between gentle and demanding.
If he wanted you somewhere, you would be there, next to him with a shaky smile. If you took too long to answer - too hesitant - he'd ask with a sharper tone, 'do you have somewhere to be?', too harsh it made your heart hammer against your ribs as you succumbed with a small 'no'.
If you wanted to protest to anything, the words would feel like lead on your tongue, a painful swallow as you held back. If you purposely created space between you two, a more than normal amount of space, he was quick to fill it. He would lean into you at every opportunity: when you sat at your desk, when you brewed coffee, when you were on your smoke break - you could smell his cologne, feel his breath, his quickening heartbeat.
You tried to ignore it. Your paychecks made it slightly easier, before they didn't.
The job paid well. Exceptionally well.
You've never had your bank account stay in the four digits consistently. You still looked for jobs, updated your resume, conducted interviews. It was as if the universe hated you. Job offers that fell way too short of either the pay or communication, and you had bills to pay.
You told yourself that you could stick it out, just long enough for him to lose interest.
However, you felt as though he got worse by the day.
You dreaded coming into work to the point you began to use the PTO you've been accumulating - an absurd amount that was left untouched for so long.
In the past, even if you had aching sinuses or a brutal cough you'd still show up, and miraculously there would be an assortment of pills and syrupy medicine on your desk. You've always thought it was Pierrot as he'd always be the first to notice the change in your demeanor, but you're not too sure anymore.
You'd force yourself to scream into your pillow for practically thirty minutes with short breaks for air, trying to make your voice sound as raw and hoarse as possible when you'd call your boss. You've tried texting him about not coming in, but an immediate phone call would startle you, his name always at the top.
'Should I bring you medicine?' or 'have you eaten? I'll bring you food' were always so quick to leave his mouth over the phone. His voice was concerned, fabric rustling as if he was already collecting his things to leave, and you'd think he was genuine - he most likely was.
You rejected him, making a lousy excuse that you wanted to just sleep it off, that you'll be fine. You'd end the call swiftly before he could respond.
You didn't want him to know where you live nor enter your apartment - a space that was still safe, untouched, and secluded.
You completely forgot that finding an employee's address was easy when he had access to practically everything.
It was a company party. You had to come. You needed to show face, just enough to avoid anyone questioning your absence.
You planned to leave after twenty minutes, perhaps thirty if you could permit it. You wore something safe, something that'd hide most of your skin without looking like your usual work clothes.
Yet, you'd fail to realize until you left your house how easily the neckline would sag. Just standing you could feel the fabric sliding down low enough to show either your bra's padding, or the beginning line of your cleavage. The only reason it would stop short was due to your chest holding it in place, becoming tight enough where it couldn't slide down anymore. You tried not to make it obvious you were constantly aware of it, pulling it up quickly when certain conversations with your coworkers would persist long enough.
You told yourself you'd leave soon.
But god - you missed not walking on eggshells, always checking if he was near.
You missed the normalcy of everything.
Harlequin and Pierrot bickering like always, Doc sighing a little too loud when they'd try to include him in some mindless argument that would end after they'd finish their drinks. A new one sprouting once another drink was in their hands.
You could feel your resolve slipping too fast when Doc had mentioned after checking his phone that 'Mr. T' most likely wouldn't make it. You couldn't focus on the rest that left his mouth, whether it was weather or work - you couldn't care less about the predicament.
Ringing flooded your senses before it subsided. The sounds of the more-than-practical bar, rented out for the evening, came soon after. People laughed - cheered at times, muffled music from the vast amount of conversations overpowering whatever was playing, the smell of sterilizing products mixed with something citrusy. You welcomed all of it too easily.
You tried not to show the tsunami of relief flooding your body on your face at that moment. Every joint in your body practically loosened at the thought of not having to see him. Thankfully, the alcohol in their system rendered any critical thinking they had as useless.
Drinks found your hands fast - every sip burned a little less, every swallow pushed down that initial gag that threatened to reach your face. It was too easy - way too easy. You thought you were dreaming.
Especially when a certain chirpy boy behind the bar counter slid over a small shot glass filled with a clear liquid. You noticed his awkward smile he shot you before your eyes automatically slid down to the overly zealous silk tie he wore. It was yellow with small bubbles of pink, green, and blue randomly scattered about.
His expression was flustered when he spoke as you eyed the small shot glass leaving his hand. Red that deepened along his face, ears, and neck made you think of the word 'cute' almost immediately.
"A shot of water," he spits out a little too fast. Your eyebrow raises but a lazy, drunken smile pulls at your lips. "I was going to say something funny, but then I realized it wasn't as funny."
You laughed. "Oh yeah? I'm sure I would've found it a little funny."
Your body is completely turned now, your full attention on him as you lean onto the thin bar counter, your head in your hand. You can feel yourself slightly swaying, movements a little too slow, your words occasionally slurring over each other as you both went back and forth.
Some of it being jokes or poorly done pick-up lines, some of it being about him - the same questions would flip onto you, while other times he'd say something mildly suggestive, but he would immediately apologize, explaining that he doesn't usually hit on customers. His hands would reach to rub the nape of his neck when you'd respond with something equally inappropriate, inviting him almost.
You liked it - you liked him.
You liked the way he easily flushed to every word, the way he perked so easily - albeit, a little too eager. You liked the way he'd slide over a drink you requested, decorated with something random every time; at first a sugar rim, a salt rim, then it was a lime, the next one was four limes. You liked that he'd say 'on the house' when he slid over a shot of water between drinks.
Most of all, you liked how he took care of your coworkers' drinks in between, excusing himself while he completely busied himself. He'd come back right after with a nervous 'miss me?' like you'd ostracize him each time.
He was fun. You're not sure when you've felt like this last. Too busy with work and worrying about your boss completely took over your life. The warm fluttering in your stomach had the smile growing on your face.
This was nice, you concluded. Your thoughts beginning to cloud, becoming too fuzzy for you to truly think about the words coming out of your mouth.
When he moved away to help someone, noticing the conversation between the two became longer than you anticipated, your eyes wandered where they could - where they could focus without you straining.
Naturally they floated to Pierrot and Harlequin in the corner of the room, their eyes looking somewhere behind you. You don't follow their gaze fast enough as their eyes flit back to you immediately.
You offer a smile. You're sure you looked drunk.
They don't return it.
You're drunk, but not drunk enough to miss the panic washing over their expressions. As if they're about to run to you, their posture straightens in your direction.
Your face twisted in drunken confusion.
What's wrong with them?
The chirpy boy returns with a playful smile. "Sorry, I could barely understand a word he was saying. He could barely hold himself up," he explains.
Your gaze is hesitant to leave Pierrot and Harlequin's, but it does. Dismissing it as the alcohol playing tricks on you or them.
"Yeah, well I'm getting there - "
Your words are caught in your throat when a hand snakes around your waist - all too familiar, yet the roughness sobers your mind for a second, as if engaging your sudden fight or flight response as adrenaline pumps through you. You're pulled into his side, a little too hard and fast that you collide clumsily against him with an audible gasp leaving your throat. The fingers dig hard through the fabric of your clothes, surely making imprints, like he's trying to leave bruises.
You know who it is.
The smell of weakening cologne clogging your sinuses. You don't look up, your eyes shaky. You think the alcohol in your system is making it worse as your ribs almost ache against your beating heart.
You watch the boy behind the counter - the one who was so willing to speak to you - look slightly above your head and then to you. You watch in horror as his face completely freezes, no longer that cheerful yet bashful smile - instead, fear is evident. He doesn't meet your eyes when he looks away from the man towering over you.
"I'm sorry I couldn't make it on time," his voice is thin, void of any sincerity. "Didn't think you'd come at all."
You don't have to look to know that he's staring down at you. You can feel his eyes dig into every part of your body, scanning you. His chest is heaving. You can hear his heartbeat thumping hard when he seems to pull you closer into him.
Your eyes begin to wander along the floor in an effort to calm yourself. It doesn't work. Your eyes catch how low the neckline of your top has fallen. You're certain he saw the obvious line of cleavage dipping into the visible top of your bra's padding.
You notice the boy behind the bar counter has already left. Although, you're afraid to check where he went.
"Who was that? Hm?" he questions, his voice deep and words punctual, dripping with venom.
You open your mouth, trying to stop the words before they come out.
"I - no one, 'swear." You hate how clumsy the words feel rolling off your tongue.
He hums, but you know he doesn't believe you.
"Is that so?" he begins. "Because it looks like you were having fun talking to him. A lot of fun."
"No," you respond weakly. "'m just getting a drink - "
"Oh yeah? Before or after you fuck him?"
His voice is low, and thankfully, you don't notice any heads turning. Yet, the bluntness of his words makes you flinch against him.
When you don't respond, he continues. You can tell he's speaking through gritted teeth. His body tenses under you with every word.
"I'd think you were trying to get my attention with how obvious you looked. Basically drooling over him. Am I doing something wrong?"
Something inside of you burns, annoyance bubbling up to the surface before you can stop it. You curse the fuzziness growing over any reasonable thoughts.
"We're not together," you mutter slowly, trying to enunciate the words to mask your drunken state.
"What was that, love? I couldn't hear you."
Your confidence is slipping, but you try again. Hoping he'll stop if you say it outright, especially around others.
"'m not - we aren't dating."
A low chuckle vibrates against you, but you don't hear it. You can hear him scoff.
"Fuck," the curse comes out after a sharp inhale. "You're really making this difficult. More than it needs to be."
His gloved hand finds yours with a tight grip. He squeezes it hard and you have to stop the burning tears threatening to fall as he drags you like a ragdoll through the crowded bar. People look, but they don't question it - a mix of disgust and helplessness washes over you. Why won't they question it? Why are they just letting you be dragged? Where is Pierrot or Harlequin?
It doesn't take long before you're outside, the doors swinging closed behind you. The cold air finds any possible skin exposed, nipping at the numbness of your limbs that awkwardly force themselves to move as your boss continues to drag you. You can feel the cold sobering you up. Further and further you follow. You don't see anyone around you as you enter the parking lot. The post lights are uncomfortably dim, too dark, that even looking at his back feels ominous.
"Where are you - where are we going?" you manage to force out with a shaky voice. You can't mask the fear in your voice anymore.
"Home."
Is all he says.
Your vision distorts as the tears fall too easily. You've given up trying to keep it in.
He stops next to the passenger door of a car - a car you've been in a few times before. It's sleek and black, a make and model that you'd never own with your paygrade. The tinted windows you're sure are beyond the legal limit.
The car unlocks with a click once he presses the seamless button on the door handle. He opens the door wide and fast.
You finally look up at his face when he doesn't say anything, as if expecting you to climb in obediently. Your eyes well up with more hot tears that make your face feel sticky, the wet lines from your fallen tears that were previously warm now feel cold.
It's almost as if the shadow cast over his face is darker, as if it was a completely black space. The features you'd be able to make out before are completely hidden - in fact, it was as if it spread further down his face. All that's visible is his eye looking down at you. His expression is devoid of any sympathy, even as more tears fall.
"I don't want to - "
"Get in," he threatens. "While I'm still being nice." He adds a cruel smile at the end.
Your hands shakily find the door, using it to reluctantly hold your weight as you climb in with soft sobs leaving your mouth. The seat is massive compared to any human car you've been in. It makes you feel even smaller against him.
The door swings hard after you're seated, causing both you and the car to jolt. He walks over to the other side swiftly, opening it with fervor before slamming it closed with an even greater amount of force. You wonder in fear how this car can withstand it.
The doors make a clicking sound, locking you in. You fold into yourself, your arms tensing as you hold yourself up from your thighs. You try to control the sniffles that leave you, feeling too helpless when it's completely silent and dark in the car.
He exhales loudly. You look over, your head stiff as it barely turns.
He's already pulling the coat off of him, throwing it somewhere in the back before his hand goes to loosen the black tie secured around his shirt's collar.
An intensifying silence fills the car once more. His hand combs through his hair that's slowly losing the hold from the gel.
You hate the way your eye catches the few veins bulging from his exposed arms, his sleeves rolled up messily as if he did it in a hurry.
He could kill you. He really could. The thought freezes you in place.
"I didn't mean to make you cry," he says exasperatedly. For the first time, you notice, he's refusing to look at you. "You have to understand how seeing you talk to someone like that makes me feel."
"I don't - I didn't know..." you trail off, not sure what you're trying to say because you did know.
"Didn't know that I'd be there? Or didn't know how I felt about you?" His laugh is low and mocking. "Because I'm sure I made it obvious. I did everything I could. I was gentle. I tried to be, and all you would do is run away."
You don't say anything. His words are almost violent as they leave his mouth. The temperature in the car starts to grow hot.
You mutter out a small apology. You're not sure why you're apologizing. None of this is your fault.
"The worst part," he says, his voice growing with frustration, "is that you don't know what you're apologizing for. Do you?"
"N - No," you stammer.
He hums, like the question didn't need to be answered for him to know. His left hand grips the top of the leather covered steering wheel, tight enough that you can hear the leather squeak under his hold despite him wearing gloves.
"I tried to be nice." The car roars to life when his right hand presses the button next to the wheel, the bright LED lights coming to life on his dashboard and down the middle console. Cold air blasts readily into your face. "I think it's best if we talk about this elsewhere."
Your head perks up with glossy eyes, watching him back out of the parking spot. You automatically go to pull your seatbelt on, fearing that he might just kill you in a car crash if he planned to.
"Where?" you ask quickly. Your head begins to spin uncontrollably when he's already leaving the parking lot onto the main street. "I want to go home. Please."
Your begging elicits no reaction from him. His left hand comes to rub at your thigh. You try to push yourself into the door, trying to escape the harsh brush of his hand that occasionally dips a little too low into your inner thigh.
It doesn't make a difference - he's bigger than you in every way, arms much longer that can reach you with ease. The car exceeds a speed you'd never be comfortable with as you pass buildings you can't recognize. All of it is a blur. Jumping out the window would be a death wish at this speed.
"We are going home."
You thought when you were dragged through the high-rise building of occasionally lit apartments, dragged through the luxurious yet empty lobby and into the elevator, and once pushed through his apartment door with the lock clicking behind you - that you'd genuinely have a conversation with him, that you could get through to him.
Your fingers are shakily overlapping each other as he hangs up his coat. You ignore anything in his apartment that catches your eye.
You turn around hoping to initiate the sensitive conversation as a way to ground yourself.
Words don't reach your mouth.
His lips are clashing against yours violently, barely giving you time to register as your mouth parts to let out a strangled sound of shock.
He finds it as an opportunity as something long and slimy, inhuman, slides between your lips. It fills every space in your mouth it can find, lapping hungrily against your teeth, the walls of your mouth, your tongue, even forcing itself down your throat. It makes you gag, your throat constricting around it even as painful whines escape you. He responds with a low groan, animalistic.
His hands are caged around your head, holding you in place as you slowly and blindly walk backwards to escape. He follows after you effortlessly. His lips continue to devour yours with aggression. You can feel something sharp poking against your lips as he pulls away. There's a string of saliva that connects between his tongue and your mouth before it snaps as he stands tall, your lips covered in an absurd amount of saliva.
Your breathing has no rhythm as you try to inhale as much air as you can. You thought you were going to die.
"I'm really tired of waiting," he purrs as he wipes off the saliva around his own lips.
He's pulling off his white gloves that he's worn since you've met him. You immediately notice that the paleness of his skin darkens immediately at the wrist. His hands are nothing but pure black.
"I'd like to be gentle for our first time. Humans are much weaker. They break easier." He throws the gloves behind him without care. "I'd like for you to enjoy it as much as I will. However, my patience is thinning."
"Wait - please - I won't run away," you beg with tearful eyes, voice cracking. "Please, let's just talk first."
"Talk? About what?" His tone is mocking you, a smile playing on his face as his eye narrows onto your shaking form. "God - you're cute, too adorable." He runs a hand through his hair to push the fallen hair out of his face, his eyes never leaving you. "Trembling like I'm going to take a nice, big bite out of you right now."
You can't even form coherent sentences, your eyes wandering around the room for any possible exits - weapons. All you see is the door. It's tall, most likely heavy, but it's doable.
"I - Please don't," you cry.
"Depends," he says, his tone playful yet cruel. Something akin to hunger swims dangerously within his eye. "Will you be good for me tonight?"
You nod feverishly, your eyes flitting back and forth from the front door then to his face. His smile widens. You can make out the sharp canine-like teeth revealing at the ends.
You could make it, you think. Just run straight. Just run. Just run. Just run.
Your legs move before your mind can fully commit to it. You run past him with weak legs that wobble uncontrollably. Briefly, you wonder why you don't hear heavy footsteps behind you, or arms already pulling your body back with enough force that knocks the air out of you.
"Almost there," his voice sings with amusement from behind you. You can feel the smirk on his face from his tone alone.
Your heel catches on the edge of the rug. Your body lurches forward, arms flailing as panic floods your system. You barely catch yourself against the wall, palms slamming flat, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Your legs feel like they're made of water - adrenaline making every movement clumsy and desperate.
You reach for the handle with shaking hands. Relief floods through you as your fingers close around the cold metal. You twist it and pull - the lock clicks, the door swings open an inch, two inches -
It stops.
The door shudders violently in your grip, rattling against something above. You pull harder, throwing your weight back, but it won't budge. It's like the door is caught on something, held in place.
Your eyes dart upward. There - at the very top of the doorframe, far above your head - a security latch. The kind designed for someone seven feet tall. Even on your tiptoes, even jumping, you'd never reach it.
The apartment wasn't built for someone like you.
His hand - that black void in the shape of a hand - reaches past your head with ease. He doesn't rush. His palm presses against the door, pushing it closed with a soft, final click. Then his fingers move to the handle, locking it again with deliberate slowness.
He knew. He's known the entire time. He let you run. He let you hope.
You freeze, your body going rigid against the door.
He's going to kill you.
He gives a low chuckle, his whole body pressing into the back of your tiny form. You can feel something thick and pulsating against your lower back.
"You almost had it."
A strangled sob leaves your mouth as you feel his hand grip your waist harshly.
"Unfortunate though," he leans into your neck, his breath unbearably hot as it hits your skin. You can feel his teeth drag along your neck before his tongue darts out to lap at the same spot. "I really wanted to be gentle for you."
His other hand moves before you can process it - threading through your hair, fingers curling tight against your scalp. His grip is iron. You barely have time to draw breath before he slams your head forward into the door.
The impact is immediate and catastrophic.
Your skull connects with the wood with a sickening crack that reverberates through your teeth, your jaw, down your spine. White-hot pain explodes behind your eyes - blinding, all-consuming. For a split second, you feel everything: your brain rattling inside your skull like something loose and broken, the way your neck snaps forward then back, the metallic taste flooding your mouth.
Then - nothing.
Your body goes slack. Your knees buckle but you don't fall - he's holding you up, his hand still twisted in your hair. Your vision strobes - white, then black, then white again - before the darkness swallows everything. Something warm and wet slides down your forehead, trickling past your temple. Blood. You can smell the copper of it.
He's speaking. His mouth is moving. You can feel the vibration of his voice against your back but the words are garbled, distorted - like you're drowning, like your head is underwater and he's calling from the surface. The sound warps and stretches until it's just white noise.
The last thing you register before consciousness slips away entirely is his arm wrapping around your waist, holding your limp body against him.
Then - nothing.
The first thing you feel is fullness.
Not pain. Not the throbbing in your skull or the dried blood crusted along your hairline.
Fullness.
Something thick and hard stretching you open, buried deep inside your cunt, moving - thrusting - with a rhythm that makes your body rock against soft sheets beneath you.
Your eyes snap open.
The ceiling above you is unfamiliar. Dim lighting. Expensive fixtures. Your head is pounding, vision swimming, and for a horrible, disorienting moment you don't understand what's happening.
Then you feel it again.
The drag of his cock pulling out slowly, the obscene wet sound of your body yielding to him, then the brutal thrust back in that punches the air from your lungs.
Your head jerks down.
He's on top of you.
Inside you.
His massive frame cages you in completely, his body between your spread thighs, his hands wrapped around your arms - pinning them down at your sides, using that grip as leverage to pull your entire body deeper onto his cock with every thrust. He's moving you like you weigh nothing, dragging you into him, forcing you to take more with each brutal snap of his hips.
"No - "
The word comes out broken, barely a whisper. Your throat is raw.
His head snaps up. That grey swirling eye locks onto yours, pupil blown wide with lust. His mouth - that inhuman mouth - is parted, panting, and you can see the sharp teeth, the thick tongue, the way drool glistens on his lower lip.
"You're awake," he breathes, and his voice is wrecked. Ragged and desperate and so fucking pleased. "Thank god - I was worried - fuck - worried I hit you too hard."
He punctuates the words with another deep thrust that makes you cry out. Your body jerks in his grip but there's nowhere to go. He's everywhere. His weight, his heat, the smell of his sweat and cologne and the musk of sex already thick in the air.
"Stop - " You try to pull your arms free but his grip tightens, fingers digging into your biceps hard enough to bruise. "Please - I don't - I don't want this - please stop - "
"I'm sorry," he gasps, and he sounds like he means it even as he doesn't stop, even as his hips snap forward again and again, fucking into you with increasing desperation. "I'm so sorry - I was going to wait - I swear I was going to leave you alone until you woke up - "
His rhythm falters. He drops his forehead against yours, breathing hard, his whole body trembling with restraint that's barely holding.
"But you looked so perfect," he continues, voice cracking. "I just wanted a taste. Just wanted to touch you. And then - god - then I couldn't stop. I tried - I tried -"
He's lying. He's a liar. He planned this. He knocked you unconscious and stripped you and spread your legs and -
Your stomach lurches. You can feel it now - the slickness between your thighs, the way your cunt is drenched, the obscene wet sounds every time he moves. How long has he been fucking you? How long were you unconscious?
"Get off me!" You thrash beneath him, bucking your hips, trying to twist away. "I don't want this - please - "
It does nothing. He's too big, too strong, and the movement only makes him sink deeper, makes you feel every thick inch of his inhuman cock stretching you open.
It doesn't feel human. It's too big, too textured - you can feel ridges along the shaft, feel the way it pulses inside you like it's alive. And the size - god, the size - you look down and you can see it, the obscene bulge in your lower abdomen where he's buried inside you, stretching you impossibly full.
"Shh, shh, it's okay," he murmurs, and he's pressing kisses to your face now - your forehead, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth. Tender and loving and completely at odds with the way he's still fucking you, still using your body. "It's okay, sweetheart. I've got you. I'll take care of you."
"No - please -" You're sobbing now, tears streaming down your temples into your hair. Your head is pounding. Everything hurts. But worse than the pain is the horrible, traitorous heat building low in your belly.
Your body is responding.
You can feel it - the way your cunt is clenching around him, the way slickness is leaking out of you with every thrust, the way your nipples are hard and aching where his chest brushes against them.
"That's it," he groans, and his voice drops into something animalistic, something that barely sounds human. "Fuck, you feel so good. So perfect. I knew you would be. Knew you'd take me so well."
He adjusts his grip on your arms, pulling you harder onto his cock, forcing you to take him deeper. The bulge in your belly becomes more pronounced and you whimper at the sight of it, at the feeling of being so impossibly full.
"It took so long at first," he pants, his voice breaking with pleasure. "So tight. So - shit - so perfect. But you're taking all of me now. It'll get easier with time - I promise."
Time.
The word makes you want to vomit.
He releases one of your arms to slide his hand down your body - over your breast, squeezing roughly, then down to where you're joined. His thumb finds your clit and presses down in tight circles.
The sensation is immediate and overwhelming.
But your body arches into the touch. Your cunt clenches hard around his cock and you hear him make a sound that's barely human - a guttural groan that vibrates through his chest.
"Oh god," he chokes out, his rhythm stuttering. "Don't - fuck - don't do that. Don't clench like that or I'll - "
He doesn't finish the sentence. He just fucks into you harder, faster, his control visibly fracturing. His movements become erratic, desperate. The hand on your clit doesn't stop, keeps rubbing in those devastating circles that make your thighs shake and your breath come in short, panicked gasps.
You don't want this. You don't want this. You don't -
The orgasm hits you hard.
Your body seizes, back arching off the bed, a broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashes through you in waves. Your cunt spasms around his cock, clenching rhythmically, and you can feel every ridge, every pulse of him as your body tries to milk him deeper.
"Yes," he hisses, and he sounds feral. "Yes, fuck, just like that - come on my cock - god you're so beautiful -"
You're sobbing through it, the pleasure mixing with horror and shame and the pounding pain in your skull until you can't tell where one sensation ends and another begins. Your body is betraying you. Your body wants this even as your mind screams.
"I love you," he gasps against your neck, his hips still pistoning into you. "I love you so much. You have no idea - how long I've wanted this - wanted you - "
His face buries into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. You feel his mouth open - his tongue dragging along your pulse point - and then sharp, searing pain as his teeth sink into your flesh.
You scream.
The pain makes everything in your body twitch. His needle-like teeth pierce through skin and muscle, tearing, and you feel the hot gush of blood immediately. It runs down your neck in rivulets, pooling in your collarbone, soaking into the sheets beneath you.
"Stop - please - you're hurting me - "
But he doesn't stop.
You feel his tongue - that thick, inhuman tongue - lapping at the wound. He groans against your skin, the sound vibrating through the bite, and his hips snap forward with renewed violence. He's lost to it now - whatever thin veneer of humanity he'd been clinging to is gone.
Teeth and hunger and violence. He's feeding on you while he fucks you, and the realization makes bile rise in your throat.
"Please - " you sob, but your voice is weak, broken.
He finally pulls his mouth away from your neck, and you see it - the blood smeared across his lips, dripping from his teeth. His grey eye is wild, unfocused. He looks drunk on it.
"I'm sorry," he pants, but he doesn't sound sorry. He sounds wrecked. "I couldn't - I can't - fuck - you taste so - "
His words fracture, dissolving into incoherent gasps as he buries his face back into your neck - not biting this time, but licking, cleaning the blood from your skin with desperate, hungry strokes of his tongue.
"I'll take care of you," he promises, and his voice is so tender, so loving, even as he's rutting into you like an animal. "I'll take such good care of you. You'll never have to worry about anything."
His hand leaves your clit to grip your hip, holding you in place as his thrusts become brutal, punishing. The bed frame is slamming against the wall. Your body is being moved entirely by his strength, pulled up onto his cock over and over while he chases his release.
"I'll take care of you," he repeats, panting. "You and the kids."
Your brain stutters.
The words don't make sense.
"What?" The word comes out strangled, barely audible over the obscene slap of skin on skin.
But he doesn't seem to hear you. He's too far gone, his face buried in your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. You can feel him trembling, feel his cock swelling impossibly thicker inside you.
"What?" you scream, thrashing beneath him with renewed panic. "What did you say?"
His hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your cries. His weight presses you completely into the mattress, pinning you so thoroughly you can barely breathe.
"I made sure it would work," he pants against your ear, his voice ragged and breaking. "Like you said - they might take after me more - but I hope at least one of them looks like you. God, I hope they have your eyes."
No.
No no no no no -
The full horror of what he's saying crashes over you like ice water. Your eyes go wide. You try to scream but his hand is too tight over your mouth, only muffled, desperate sounds escaping.
He's going to come inside you.
You thrash with everything you have, bucking and twisting and trying to throw him off, but it's useless. He's too big, too strong, and your body is still weak and disoriented from the head injury. His cock is still buried deep inside you, still fucking into you with ruthless precision.
"At least three," he groans, and he sounds delirious with pleasure. "I want at least three. Maybe more. We'll see. I'll take such good care of you. I'll make sure you're comfortable, that you have everything you need."
Tears are streaming down your face, soaking into his palm. You're making sounds you don't recognize - sounds of pure terror and desperation.
His gray hair has fallen completely loose around his face - the gel worn away by sweat and exertion, dark strands hanging in his visible eye and framing his features. He doesn't look polished anymore. He doesn't look human. The careful facade he's worn for months has literally fallen apart, and what's left is something feral.
The sight makes your stomach turn.
"You can even k - keep working for a little while," he continues, his voice hitching as his rhythm becomes erratic, strands of hair seem to be clinging to his forehead. "Until the pregnancy makes it too difficult. Then you'll - you'll take maternity leave. Stay home. Let me take care of everything."
His breath hitches, and he adds almost apologetically through the dark curtain of hair falling across his face, "You'll have to quit smoking. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but it's what's best for - for our kids."
He's insane.
He's insane.
This can't be happening. This can't be real.
But you can feel it - the way his cock is pulsing inside you, the way his entire body is tensing, the way his breathing has become ragged gasps against your neck.
"I love you," he chokes out one more time. "I love you - I - I can't hold - god - "
His words dissolve into broken gasps. His rhythm becomes frantic, desperate, completely uncontrolled.
"I'm going to - fuck - I'm so close - you feel so - so fucking good - "
His hips slam forward one final time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and you feel it - the hot pulse of his release flooding into you, filling you.
So much of it.
Too much.
He's coming inside you with an inhuman amount - spurt after spurt after spurt, each pulse accompanied by a guttural groan. You can feel it overflowing, leaking out around his cock even as he stays buried inside, even as more keeps coming. It's obscene, the sheer volume of it, hot and thick and everywhere.
He's breeding you.
The sound he makes is barely human - a guttural groan that vibrates through his entire body. His cock jerks inside you with each pulse, pumping more and more of his seed into your unprotected cunt. It doesn't stop. It keeps coming, flooding you, until you can feel it pooling beneath you, soaking the sheets.
You're screaming behind his hand. Screaming and sobbing and thrashing but he doesn't move, doesn't pull out. He keeps you pinned there, his cock still twitching inside you, making sure every drop stays deep.
"Perfect," he breathes, and he sounds wrecked. Satisfied. "So perfect. You're going to look so beautiful pregnant. I can't wait."
He finally removes his hand from your mouth.
You immediately start begging.
"Please - please no - you can't - please - I don't want this - "
"Shh," he soothes although his breath is barely catching up, pressing gentle kisses to your tear-stained face. "It's done now. It's okay. Everything's going to be okay."
"No," you sob. "No no no - please - "
"You'll be a wonderful mother," he murmurs, and he finally - finally - starts to pull out.
The sensation makes you whimper. You can feel the flood of his release leaking out of you, obscenely warm and wet, so much of it. Your cunt is raw and aching and stretched. It pours out of you in thick rivulets, more than should be possible, staining your thighs and the sheets beneath you.
He looks down between your legs and makes a satisfied sound.
His gaze travels up to your lower belly - still slightly distended from how full he'd made you, from the sheer amount of cum he'd pumped inside. His hand splays across it, pressing down gently, and his expression shifts into something almost reverent. Pride. Possession. Satisfaction.
"Look at that," he says softly, watching as more of his release leaks out of you. "Look how well you took me."
You can't look. You can't do anything but cry.
But then - his entire demeanor shifts.
The feral desperation melts away. His touch becomes gentle, careful. He shifts beside you, pulling your limp body against his chest, cradling you like something precious and fragile.
He mutters a small 'hold on' into your neck, pressing light and sporadic kisses along your neck. He stands after, moving to the edge of the bed. You watch through blurred vision as he pulls on a pair of dark boxers.
His chest is bare, pale skin stretched over defined muscle, his frame still impossibly large and predatory even in this moment of false tenderness. The sight of him moving so casually, so comfortably, makes your stomach turn.
"Come on, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice soft and tender - a voice so familiar it hurts. "Let's get you cleaned up."
He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you toward what must be a bathroom. You're too weak to resist, too broken to fight. Your body is limp in his arms.
He sets you down carefully on the edge of a massive bathtub and turns on the water, testing the temperature with his hand. Steam rises. He's meticulous - making sure it's not too hot, adding something that smells like lavender.
He leaves the bathroom without a word, you barely register his absence as you're body starts to shake, your legs uncontrollable with a tremor.
The size of the bathroom alone rivaled your own apartment. You can barely form any escape plan before he's back with a colorful set of towels neatly folded in his hands.
"I shouldn't have hit you so hard," he says quietly, almost to himself, as he adjusts the water flow. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'll have to control that temper of mine. I hope you can forgive me later on."
The words 'I hate you' sat at the tip of your tongue like a loaded gun. But you painfully remember the sheer strength - the blunt force from only his hand.
"There we go," he says gently, lowering you into the water. "Nice and warm. This will help."
He washes you with a tenderness that makes your skin crawl. His massive hands are careful, almost reverent, as he cleans the blood from your hairline, the dried tears from your face, the evidence of what he's done from between your thighs. He's humming softly - something you don't recognize.
He carefully wipes the blood from your neck - from the bite wound he inflicted - with a warm cloth. The touch stings but he's gentle, almost apologetic in his movements.
His gaze drifts downward, and he carefully positions you - standing in the shallow water, your legs slightly parted, angled so he has a clear view between your thighs.
You follow his gaze and feel your stomach turn. Thick, obscene amounts of his cum are still leaking from you, thick globs of solid to translucent white drip and hit the bath water. It's grotesque, and you feel bile rise in your throat.
But he's watching it. His expression is almost rapturous, satisfied, like he's admiring his work. Something swirls in his eye, his body tensing as if he was mulling over something.
"I'd rather it stay inside you," he says softly, he looks up at you with an even softer smile, his voice carrying that possessive edge. "But I don't want you sleeping in too much discomfort, sweetheart."
His hand gently combs through your wet hair, starting from the end of your hairline. Fingers light on your head but mindful as he finally feels a slight bump, it's hot and pulsating under his fingers. You wince, a low 'sorry' leaving his mouth immediately.
He reaches for a fresh cloth, and carefully - so carefully - he wipes the excess away, meticulous to the point of even parting your folds. You flinch automatically when he does, you swore his smile twitched slightly. His touch was almost worshipful as he cleans you.
You stare at his hands as they move across your skin. They're completely black - not gray, not pale, but an absolute void of color. The contrast against your own skin is stark and sickening. You watch them cup water, watch them glide across your arms, your shoulders.
The word 'monster' clouds your brain.
"I'm sorry for being so unruly," he murmurs, his voice low and sincere. "I didn't mean to lose control like that. I'll make it up to you."
"You did so well," he continues, pressing a long kiss to your temple. "I'm so proud of you. The water's not too hot, is it?"
You don't answer. You can't.
The whiplash is sickening.
He lifts you out of the tub after what feels like an eternity, wrapping you in a towel that's far too large. He dries you carefully, methodically, then carries you back to the bedroom. The sheets were pulled off, you're not sure when he had the time to. He briefly mutters under his breath that he'll put on a spare set after. He sets you down on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you to dry your legs.
And that's when it breaks.
Everything inside you shatters.
You start sobbing - not the quiet, defeated crying from before, but something raw and childlike. Uncontrollable. Your chest heaves, snot runs from your nose, and you can't catch your breath between gasps.
"How - how could you," you choke out, your voice breaking. "How could you - "
He looks up at you, his expression shifting to concern.
"You're a lawyer," you sob, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "You can't - you can't do this. You've seen what - " You're gasping, trying to form the words. "That girl - that case - the one who was - who got - "
You're trying to say it. Trying to make him understand that he knows. He saw what that monster did to her. He saw her testimony, her trauma, the pregnancy.
He moves fast.
His hand cups the back of your head and he pulls you into a kiss - forceful but restrained, his mouth covering yours and silencing your words. You note the slimy muscle occasionally licking against your lips.
His other hand wanders to your waist, pulling you closer despite you being pressed against him already. His fingers trail down your hip, his palm spreading across your thigh, and you can feel the tension coiling through his entire frame. His muscles tense beneath his skin like he's holding back something primal, something that wants to take and take and take.
You whine against his lips, a sound of pure fear and frustration, and the sound almost undoes him. You feel him shudder - a full-body tremor - before he literally forces himself to pull away, his jaw clenching so hard you hear his teeth grind. He tears his mouth from yours like it takes physical effort, his breathing ragged.
His grey eye searches your face.
"Oh, that?" he says softly, almost amused. "I know it scared you. I could see it. I do apologize, sweetheart. But you clung to me that whole time - I wanted you to see what could’ve happened.”
Your blood runs cold. Yet, he continues to dry you, his hands coming back up to your face to wipe your tears.
"I know it's horrible for me to say, but I wanted that to be you," he continues, his voice dropping to something darker, more intimate. "So badly. It took everything in me not to snap when we drove back to the firm. Watching you react to her... I couldn't stop thinking about it. About how you'd look just like her."
Your tears have long since stopped, your eyes burning with the strain. They just stare at him in complete horror, unwavering, unblinking.
"Everything is going to be fine, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice soft and tender - the voice of your boss you found all too familiar, the man who'd been so patient and kind.
i apologize for my absence, the night shifts are killing me!!! i hope you all enjoyed it! i'll try to write more fluffier stuff after this, no more scary guys (i am lying) <3
dex is a freak. a freak in the way that he truly wants to see touch and taste every single part of you, disregarding whether or not you think its "gross".
he steals your used panties to jerk off. he wraps the frilly fabric around his cock and pumps until his skin is red and raw, and sniffs the gusset of the panties, right where your puffy pussy lips sit. he sniffs and lets himself get dizzy from the lack of oxygen.
he would (and does) lick and kiss the sweat off of your skin when you come home from the gym, pawing at your tits through your workout set and not taking a second to listen to your whining about how disgusting he is. "m'sorry- you taste so good" he muffles words against the crook of your neck, lapping the grime off of you like a dog. he gets unreasonably hard when you walk through the door smelling like that, it's like a moth to a flame.
he asks you to spit in his mouth when you're riding him, desperately wanting to feel your saliva mix with his. it makes him feel connected to you. he eagerly swallows down the warm liquid, then silently asks for more by opening his mouth wide once again and sticking his tongue out. you can never say no when he's looking at you like a kicked puppy, and when he fucks you that good.
he insists on having sex whilst you're on your period. he is obsessed with how much warmer and wetter it makes you, the sight of his shaft being covered in a mix of your slick and blood makes him cum much quicker than usual. same goes for eating you out, he's humping the bed desperately when he laps at your folds, the overwhelming taste of iron is intoxicating for him, makes him all the more eager to please you. he read that orgasms help with cramps, "i swear, baby! it's a fact!", he tells you he's only trying to make you feel better! uh huh.
he truly does not care when you groan and weakly push him off of you. he just loves you so much, he doesn't want to have any boundaries.
so um, virgin!dex who moans in sync and just as loud as you when he's using his fingers inside you for the first time, trembling because he can't even believe he gets to touch you like this, eyes zeroed in on your face as it turns in almost horrified awe at his dexterity (🤭) like. literally. once his digits are moving in and out your hips instinctively buck up at their relentless precision, you make a startled and heated "oh god?- baby!" and dex responds in turn with an equally wrecked "f-fuck!", the fact that you're moaning at his touch overwhelms him too much, he's gasping into your mouth and echoing every obscene sound he rips out of you, the cacophony of it all is probably enough for the neighbors to complain about too
Dex was unfamiliar with the concept of physical touch and romance until he begins dating a seamstress that has rendered him desperately hungry for more, and he begins to understand why most people found dating enjoyable.
CW: SMUT, Fluff, implied that he's older, readers features are never stated, no use of Y/N, inexperienced Dex but it's not stated, he's a freak. HE'S FILTHYYYY!!!!
Word Count: 7k
AN: I don't have a dad so that probably explains why I like Dex so much... Dex having no play is cannon here.
To Dex, the physical topography of another human being had always been a calculus of vulnerability. His mind was a machine, capable of mapping the dimensions of an enclosed space within milliseconds and identifying the precise trajectory required to sever an artery. He understood the mechanics of the anatomy; he knew exactly how much pressure it took to snap a collarbone or drop a grown man to his knees. But touch and affection? Affection was a foreign, deeply distressing dialect. It was a sensory input that rendered his internal programming entirely mute. He knew every ligament in the body, where to assault to cause torment but God forbid he uses his hands for softness.
There was a profound, quiet irony in a man of his age and lethal competence being so utterly paralyzed by the simple proximity of soft skin. Hell, he almost pitied himself for it. For decades, the concept of a romantic relationship hadn’t been relegated in his mind. It had been buried beneath layers of institutional survival, psychological trauma, and the crushing weight of an existence spent entirely on the defensive. Dex was not a lover and he had never been, affection and care was unnatural to him.
He could still recall the sharp, sterile scent of the office belonging to his first therapist, the singular human anchor he had at the fragile age of sixteen. He had cared for her, though his developing mind lacked the emotional framework to define what care actually meant. To Dex, care was synonymous with structure. It was the methodical way she re-aligned his straying thoughts, the unnatural patience she extended far beyond the boundaries of her hourly compensation. That was the closest Dex ever got to care. And when death claimed her, his internal architecture had shattered into something feral and defensive. Standing beside her hospital bed, looking down at her failing form, he had chosen to weaponize his grief, hissing that he hated her. He didn’t hate her for who she was, but for the betrayal of leaving him entirely alone in a world without parameters. After that care became just another word without meaning to him.
Then came Julie.
Julie had been an exercise in aesthetic symmetry. She was safe, correct, and perfectly aligned with the script he desperately tried to perform. Dex had cared for her in the same detached, appreciative manner you might have for a beautiful painting in a museum. Admired from a calculated, safe distance, entirely devoid of genuine visceral heat or want. He never wanted Julie, despite how it might have looked, Dex wanted to be her. How easily life came to her was just so fascinating to a man like him. He remembered the exact moment she had offered him a farewell hug at the Suicide Hotline Center, just before he transitioned into the stark world of the Bureau.
The physical contact had been an absolute shock to his nervous system. And he remembers it even now years later. First came the ice, a sudden, freezing sensation that trickled down his spine the precise millisecond her palms pressed against his biceps, his body mistaking the gesture for an ambush. His muscles had coiled instantly like overwound springs, his vertebrae stiffening in a violent protest against the proximity. But then, right before he could pull away, the ice had thawed into an invasive, confusing warmth. Before his mind could categorize or fixate on the sensation, she had already retreated, leaving him standing in the corridor, thoroughly deregulated by a three-second interaction.
That brief, fleeting embrace had been the absolute zenith of his experience with physical intimacy. Dex didn't do hugs, or anything else for that matter… His subsequent, half-hearted attempts at dating in his early twenties had been a disastrous blur, locked away like radioactive material in the darker corridors of his subconscious. The entire experience had felt extremely uncomfortable, unfulfilling, and complicated in ways that insulted his intelligence.
The sheer volume of unwritten variables was maddening. He had to speak enough to demonstrate engagement, but not so much to appear self-absorbed. Connection required vulnerability, but a fraction too much was classified as forward or desperate. He couldn't request another date too quickly or too frequently without crossing into the territory of predatory. Touch was a minefield; it was deemed acceptable only if initiated by the woman, yet society dictated that a man should assert dominance and assume leadership. Hold her hand, the script said, but don't apply too much pressure to suggest control. Open the door for her, but don't infantilize her or imply incompetence.
By his third official date, Dex had quietly withdrawn from the field entirely. The sheer unpredictability of the social ritual was entirely too volatile for his psychology to parse. He vividly recalled sitting across a woman in a dimly lit restaurant, completely incapable of processing a single syllable falling from her lips because his entire focus had been hijacked by a fork. Her elbow had accidentally nudged the cutlery, leaving it misaligned by less than half an inch from the knife. The asymmetry had screamed in his mind like a siren, drowning out her voice, preventing him from formulating the carefully curated, charming responses necessary to foster romantic banter. He had stared at the silver, suffocated by the lack of order, and realized he was entirely unfit for the performance.
So, he surrendered the idea. He locked his focus onto the FBI, dedicating his life to a rigid, bureaucratic institution that allowed him to believe he was doing good for society while keeping his demons safely behind bars. Years had dissolved into the background of that singular pursuit, and the concept of dating became an obsolete idea of a past life.
Even more now that his world had been violently upended; he had broken out of the prisons meant to contain him, shed the skin of a government puppet, and stripped away the illusions of the system. He was older now, his features hardened by violence, but he was entirely free from the invisible snares that had once dictated his value. Standing in his late thirties, Dex felt a strange sense of selfhood that had completely eluded him in his twenties.
His daily routine remained his mandatory sanctuary, waking up exactly the same hour, executing a flawless military tuck on his bedsheets, consuming a balanced breakfast before physical regimen, and then work. But the internal shift was tectonic. He no longer walked through the streets of New York like a fraudulent actor trying to mimic human behavior and integrate himself into civilization. He knew the truth now: there was no grand order to life. There was only the winding, bloody path he had been carved out to walk. He no longer craved the external validation of a badge or a supervisor’s praise to consider himself a whole entity. He was fucking Bullseye.
And the concept of a "North Star", the desperate need for a perfect, external moral anchor to keep him sane, had been forcibly buried deep within a vault next to his most violent, unpacked trauma. Though sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, a phantom tension would ripple through his chest, an instinctual tug toward the comfort of connection, but he would quickly dismiss it as mere human biology. He didn't need a North Star. His life was already perfectly illuminated by his own design. Or so he continuously told himself.
Until he walked into your boutique.
The shop was situated a short distance down the asphalt stretch of Hell’s Kitchen, a stark, hyper-feminine building in an otherwise gritty neighborhood. The interior was an absolute assault of pastel pinks, a visual sensory overload that normally would have triggered his defense mechanisms, but the hand-painted sign outside promised custom tailoring services. And Dex needed his belongings fixed the moment he noticed imperfections.
He carried two specific items across the threshold that afternoon. His utilitarian jacket that had suffered a tear against a rusty fire escape during the previous night's "hero work," and a pair of heavy tactical gloves that needed the seams to be adjusted for a better grip.
You'd been seated behind the polished wooden counter, a needle held between your hand, your hair slightly disheveled as you worked. When you looked up and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in your doorway, your face had broken into a smile so massive, so genuinely warm, that Dex had felt an involuntary, almost evolutionary impulse to mimic the expression. He stood perfectly rigid as your small, incredibly nimble hands took the damaged fabric from his grip, your fingers tracing the torn nylon of the jacket with a professional, practiced ease.
When you looked up and informed him that the repairs would only take sixty minutes, his sharp brows had risen in mild intrigue at your efficiency.
"I work fast," you had offered, your voice bright and entirely unbothered by his silent, imposing intensity.
Dex returned to the shop precisely the sixty-minute mark, not a second early, not a second late. You were already waiting for him at the counter, the jacket neatly pressed and the jagged tear now entirely imperceptible, executed with a level of craftsmanship that deeply satisfied his need for perfection. Then he slid his large hands into the resized tactical gloves, flexing his fingers to test the tension of the thread.
Whether you had recognized the subtle Bullseye emblem stamped into the leather, you made no verbal indication. Instead, you merely bit your lower lip, your gaze tracking the movement of his hands before you boldly, without an ounce of hesitation, reached out and gripped his gloved hand. Your fingers guide his, pointing down to the specific cross-stitch where you had loosened the seams to accommodate his knuckles.
The ice returned instantly. It danced down the length of his spine, a freezing jolt that made his chest tighten. But as your warm skin remained pressed against the heavy material of his glove, the sensation mutated into something remarkably pleasant. Dex let out an involuntary exhale from your touch as your index finger trailed a slow, deliberate line down the length of his hand. Was this flirting? No, this was her job….
"If you need it bigger I can make that possible," you offered softly, your eyes lifting to lock onto his with a quiet, grounded confidence. And Dex paused, taking in the intimacy of your closeness. Okay…. Yeah, this was flirting. He deduced at its baseline before he found himself engaging.
Dex couldn't understand the sequence of events that followed, birthed from that moment alone. His memory, usually so linear and mathematical, became a blur of transitions. And normally the haze would eat away at him till he lost his mind, if it weren't for the fact that the stages that followed were extremely enjoyable. All he knew was that the rigid wall of his isolation had suddenly breached, and he was taking you on a first date. Then a second. A third. A fourth. The unwritten variables that had paralyzed him in his youth seemed to dissolve in your presence; you didn't demand a script, and your effortless need to keep talking filled the awkward silences he usually created. Dex was thankful for it. He was thankful for all of you.
By the time the fifth date happened, you were both standing inside the threshold of your private home. And Dex was fucking ecstatic. The realizations hit him in waves during his nightly routines: life was simply greater, sharper, and infinitely better with your existence woven into it. Within the calculated grid of his mind, he had rapidly come to view you as an essential, non-negotiable component of his daily structure. A connection he needed desperately to maintain that he was fully prepared to execute any measure necessary to ensure you stayed. You were kind, sweet, and giving in a way that defied his understanding of human nature. How were you so willing to offer the world everything you had without demanding anything in return?
Because he couldn't comprehend it, he studied you. He watched you with a hyper-attentive, microscopic focus that would have terrified a normal civilian, tracking the micro-expressions of your face, the cadence of your breaths, and the specific pitch of your laughter. And you let him. To you, that intense, unblinking gaze didn't feel like surveillance; it made you feel entirely seen and warm.
Dex had learned you. He played every single card in his hand with absolute precision to ensure he kept your favor, but you made the act remarkably easy. He found himself wanting to give the world to you, a new directive that lingered constantly. While on missions, he's doing this to make the city better for you. He had to come home safe because you'd be so devastated if anything happened to him. You needed him in your life so he had to make sure no wounds took over his body. These thoughts progressed over time, though they were already brewing the minute he stepped out of your boutique. Dex brought you a perfectly curated bouquet of flowers on your very first date, quickly logging the fact that you flourished when things were done for you. From that moment on, his chivalry became non-negotiable. He opened doors before your hand could even approach the handle; he pulled out chairs to the exact angle required for your comfort; he even leaned across the console of his vehicle to buckle your seatbelt for you, his large frame momentarily shielding you from the world. A thought that appears constantly in his mind at night.
And now, those correctly executed actions had granted him entry into your sanctuary.
Walking through the door of your brownstone, his analytical eyes immediately deduced that you and your work were a singular entity. The space was less a traditional home and more an active studio. A heavy, vintage treadle sewing machine sat prominently in the center of the room, positioned directly in front of the television, while two antique, velvet-upholstered couches framed it on either side. Dex made a silent, permanent mental note of that specific layout: the tool of your labor received absolute priority over comfort.
As he looked around Dex noticed your affinity for older things immediately, your eyes lingering on aged, well-maintained pieces of history. A part of him wondered if that was why you liked him so much and despite himself, the thought amused him. His gaze drifted to the expansive dining room, noting how every single high-backed chair had been pushed flush against the perimeter of the walls, completely away from the central table to maximize workspace. A deep, quiet part of his psychology deeply admired the dedication. He understood the obsession with craft, the way you spoke about fabrics and patterns with radiant love. He was identical to you in that regard, though he remained hyper-vigilant about never revealing the bloodier details of his own craft to you.
Dex paced silently behind you, his broad shoulders squared as his eyes continuously darted around the rooms, absorbing the atmosphere of your home while you led him toward the kitchen by the hand. His frame was tense, his muscles vibrating with a low-grade current of electricity. He still wasn't accustomed to the physical touching. He liked it, he liked it with a terrifying intensity that scared him, but his brain lacked the programming required to properly receive it.
And bless your heart, you were so unbelievably touchy.
You were a creature of constant physical contact. There was always a soft arm looping around his rigid bicep, a gentle palm resting against his. A constant, natural inclination to latch onto his massive frame and cling to him as if he were the only solid object in a moving world. He reciprocated in the only ways he knew how, squeezing your hand back with a carefully measured amount of pressure, standing perfectly still to accept your weight. But Dex still hadn't learned how to articulate or manifest his own physical desires. He didn't know how to be the one to close the distance. He didn't know how to reach out his large, scarred hands, wrap them around your waist, and pull you against his chest without an explicit invitation. The script hadn't given him those lines yet.
So instead, he simply allowed himself to be a passive monument of muscle and bone, letting you pull him toward the kitchen island for wine and cheese after your date. The night got more enjoyable, but then again, every moment was enjoyable with you. But this is even more so. You trusted him enough to let him into your space, liked him so much that you paid attention whenever his glass was empty.
"I have a secret," you admitted suddenly, your face flushing a deep, radiant pink after you drained the remainder of your second glass.
Dex raised a single, sharp brow, holding his own glass perfectly steady as he waited for the disclosure. He ignored the sudden, rhythmic thumping of his own blood pumping violently in his ears. He couldn't quite determine if the sudden spike in his heart rate was the result of the alcohol or a sudden surge of anxiety. Given his high tolerance, it was likely the latter.
"I hate wine," you hiccuped, a small, breathless sound. You didn't feel that inebriated but Dex had a skill for making you feel drunk.
Dex’s cold eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise. Without a word, his large hand reached out and gently but firmly took the crystal glass directly from your fingers, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest as the absurdity of the situation caused a bright laugh to break from your lips.
"Why didn't you say anything," he asked, his gravelly voice dropping an octave as he placed the glass down on the exact center of a stone coaster.
"Because it was a nice gift and also because I wanted to be with you longer," you reasoned smoothly.
You stepped away from the counter, your short frame moving into his immediate personal space. Slipping effortlessly between his extended legs as he sat perched on the high barstool, your body completely filling the void between his knees. Before he could process the proximity, your arms looped entirely around his broad shoulders, your hands resting against the nape of his neck.
Dex sat up just a fraction straighter, his entire spine locking into a protective line. A hesitant, unpracticed hand rose from his side, his large palm resting against the fabric of your dress to support your lower back, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin.
"I like having you around..." you admitted softly, your voice heavily laced with an intoxicated, sleepy haze as you looked up at him.
"I like being around," Dex nodded, his gaze boring into yours with an unblinking, absolute intensity.
It was the most fundamental truth his mouth had ever uttered. He liked being around you so much that the mere concept of physical separation had become an agonizing friction in his daily life. There were moments during his long, solitary hours on a rooftop or following a lethal assignment where the craving to see you grew so violent, so overwhelming, that he had seriously contemplated abandoning his operation just to stand outside your window. But the rational, highly defensive side of his mind, the piece of him that vividly remembered the trembling panic in Julie's face, always managed to reassert control. He wouldn't risk breaking what you two had.
"Will you be around forever?" you asked, your voice dropping into a soft, vulnerable register that sounded almost like a plea.
Dex felt a sudden, blinding flash behind his eyes, a sensation so sharp and radiant it felt as though stars had detonated within his skull. A terrifying wave of duty and existential purpose crashed through his mind, rewriting his internal directives in an instant. This was his calling. This was his permanent assignment.
"I'll be here forever," he nodded, his voice carrying the heavy, unyielding finality of a death warrant.
He barely had a single microsecond to process the violent rush of devotion flooding his veins before you leaned in, and your soft lips met his.
Dex froze.
He froze in a way he had never experienced in the heat of lethal gunfire. He hesitated with a sudden, paralyzing vulnerability that his mind was completely unequipped to handle. Bullseye did not hesitate; Bullseye was a creature of pure, instantaneous reaction. But Dex, Dex was entirely lost here in the quiet of your kitchen, his lips pressed flat against yours, his breath catching in the back of his throat as the delicate warmth of your mouth completely shattered his being.
His mind scrambled for data, for a past memory or a set of instructions to tell him what to do with his hands, how to move with you, how to breathe. The sheer sensation of your mouth against his was too vast, too unaligned with any grid he had ever mapped. He wanted to deepen the pressure, wanted to sink his fingers into your hips and drag you so close that the space between you ceased to exist, but the terrifying lack of instructions kept his body entirely locked in stone. He was a starving man paralyzed by the sudden appearance of a feast, terrified that a single incorrect movement would cause the illusion to vanish.
It was only a brief, agonizing second of contact. It was over far too quickly for his liking before you were gently pulling back, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks.
"You never got much love huh?" you hummed out, your voice dipping into a sad, incredibly tender melody.
Your small hands didn't retreat; instead, they began to preen over his tense shoulders, your fingers sliding upward until your nails began to slowly, methodically comb through the short hairs at the base of his scalp.
An involuntary, deeply guttural groan tore itself from the very bottom of Dex’s throat, the sound surprising even himself. His eyes rolled back, his lids fluttering shut as a wave of intense pleasure rippled through his nervous system. He liked that. He liked that with a feral, addictive desperation. Whatever you were doing with your hands, it was dismantling the static in his brain.
"No," he admitted, his voice a broken, raspy whisper in the quiet room, his head naturally sinking into the guiding pressure of your palms as you continued to adore him.
Your lips moved forward again, finding the hard, unyielding line of his cheekbone. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly over the jagged scar near his cheek, the exact spot you always claimed when you were saying goodbye, and Dex felt his entire body shudder under the impact. Then, your kisses migrated downward, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw before your mouth found the sensitive, hot skin of his neck.
Dex’s hands lost their hesitation, his fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your dress as he decided, with absolute certainty, that he liked this even more.
"Don't worry. I'll fix it," you murmured against his skin, your breath hot and reassuring even in your heavily tipsy state.
“Pretty girl like you gonna fix a man like me,” Dex mused out, exhaling in amusement as he welcomed your kisses by granting you more of his neck. You hummed in delight and he noted that was the correct response.
“I'd do everything for you, Dex,” you admitted into his neck and that seemed to do it. Every rigid order he told himself to act like a gentleman broke as he pulled you into his chest, turning his face as if begging for you to grant him another kiss.
And you do.
This time he reciprocated the contact eagerly, fuck it, thoughts can be damned, Dex let his body lead now. His kisses were harsh and demanding, desperate in its undercurrent but you enjoyed it. You tasted faintly like wine and something minty and he finds himself deepening the kiss. His large calloused hand found the thin straps of your bias-cut dress, hastily pushing it down the slope of your shoulder before he froze. He was being too forward, too much, too–
Before he could spiral, you whined into his mouth at the lack of movement. A harmonious plea that he's never had the privilege of hearing before. And Dex's eyes fluttered, that sound went straight to his straining cock evoking a groan against your skin. Emboldened hands pushing the dress down only to pull back momentarily, breaking the kiss despite not wanting to. He'd rather shoot himself than stop kissing you, but he needed to know that what he was doing was okay. And by the blissful state of your eyes, you were more than okay with this, with him. And so he allowed his gaze to wander, darting down to the exposed skin of your soft breast.
His gaze locked onto your hardened nipple before his hand slowly moved, not giving himself time to overthink. His thumb grazed the sensitive peak in experimentation, irises watching as your chest stuttered, his gaze darting up to meet yours in calculation on how to proceed. You were waiting for him, letting him take the lead and explore, and God did he want to map out every shape of you. He wanted to know what made you arch and squirm, what made you sing his name in praise. But Dex was a man rendered stupid in the unfamiliar vastness of your body, so hands stayed motionless as they had done nothing but take and punish all his life. He'd do it slow, he decided, after all, his hands were not meant for this. For worship and caress.
But his mouth would be.
Not breaking eye contact with you, his lips found home on your skin, latching onto your nipple. Humming as you arched your back, your pliant body gravitating into him. You liked that, he learned, so he did it harder. Teeth grazing the sensitive peak before sucking it into his mouth hard.
His free hand wanders to your other breast, thumb circling the clothed nipple there while he devotes himself to the first with his tongue. It’s messy, uncoordinated, Dex isn’t a gentle lover, he learned as the need progresses. His brave hand slips under your dress, pushing fabric up further to expose more of your body as his kisses migrated down your sternum.
“D-Dex.”
The breathy sound made him freeze and he recoiled immediately as if burned. He waits for the storm only for you to eagerly pat him on his shoulder, signaling you wanted him up.
“Room, please…. I-i don't want it here…” you say almost shy and he obeys immediately, standing up and holding you dear.
“Yeah? Sweet girl,” the term endearment escaping his lips catches him by surprise just as much as him kissing your forehead does. But he doesn't dwell on it long as he grabs hold of your hand and leads you upstairs where he already knows where your room is.
The silence of the space was only intensified once you both entered your bedroom. Dex pauses, taking a moment to appreciate the image of you standing there, waiting with earnest eyes and swollen lips. You looked so vulnerable, your dress wrinkled and breathing heavy as you let him assess. He welcomes your softness and realizes that he owes it to you to be vulnerable as well.
With a firm, certain, grip, he turns your body around, your stomach flutters in expectation as lust filled eyes land on the made bed. Only the inevitable force never came, you weren't shoved face down into the mattress in pure heat, instead Dex is moving your hair aside to fall on one shoulder. And that impacted your core more than any barge ever could. So you remained standing there, ignoring the heat in your stomach as the brooding man you'd come to know gently unzipped the back of your dress. Pushing the fabric down your hips, a hum escapes the claimant as he turns you back around with even kinder hands and you melted.
Sure in your intentions, you begin to unbutton his shirt and he watches you in the moment. Sometimes you often wonder what goes on in Dex's mind, but here you're certain that whatever thoughts that hammered in his head were anything but pure. When the fabric of his shirt meets your dress on the floor, a barely suppressed smile threatens to take over your face and his features silently requested for context, amused in your glow.
“You're so big,” appreciation dripped from your words, reinforced by your hands steady on his chest. Pride and something smug consumes Dex’s internal framework as he reaches for your bare waist, pulling you into him. Fuck. He liked how that felt, loved the feeling of you two skin to skin.
“That why you're always so touchy,” he huffed. It was a poor attempt to regulate himself from these overwhelming emotions. Still riding the dopamine high from your appraisal.
“Yes,” you nodded shamelessly.
At that a raw exhale breaks free from his mouth, falling in ardor before he's guiding you down to the bed. Dex’s gaze is locked on yours, at your body barely covered in cotton underwear as he prowls towards you on the duvet. Your presence was the single grounding planet in the uncharted stars of his nebula, an innate need to keep his focus on you and solely you to avoid getting lost in the orbit of his thoughts. Waiting patiently as exploratory hands trailed over your body, thumbs brushed over your nipples just once, before migrating down to your torso, eventually finding home on your hips.
Lips parted but nothing fell from them as words failed him. Instead his gaze darted up to meet yours as his fingers deliberately tugged your underwear, not fully, not even an inch down, just enough to get your attention and silently ask for permission.
Your body moved on its own, hastily squirming under his broad stature and pushing the thin fabric down your legs. The man over you had been the only thing plaguing the recesses of your brain for the past few weeks, consuming you with such unbidden thoughts. Anything would be done for him at this point. You barely got to kick the drenched cotton off before Dex's palm landed flat on one thigh, pushing it down hard against the bed and spreading you open for him. With a fluttering stomach so intense, your body fell back as you took in his state. Half dressed and tightly coiled, muscles pulling in restrain as he remained pinning your thigh down. His attention was locked onto you, or more so, your dripping cunt and an involuntary need to shut your legs was met with even more resistance from him.
He didn't appreciate you trying to hide from him, evident in his warning gaze. Without a word, his palm trailed up, the desire and craving to touch you won out in him. And suddenly hands that had only known violence was caressing you so softly and attentively, figuring out the definition of what it meant to be a lover.
God you were so wet and warm and soft and all the good things in the world…
Dex noticed your breathing growing more labored beneath him and instinctively he leaned back to watch you more, away from the disadvantage of being tucked into your neck. Your pupils were blown out, starry eyed as your brows creased and a pout settled on your lips. His fingers moved on their own as he watched, a new desire to pull more of those darling expressions from you forming. And as he sunk two cruel digits into your slopping wet heat, satisfaction invaded his senses as he took in your reaction. Your mouth parts in ecstasy, a sound Dex immediately knew he loved fell from your lips as your body arched up into him. And then that begging pout graced your features again, looking down at where his fingers fucked you.
So perhaps intimacy was everything people made it out to be, and so much more when it's with you. Dex was beginning to understand it now, the insatiable need to constantly be touching your person. Fuck, he doesn’t think he could ever go back to the way he was before. So fucking hesitant, unsure with anxiety that dibilitated him. He refused to be so rigid again, not when the sounds of your desire and need were music to his ears. He loved this, loved it in a way that was beginning to align with his new idea of normal. He could get used to this, to touching you, to fucking you.
Whining in protest as his fingers pulled away, your hands gripped at his chest in agony. Complains at the tip of your tongue before halting completely as you hear him begin to take his jeans off. Humming in delight as he strips. And fucking hell…. You were well aware of Dex’s large frame, it was one of the first things you noticed about him, second to the attractive scar on his cheek. But seeing him like this was something different entirely and you couldn't help yourself as you preened over his naked form again. Palms gliding the expansive plains of his back, brushing down his abs and strong chest as you sucked on his neck. Though judging by the expression on Dex's face, he didn't mind you playing. He let you have your fun until eventually pulling your lips off of him with a gentle hand at the back of your neck. A protest happened beneath him as you tried to chase after his body before stopping, noticing his hand on his member. And that shut you up real good.
Dex gently guides his hardened cock onto your dripping core. Rubbing his swollen head up and down your drenched skin before slowly sinking into you. A gasp falls from your lips followed by a desperate cry of want. His breath comes in rough bursts through his nose, focused entirely on you beneath him. How you take it, how you sound, how tight you feel with every drag out and push back in. The plains of his anatomy strained with tension as he exhaled in contentment. Dex thought he had come to know comfort, in the way you'd lean onto him during walks, how you raked your nails through his hair earlier. But this exceeded that in every capacity, comfort was a juvenile word to express how this felt like home. He's barely halfway through and already has to stop and compose himself. He let out a hiss, halting all movements as you clenched around him.
The sudden, full stretch makes you mewl out a sharp, startled sound And Dex freezes instantly, his entire body locking up. Has he hurt you? Was something wrong? He’s buried to the hilt now. It’s a lot. Too much all at once. A wave of something almost like guilt hits him, he hadn’t meant to scare you, but the sensation is… God.
"Shhh," he soothes automatically, instinctively brushing your cheek with his thumb despite how wrecked he feels right now.
You leaned into his touch, seeking for more and he's relieved. Needy palms finding a place on his biceps as you squirmed, looking down at where you both meet. Dex follows your gaze, watching his hardened cock buried deep in you. Yeah… that’s a lot.
"Tell me what you need," he murmurs, thumb brushing away another stray tear. "We can stop. Or go stupid slow.”
You let out a laugh that bled dangerously too close to a moan and Dex makes the decision of the latter for you. The first thrust is deliberate, deep and controlled, testing your reaction. The second follows, then a third, each one creating a filthy rhythm that fills the quiet room. He slowly fucks into you in a sedate, gentle manner. But gentleness is short-lived. His movements quickly grow faster till he was fucking you in a steady eager pace. Skin slaps against skin, joining the song of moans that you sing. The bed creaks under the weight, every movement is amplified in the hushed space. Rapture floods through you as any other thoughts that weren't Dex quickly subsides, giving way for your focal. Everything felt right in the world as he molded your body to his.
It was almost too much, his body caging yours in as his hips moved relentlessly. You knew you wouldn't last much longer if he kept going like this. But Dex was a man of intention, he took you like it was the only thing worth doing in his life.
The press of your hand against his pelvis, pushing, cunt trying to get him closer yet you were pulling away at the same time, sends conflicting signals straight to his dick. Your thighs around him squirmed, a telltale sign you're overwhelmed. Dex groans but doesn’t let up; if anything, he presses down harder on you with his hips, pinning yours in place.
"Take it," he rasps no room for argument. His skilled thumb lands on your clit, relentless despite the overstimulation threatening both of your bodies. The sound that left you was obscene and filthy as your head lulls back and Dex is quick to grab hold of your thigh and pull you closer towards him.
The new angle hits perfectly, your entire body jerks, a broken moan escaping as you tense around Dex’s hips. He learned you almost immediately from the very first second his fingers were inside you, he found where to target instantly. And now he abused that information.
He feels it, the way you clenched around him, and his own control wavers. But he holds on, focused solely on your pleasure, chasing every twitch and whimper with relentless precision. His lips find yours again in a messy, open-mouthed kiss as he pounded into you with controlled hits. A sound so similar to bullets in the air echoed at the impact, the wet sound, obscene, unfiltered, hitting him like a lightning bolt. Every thrust is accompanied by that slick, squelching noise: your arousal mixing with his movements. Dex learns that he loved that sound, it satisfied a part of his brain in a notion he couldn't understand but he knew that it fueled him even more. Dex's hips stutter for half a second at the realization of just how drenched you are for him.
A groan rumbles from his chest as he picks up speed, fucking you till you saw stars. A melody of moans and gasps filled the room with a symphony of skin heard with it. The walls welcome the sound with open arms as the atmosphere feels too hot and too heavy. You try to grab at the bed sheets despite Dex's tight grip on one of your wrists, you need something to ground you as you neared. Too much. It was all too much. Seamlessly, he laced his fingers with yours, still holding you down onto the bed but his grip softened.
You reciprocate the touch, tightly squeezing his hand as you feel the pressure capsize and your thighs shake in hot waves. You cry his name out, your back arching off the bed from the pleasure. His cock still sliding in and out of your dripping cunt, desperate to join you in your release, ignoring the coil of his muscles. He loves the way you say his name, so breathy and blinded by ecstasy. Dex breathes into your neck, the sensations becoming too much before a loud groan breaks his focus and he spills ropes of his cum into you. Immediately you primp under him, satiated and spoiled but your accord for touch remains ever present as you gently brush your nails up and down his back. And that sends him collapsing down onto you. Not that you seemed to mind as he heard a loud gleeful laugh beneath his large frame.
Dex exhales, long and slow, moving to stare at you. He’s not used to aftercare. Not with anyone. But here he is gently moving off you and tucking a throw blanket around your shoulders like you're something fragile. A calloused finger brushes a stray hair from your forehead, an absurdly tender gesture for someone who just fucked you into oblivion but you welcomed it.
He learned an entirely new vocabulary that night, and the education continued to expand exponentially in the weeks that followed.
He discovered, through application and obsessive cataloging, that he liked touch. He liked it an immeasurable, terrifying amount. He grew to absolutely love the specific jolt that occurred when you wake him up in the morning by lazily raking your nails across the broad, scarred expanse of his bare back. He loved the domestic weight of you playing with his hair while he sat on the living room floor, or the frantic, heavy way you would cling onto him when the city noise rattled the brownstone windows.
Methodically, his analytical mind began to solve the puzzle of how to return the same favor. He'd mapped your body with the same precision he applied to his targets, but with an entirely different objective.
He learned how to execute a kiss without needing an explicit verbal invitation, his large hands learning the exact amount of pressure required to tilt your chin upward to meet his mouth. He figured out how to use the immense, terrifying strength in his palms to gently massage the deep knots out of your shoulders after you spent a twelve-hour day hunched over the antique sewing machine. He studied the micro-movements of your muscles, tracking the specific shivers that rippled through your frame when his thumbs traced your collarbones, logging every sigh and hitch in your breath as data.
He figured out, with a profound, quiet sense of internal victory, that you loved every single form of physical touch imaginable, so long as it came entirely from him.
And he decided then, he loved intimacy.
AN: He's so fucking hot like i just can't!!! ! I haven't written smut in like 3 years so I didn't know what I was doing lol. Let me know what you guys think! Also you being a seamstress was entirely self indulgence because I go to fashion school lol.
Absolute writing... one of the best if not THE best Dex x readers ive read in my entire life!! this fic warmed my touch starved/touch averse/touch wanting heart 😭 thank you for giving us a little slice of imagination where we don't have to be so bad at physical affection ❤️🩹
You’d met Edén at one of your monthly get-togethers with your older brother – the one who always seemed to have no friends because he was either at the gym or at work.
Imagine your surprise when, instead of seeing him with his girlfriend – as he usually turned up – you noticed an extremely tall, handsome bloke with long, black hair streaked with grey, piercings and some striking tattoos standing beside him. He wasn’t exactly the sort of person your strict brother would normally hang out with, so it was inevitable that seeing him there would catch your eye.
He introduced him as his best friend, it sounded like a joke even to you, and you laughed without meaning to, although you seemed to be the only one who found it amusing, as your relative just looked at you, not understanding the sudden laughter.
You decided it was better to keep quiet and act as if nothing had happened to avoid having to explain that you thought it was a joke. The lad introduced himself to you.
Her name was Eden, and she’d met your dear older brother at the gym, as you might expect of him. The lad was friendly, even if he had a rough-and-ready look about him, in contrast to the other man present.
Eden didn’t take his eyes off you for a moment whilst they were having dinner, something your brother, Devin, seemed either not to notice or simply to ignore. His gaze was intense, you even found it uncomfortable. You chose to ignore him – after all, it would be the last time you’d see him. He was extremely attractive, yes, but you preferred to stick to the bad premonitions your instincts were telling you.
Dinner didn’t last long—a few words exchanged here and there, updates on your lives, the usual between siblings (and the intruder).
As they said their goodbyes, you tensed when you felt Eden’s hand lower down on your back than it should have been; you glared fiercely at your brother, who seemed absorbed enough in his phone not to notice you. You didn’t waste any time getting out of there as quickly as possible.
Imagine your despair when you started bumping into your brother’s new best friend everywhere you went.
Went to the supermarket? There he was, waving at you whilst scaring you from behind.
Switched from the supermarket to a convenience store? What a coincidence!! He lived near there, that shop was the closest one to him.
Were you working out? Pfff, your brother and his friend’s usual gym was being refurbished, so he decided to switch to another one temporarily, the fact that you happened to be at that one too, and went at the same time as him, was simply fate.
His presence was becoming more of a nuisance and a bother than just a bit awkward at that point. Every time you were with your friends, he also seemed to turn up and greet you in an overly familiar way, with lots of physical contact.
And when you confronted him? He simply said they were coincidences or that perhaps fate was trying to bring you together, he could protect you, unlike those weak and unattractive lads you were going out with. He was attractive enough to be a model, so why not give him a chance?
He could make you feel good.
He wouldn’t have to go out of his way to make you come – unlike those lads who shamelessly swarmed around you as if they were little more than insects.
It was only when you’d had enough that you went to find your brother, furious, to ask him to tell his friend to back off.
To make matters worse, Devin simply ignored the harassment and urged you to accept Eden. It turned out the lad was the son of a very wealthy man—he was the CEO of a company—and, apparently, Eden was his heir.
Your brother wasn’t about to let the chance slip by for his little sister and the rebellious heir to an empire to get together, after all, that could land him a good position in your future father-in-law’s company. Besides, Eden was a decent bloke – he’d seen that for himself.
He was polite, handsome, wealthy, perhaps a bit of a rebel and looked like he was always looking for a fight, but he was a good bloke at heart. He was sure that if he accepted him, your mum would be delighted with the lad too.
Your brother’s greed made you sick, trying to sell out his own family… it was revolting.
If he wasn’t going to help you deal with your recent stalker, you wouldn’t cared if he was the heir to whatever it was – you would have given him a proper beating.
…….
Part 2???? This was supposed to be a really short piece and was going to stay in the drafts, but I couldn’t help posting it.
tw: gn reader, noncon, (mention of reader having children), minor injury, drugging, victim blaming, video tapping, creampie.
your heady scent wafts through the air.
it’s taking everything in him not to take what he wants, right here, right now. his fist clenches underneath the table. he offers you a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, noticing your attention drawn to him as the conversation lulls.
you’re collarless, scent gland on display.
it’s a bit engorged. the skin raised from your impending heat. he’s never known omegas to flaunt themselves like that. not unless they wanted something to happen to them. that’s what this is, right? some little signal to him? you’ve always been so elusive. it’s hard to tell when it comes to you.
it’s starting to drive him insane, but it doesn’t matter. you’ll be his all the same.
he sits a bit closer to you, throwing his arm around the couch as he listens to you prattle on about some show he can’t be bothered to care about, not right now. not with your scent coiling in the air like that.
you smell so sweet, even to someone like him with dulled senses. it’s so much better close to the source.
when you lean into him, head knocking into his shoulder, his mouth waters. his teeth start to ache. all it would take is one bite. he’d pull you into a hug, grip your hair tight, splay the delicate line of your neck to him.
no, no, no.
not one bite. it wouldn’t last, not from someone like him. he’ll have to keep doing it, over and over and over again. make the mark stick, leave his indentation in your neck. until you never have to wear that stupid collar ever again.
you’ll bear his mark on your skin instead—the perfect necklace.
for now, he’s keep listening, keeps letting you press yourself against him, none the wiser that he has something special planned for you.
“i’ll get us something to drink,” he states abruptly, squeezing your shoulder as he departs.
he doesn’t wait for you to answer, just getting up and heading into the kitchen. he’s been here long enough that everything’s become second nature to him. he knows where the utensils are, where you keep your favorite snacks, the food you eat, nearly everything about you at this point.
that means you’re perfect for each other.
he opens the fridge, grabs the pitcher, and sets it on the counter. his hand lingers on his front pocket, on the little packet of heat inducer. it was surprisingly easy to obtain; who would’ve thought? you know a guy who knows a guy, and things just magically fall into your lap.
he tested it on himself first, of course. luckily, it didn’t do much but give him an erection that seemed to last for fucking days. he’s not leaving this shit to chance. he waited too long for you to mess this up.
he grabs two cups from the dish rack, not wanting to dawdle too long. that’ll seem suspicious, and he’s not that type of guy. he pours it into your cup, watching the white powder be absorbed by the juice.
it’s supposed to be flavorless.
hopefully, you’re not one of those people who notice everything. as much as he doesn’t want to hurt you. he’s not afraid of getting rough, but it’ll still be really unfortunate to break that illusion.
all of the work that went into carefully crafting his personality to your liking.
all down the drain.
he returns to your side, a smile on his face as he hands you the glass. “for you,” he adds, gaze lingering on your face. his fingernail scrapes down the glass as he counts down the seconds, that drag into minutes, waiting for the drug to kick in.
any day now.
and there.
he feels the exact moment you slump into him, nearly slipping your drink onto the floor. he takes it out of your hand, breath hitching from the contact. even now, just the touch of your skin against his is enough to set him off.
he sets the drink down.
that sweet smell deepens, practically pressing against his nose. his tongue swipes across blunt teeth. he wraps his arms around you, nosing against your neck as he lets out a pleased sigh.
“w-what? what did you give me?” you slur, trying and failing to push him away.
you can barely feel your fingertips. it’s like you’re watching everything happen from outside of your body. your mind’s growing all hazy with want. it feels like you’re going into heat, but that shouldn’t be possible.
you take your pills on time. you shouldn’t be due for another week at most.
it couldn’t possibly be him.
he’s supposed to your friend.
he licks a stripe up your neck, allowing you to slide down the couch. you’re rag-dolling at this point. he has to position your legs to keep you from falling off. he’d prefer to do this in your bed. just so you can remember this exact moment, every single time you fall asleep.
but he’ll accept this for now. the drug isn’t going to wear off that fast, especially not for its intended target. he paid far too much for this shit to be a dud.
you feel the exact moment his teeth sink into your scent gland. the smell of iron burns your nose. he bit down hard enough to draw blood. you want to cry, but the tears just won’t come. the only reaction you can muster is the slight hitch in your breathing.
he pulls back, just enough to look at your face. he wants to write this moment in his mind forever. you’re just so beautiful, even limp and useless. you can’t give him a proper reaction right now, but that’s alright.
you have all the time in the world. you didn’t really think he’d be alright with just having you once, did you?
his grin widens, showing off blood-stained teeth. his hand comes down to caress your cheek, trailing down to your gland. the skin is angry and bruised, teeth marks imprinted on your delicate throat. he presses his thumb into it, watching the beginning of tears well up in your eyes.
finally, a reaction.
“oh, did that hurt, darling?” he questions, tone mocking. he brings his thumb back up to his mouth, licking the blood, your blood, off his finger, reveling in the sight of your teary face.
fuck, that’s so hot.
he chuckles, reaching into his back pocket. he takes out his phone, the first photo he’s ever taken of you staring back at him as he unlocks it. he opens the camera app, the click of the shutter breaking through the noise as his library fills with more pictures of you.
“i think i’ll keep this one, and that one, and the other one,” he teases, eyes crinkling at the corners. “might even make it my lock screen. you’re… god, you’re just so beautiful, you know. you just… make it so hard to keep my hands to myself. honestly, i’m surprised i lasted this long.”
he sets the phone to the side for now, returning his attention to you.
“i’m gonna take reeeal good care of you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, nimble fingers sliding your pants down your legs. his gaze lingers on the sight of your slick, soaked thighs. you’ve managed to make a mess of your underwear, and he hasn’t even properly touched you yet.
still, he’s a gentleman.
he’s not going to skip out on foreplay and pass up the chance of tasting you. he takes off your underwear as well, stuffing them into his pocket for safekeeping. he kneels between your legs, face hovering inches from your glistening sex.
ah, you’re so wet and all for him.
the scent of you is even better here, all musky and sweet. the flavor of your essence erupts on his taste buds as he licks a stripe up your sex, letting out an airy moan. his nails dig into your thighs as he drags you closer, arranging your legs to dangle over his shoulders.
he laps at the slick dripping from your entrance, fingers stroking the length of your arousal. it’s pulsing beneath his fingertips, throbbing like it has a heartbeat of its own. you’re just as wet as he’d imagines you’d be.
the real thing is way better than the omega porn he watched. only, after he found out your designation. there’s never been a point in watching it anymore. not when he has actual material right in front of him.
he takes you into his mouth, suckling on your swollen heat. his gaze is drawn to the shaky rise and fall of your chest as he keeps sucking. yeah, you’re starting to feel it now. he squeezes your chest, rolling your pebbled nipple through your shirt.
you’re just so responsive. when he licks, your thighs start to twitch. when he sucks harshly, you let out an exhale that sounds more like a sob than anything. a sob of pleasure? yeah, that’s what it is. you want this just as much as he does. you always have. you just needed a little more… coercion.
someone like you—an omega.
you just don’t know what you actually want. that’s why you need someone like him to take control. someone who’ll fill your mind with blissful pleasure. that’s how it’s supposed to be. people like you don’t have ambitions. you don’t need to go to school or keep that shitty little job that doesn’t pay you enough.
you’re supposed to have his children, stay home and take care of them. in fact, you shouldn’t ever leave. it’s not safe. what if someone has the same idea as him? of course, they would. you’re just too enticing.
that’s why he can’t help acting this way.
it’s all your fault.
you caused all of this to happen. why else would you have invited him into your home? no, your home together, so close to your heat. allowing that sweet scent of yours to coil around him like a lover’s embrace.
you’re so coy.
acting like you don’t want this, when you’ve been throwing yourself at him this entire time.
his finger breaches your hole, two at a time. you’re so wet that his fingers slide right inside. he listens to the messy squelch of your hole, teeth biting into his lip at the lewd sight. with every push of his fingers, more of your slick drips out. if he keeps this up, you’ll stain the couch.
so naughty.
oh, it’ll be so sweet. just think about it. every time you sit down on this couch, you’ll remember just how we took care of you, ate you out, fingered you open, prepped you to receive his love.
now, that he thinks about it. what better way to remember this special moment than with a video? a photo. those are alright, but a video. he’ll have all of your cute little reactions saved in the memory of his phone. it’ll be something sweet to look back on with you. wouldn’t that be so nice?
right, sweetheart?
he pulls away for a moment, fingers glistening with your juices as he reaches for his phone. he props it up on the discarded glass, making sure the angle is right before he presses record. he takes a moment to think to himself.
he’s actually doing this. you’re finally going to become one.
the sound of him pulling down his zipper rips through the delicate moment of appreciation. he can feel the weight of your teary gaze on him and see the subtle motions of your lips mouthing out words. he doesn’t wait for an answer, merely pulling his pants and underwear down far enough to slip his dick out.
he lets out a sigh of relief. god, it feels like he’s been sporting a half chub since the moment he got here.
he climbs on top of you, bracketing you in as he strokes himself. “are you ready, love?” he murmurs, gaze filled with possessiveness and, most of all, pure love. his hand finds yours, intertwining his fingers with your limp ones as he presses inside.
he lets out a satisfied sigh, feeling you tighten around the intrusion. he noses at your neck, sucking on your scent gland as he rocks against you. that sickeningly sweet scent wafts into his nose once more. it’s euphoric, better than any drug.
it’s almost enough to make him come from the thought alone, but he won’t.
no, not yet.
he has to make sure you enjoy yourself first. he might not be able to satisfy you with a knot like an alpha would, but a few orgasms should do the trick. that’s what it said online, at least. when he was doing… research.
his hand wanders back down, rubbing between the junction of your thighs. your eyes are still glazed over, face lax with a line of drool decorating your chin. mmm, you’re so sloppy. that’s what he loves about people like you. the kind who lose control during sex, making a mess all over themselves.
he starts to thrust faster, feeling himself start to leak inside you. “a-ah, yeah. you feel that, sweetie,” he murmurs against your skin. it’s like you’re trying to push him out every time he thrusts back inside you. “y-you keep making me feel that good, and i… i might just put a baby inside you. you want that too, right? a bunch of brats together? just me and you… and our kids running around the place.”
you’re not responding to his tentative touch anymore, but… that’s alright. he knows just how overwhelming things like this can be, having your first time with your soulmate.
he can’t even believe it’s happening himself.
he surges forward, lips pressing against yours for the first time. his tongue parts your lips, slipping inside your mouth as he loses himself in the taste of you. the gentle smacks of his lips pressing against yours fill the room, a backdrop to the sound of the television that’s grown long forgotten, the very moment he handed you that drink.
he continues rutting against you, keeps rubbing his fingers along the throbbing heat between your thighs as he presses your prone form further into the couch cushions.
he’s going to make you come.
he can feel it.
your body doesn’t lie, even with those deceptive tears that are spilling from your eyes. god, he wished you'd stop with the fucking theatrics. having a cock inside you can’t be that damn bad.
you’re in heat. you want this.
if he didn’t come over here. you’d probably be on your hands and knees for the first dick that appeared, begging to be knotted. if anything, he’s doing you a favor.
so, you should be grateful. grateful that he even prepped you at all. maybe you would’ve preferred he just shove his dick inside you dry. no slick to help with the intrusion.
just him.
he grits his teeth, willing away those thoughts. he just needs to focus on the feeling of your hole fluttering around him. don’t think about other people with you. he’s here with you right now. it’s his dick that’s making you feel this good.
no one else’s.
that euphoric feel that he’s been chasing catches up to him as he lets out a choked-off moan. his fingers tighten around yours, hips slowing to a still as he paints your insides white with his release.
he really did it.
he came inside you. you have his teeth marks on your neck.
something that only happened in his wet dreams that would keep him up at night.
he pulls out of you, taking the moment to admire the sight of his seed dripping out of you. now, this is something he can get used to. your beautiful face, and the sight of your freshly bred hole. he scoops back up his come, fingering it back inside your entrance.
you didn’t think really think he about your little problem, did you? he might be coming down from his high, but he still has to breed out your heat. show you that he’s way better than any of those useless alphas.
and he’s going to make sure you come again, and again, and again.
tw - afab!reader, non/con, period kinks, exhibitionism, and menstrual blood. this one's nasty y'all.
Every time someone says that Geto Suguru doesn't have a period kink, an angel loses its wings.
There's just something about seeing you helpless and in pain, grumpy and reliant on him and most importantly, covered in your own blood, that gets to him. After years of choking down the literal scum of the earth, his taste buds are so fried that he literally can't tell the difference between a fine red wine and your arousal-tinged menstrual blood when you cum on his tongue for the nth time at the peak of your flow.
And he's so cruel about it, too. You're already so embarrassed to have been forced into such a vulnerable position by your friend turned cult-leader turned kidnapper, he can't help but draw out your humiliation that much longer. He deliberately lies to you about how long you've spent in his loving care just to make it that much harder to keep track of your cycle. All your products are kept under lock and key for your own safety, so you have to ask him so, so sweetly anytime you need a new pad or painkiller, and you're delusional if he's going to give you more than one at a time. Forget about tampons, too. Those ugly plastic applicators are too complicated for his empty-headed lamb. Unless you're going to lay down and hold still while he helps you insert it, the only thing inside of you for the next seven days is going to be him.
Watching you bleed through your clothes is his favorite part by far. It's probably the quick, terribly succession of obliviousness, then horror, then frustration as you realize he's gotten his way again. He makes a point of dragging you to as many meetings and sermons as he can while you're on your period, dressing you up in the thinnest, whitest robes and making you serve tea and fetch sacraments until a pinprick of red inevitably appears on your immaculate silk. If you dare to draw attention to it or worse, try to slip away, he's more than happy to drag you into his lap and split you open on his cock until he's attended to whatever matters he must. Just try not to squirm too much. If he loses his composure, you'll be the one licking that little red ring off the base of his shaft when he's done.
It's debasing, but you really ought to be thankful his preferences are so strange. If he was any less disgusting, there's be nothing left to stop him from knocking you up every nine months on the dot <3
tw - afab!reader, non/con, period kinks, exhibitionism, and menstrual blood. this one's nasty y'all.
Every time someone says that Geto Suguru doesn't have a period kink, an angel loses its wings.
There's just something about seeing you helpless and in pain, grumpy and reliant on him and most importantly, covered in your own blood, that gets to him. After years of choking down the literal scum of the earth, his taste buds are so fried that he literally can't tell the difference between a fine red wine and your arousal-tinged menstrual blood when you cum on his tongue for the nth time at the peak of your flow.
And he's so cruel about it, too. You're already so embarrassed to have been forced into such a vulnerable position by your friend turned cult-leader turned kidnapper, he can't help but draw out your humiliation that much longer. He deliberately lies to you about how long you've spent in his loving care just to make it that much harder to keep track of your cycle. All your products are kept under lock and key for your own safety, so you have to ask him so, so sweetly anytime you need a new pad or painkiller, and you're delusional if he's going to give you more than one at a time. Forget about tampons, too. Those ugly plastic applicators are too complicated for his empty-headed lamb. Unless you're going to lay down and hold still while he helps you insert it, the only thing inside of you for the next seven days is going to be him.
Watching you bleed through your clothes is his favorite part by far. It's probably the quick, terribly succession of obliviousness, then horror, then frustration as you realize he's gotten his way again. He makes a point of dragging you to as many meetings and sermons as he can while you're on your period, dressing you up in the thinnest, whitest robes and making you serve tea and fetch sacraments until a pinprick of red inevitably appears on your immaculate silk. If you dare to draw attention to it or worse, try to slip away, he's more than happy to drag you into his lap and split you open on his cock until he's attended to whatever matters he must. Just try not to squirm too much. If he loses his composure, you'll be the one licking that little red ring off the base of his shaft when he's done.
It's debasing, but you really ought to be thankful his preferences are so strange. If he was any less disgusting, there's be nothing left to stop him from knocking you up every nine months on the dot <3
benjamin poindexter x reader drabble / masterlist / mdni
dex attempting to knock you up (kind of)
you don’t think dex wants kids, not really. you’ve never actually talked about it, but because of everything, because of your lives, especially his, you always figured it wasn’t something he wanted or was possible. maybe not now, maybe not ever.
but then he’s got you on your back and he’s still fucking you even after he’s already come, thrusting into you with this rough, frustrated rhythm like he’s annoyed by his own orgasm and by the wet, filthy mess of it between your thighs. his cock keeps dragging through his own cum every time he pushes back in, and he just keeps going, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s watching for something. every time his cum leaks out of you, slipping from your swollen pussy and smearing down to your ass, his jaw gets tighter, his brows pull together and his eyes get a little glassier, like he might actually cry. it’s like it pisses him off, seeing it outside of you.
and maybe that’s all it is, maybe it’s just dex wanting every part of himself in you, wanting to feel how full your pussy is with him, wanting to watch his cock disappear into you while his cum is still spilling back out around the base. you think maybe he just likes the sight of it and the slick sound every time he drives back in and fucks the mess deeper, the way you whine when his thrusts get sloppier. but maybe it’s more than that too. maybe that little crease in his forehead every time he sees his seed dripping out of your cunt means something worse.
because a relationship can end. you could get tired of him, sick of him, wake up one day and decide he’s too much work, too obsessive, too broken, too difficult to keep loving.
and marriage is an option too, for sure. in a dark little corner of his mind, maybe that appeals too. not because it’s romantic, but because divorce is such a long, miserable, exhausting pain in the ass that maybe you’d look at the paperwork and lawyers and court dates and just decide it’d be easier to keep him, tolerate him, let him stay, simply because getting rid of him would be more annoying than living with him. it’s sick and irrational, which is exactly why it feels like something dex might actually think.
but a baby would be better. a baby would make it permanent in a way nothing else could. even if you wanted him gone, if one day you couldn’t stand the sight of him, he’d still be there dropping the kid off at your place, standing next to you at recitals, parent-teacher meetings, sports games, graduations. your life would be tied to his in a way that couldn’t be undone.
and maybe that’s why he gets like this, why his hand grips your hip so hard while he stares at your pussy taking him, why he curses under his breath when his cum pushes out of you again. maybe that’s why he drags his cock out to watch it spill from your used hole before he immediately pushes two thick fingers into your cunt and fucks it back inside you with this tense, focused look on his face.
your pussy is already puffy and oversensitive, and he still can’t leave it alone. he has to spread you open with his fingers and press the mess back in, watching it leak over his knuckles, then push it deeper like he can somehow make it stay if he’s stubborn enough. it’s not like he’s stupid. he knows you’re on birth control, but that doesn’t stop some ugly little part of him from thinking he can still make it stick.
not because dex wants a baby in some soft, normal way. he’s not secretly dreaming about cribs and baby names, definitely not right now.
dex just wants in, wants to stay, and wants something of himself buried so deep in your life that you could never cleanly pull him out again. and maybe, in the filthiest corner of his mind, knocking you up feels like the surest way to do it.
a/n: sending you a smooch for reading, thank you:3 and a million dollars if you reblogged (you're literally carrying fanfic writers on your back).
dex whos so pussy whipped fucking you in missionary that all he can say is “you’re so pretty, baby” over and over again between breathes while looking directly into your eyes
8.5k ·༻𐫱༺· They want to make amends. You're starting to feel like you don't really have a choice in the matter.
content. modern au • alpha suguru • omega satoru • omega reader • fated mates satosugu • unhealthy relationships • codependency • obsession • allusions to stalking • noncon • forced bonding • rough sex • missionary • doggy • overstim • allusions to non con somno •
one day i'll get tired of a/b/o fics. today is not that day
this fic is titled after "an eater" and the vibes of the song heavily inspired the fic. i was also inspired by needy/jennifer and maddy/nate/cassie (rewatched euphoria for the finale). so. uhm. yeah.
The thing—you could hardly be bold enough to call it a friendship—between you and Gojo Satoru was strange, and had always been so.
There was always the matter of class differences. He was the head omega to one of the most prolific clans in Japan. You were the third omega daughter, practically useless, and belonged to a small, minor clan out in the mountains no less.
Satoru had been sent packing there on some sort of punishment and it was there that the two of you drew up a friendly (?) relationship. You thought the world of him then.
Even now. And that's the only reason why you've agreed to meet him here today.
The years of your childhood with Satoru had taught you how to navigate his moods. But three years have passed ; and you are out of practice. The ease you two once had has died and withered out. He sits across from you now, drumming his fingers on the coffee table—and every time your eyes meet, it feels like sticking your hand into the maw of a jaguar.
You want to say there is no ill will. In fact, Satoru had greeted you as if you were long lost friends, separated by distance instead of bitter heartbreak. He had hugged you, maybe too tight. And he had nuzzled against your throat. Not quite scenting, but something else that was still too inappropriate for a public reconciliation.
Your heart pounded in your chest. Your hand shook, and Satoru tracked the motion, as you reached for the teacup.
"So, how're things?" Satoru inquires, as if he doesn't already know.
"Good." You said, stiffly.
You don't mention the strange black cars always parked outside of your house. The Christmas packages. Flowers. Birthday gifts. You don't mention the burner Instagram accounts that pop up faster than you can block them. You don't mention that you've changed your number twice now. And somehow, Satoru had managed to shoot you a text anyway.
"You should come over on Saturday," He says, delicate finger tracing the rim of his own teacup. His blue eyes shift to pin you in place. "We'll cook dinner. It'll be nice"
Even though he says the words casually, you know it isn't a proposal. Satoru has come here with the intent of making sure you know you'll be having dinner with them both on Saturday and that you need to prepare yourself. Annoyance prickles down the line of your shoulders.
Your hands retreat underneath the table, where you discreetly attempt to wipe your sweaty palms off on your jeans. You tried going for a look that said This-Is-Just-An-Average-Thing-For-Me, but Satoru's version of casualness seems to blow you out of the water.
His hair edges the line between carelessness and wanting to impress. An expensive woolen coat tossed over the back of his chair. Black pants. A turtleneck sweater made of a lighter fabric. Like he could have been meeting his fellow house-wives for brunch or stepped out of a business meeting.
"Maybe" You start, trying to keep the distaste off of your face. In truth—you can think of nothing worse than dinner with your ex-best friend and your ex-boyfriend. Your mouth opens, breathing shakily. "I better not, actually"
Don't say sorry, you think, digging your nails into your thigh. Don't over-explain yourself. No means no.
Satoru huffed and exhaled sharply. You hated the way your body stiffened to attention, perking upwards. Even three years later, he has you eating out of the palm of his hand.
Yet another thing he was better than you at.
He had always been prettier. Smarter. His scent turned heads. Alphas glanced longingly at his long legs and were captivated by his pretty blue eyes. Teachers praised his grades. He was always picked first in gym-class. Even though he was an omega, you have never known Satoru to submit to anything.
Satoru would watch you watch other alphas. They never wanted anything to do with you of course, a plain, meek omega. But it would never be long until those same alphas were trailing after him—or him parading them right in front of you. As if to say, why would they want you if they could have me?
You dug your nails into the palm of your hand again and pushed the thought away. Your therapist says that it's most likely not the case. Satoru makes you feel inferior as an omega, so your brain will try to attempt to twist old memories to reaffirm what your insecurities tell you.
You wanted to tell her that she didn't know Satoru like you did. But you had to admit that it made sense. He's never gone out and said it. Maybe he just liked all the same alphas you did. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
"Let's go to how things were" Satoru says, trying for a new angle. When that gets little to no reaction from you, he tries again. "We miss you"
At that, your armor cracked. Your features contorted into an expression of pain. Ashamed, you brushed aside his hand and hung your head. Cheeks heating, you rapidly blinked your eyes to stop yourself from crying.
You missed them, of course you did. Your best friend. Your boyfriend. Even three years later, they consumed much of your time. It was all you thought about. Reconciliation. Making it work. There was no such thing as making it work. Not when they were fated mates and you were the force that had brought them together.
Because of course, the one thing you wanted, the inane fairy tale dizzy little omegas dreamed of—an alpha just for them. Of course Satoru got that and you didn't.
Because, ultimately, Satoru's how things were and your how things were, were two different things.
"No" You said, proud of the way your voice didn't waver or shake. "No, Satoru. I don't want to do that."
It took everything you had not to fall apart. You thought nothing of it at first, meeting here in this cafe. The perfect halfway mark between your house and where you thought they might have lived currently. But had that been apart of Satoru's plan too? Get you here to make sure you felt inferior, in front of an audience? A pay-back for daring to up and leave?
Breathe. You obeyed the whispering thought deep within. There you were, being silly again. You weren't the same, secretly insecure riddled thing from three years ago. Sure, the betrayal had stung deeply. But you had moved on. Of course you moved on. You lifted your head.
Satoru tilted his head, as if assessing you for weaknesses anew. "No, you don't want to do that?" You nodded. Satoru hummed, as if to say, too bad. His fingers skirted along your knuckles. "Suguru wants to see you"
A sudden sharp ache. Like the mere mention of him was a wound, and Satoru was a hand that sprinkled salt on top. Or, more befitting of his nature—twisting a blade deeper. You sucked in a sharp breath, pulling back from him.
"I don't think that's a good idea" You murmured, voice sounding scratchy. You shook your head, and aimed for something more assertive. "It's not a good idea. None of this. I shouldn't have com—"
"It was just a suggestion" He said, whipper-snap fast. He too seemed poised for action, mirroring your position. Satoru sucked his teeth. "You're being difficult. I want you to come home"
Everything is always what you want, you think with a twinge of bitterness. Everything has always been what Satoru wants. Satoru wants you to match yukatas for summer festivities. Satoru wants his things in your nest. Satoru wants to don you in pretty things. Satoru wants to kiss you sometimes, when he's lonely, or scared.
"I don't—" Your words tumble out wrong, too sharp. Like you're attempting to challenge him. You try again. "I can't just forget what happened."
"I know" Satoru nodded gravely. "He knows too. We tried to make it work before and it didn't work out the right way. We just need to try again"
His words picked up in speed. His hands moved about in wild increments. You were upset, he assured you he understood that. But. If you just came over on Saturday—for dinner. Then things would be OK again.
One thing stood out to you : Satoru had not apologized.
You came here, because you thought he might apologize. All you wanted was for someone to say they were sorry for you, and what you had endured.
The thought was laughable. Why would you assume that? Satoru never apologized. Regret, shame, guilt...those were not things he felt. He felt only desire, and everything he desired, he would have. If he did not already have it.
He didn't mean to steal Suguru away from you, your mind whispered. The part that still submitted to Satoru and his whiles. The part of yourself that you fought everyday. That wasn't his intention. He was your best friend. He can't help who the Fates tie him to.
And didn't you try to make it work at first? The horrid attempt at making a pack. But how could you make pack with the people who you felt betrayed by? It was as though you and Satoru were constantly at each other's throats—with Suguru left to break them up. If not that, then the opposite, with Satoru and Suguru struggling to figure out the depths of their new bond and constantly fighting over you.
And somehow, in the middle of it all, you became neglected.
Then, came the awful situation of marking. You attempted to mark Satoru, despite the fact that omega's couldn't mark one another. You just wanted—you wanted a sign. Let your mark on him stay, and you would too. The mark faded. But the one tethering Suguru and Satoru together did not.
You packed your bags and left under the cover of night shortly thereafter.
Hopelessly, your gaze lingered on Satoru's throat. His only olive branch was the sweater he wore. You couldn't see all of it. Just a little bit, peeking out over the top. A perfect impression of Suguru's teeth. A healthy, successful bond. An alpha who loved and cherished him.
Everything you've always wanted.
You recoiled from the thought, from Satoru, and the fact that you had attempted to reach out for his hand. Sweat bead along your hairline. The cafè suddenly felt stifling. Eyes. So many eyes. Everyone (or perhaps just Satoru) were watching you.
How did the two of you look, to wandering eyes? A scene from a drama, most likely. Satoru played the part of the romance lead. You, the second-lead. Unwanted. He sat confidently across from you. You looked like you were trying to mend down into your chair.
Could everyone see you the way you always seemed to see yourself?
"I can't. I'm so—" Don't say sorry. "I need to go. This was a mistake"
"Please?" Satoru never begged. Of course not. And he wasn't starting now. This was just another ploy. To get you to give in.
You nearly fell on top of the table in your haste to stand. The chair screaming as it slid along the floor. Eyes. People watching you. Sending you dark, annoyed looks.
"I have to go" You said fervently, gathering your things. "I. Please delete my number. I don't want to see either of you. Please respect t-that"
You escaped for the door before Satoru could follow. As the chilly early-March air brushed against your cheeks, you thought you caught a glimpse of him still sitting there. You kept your eyes trained to the ground, getting to the car parked half a block away out of sheer luck.
It felt as though you couldn't breathe until you were home again. Until you were safe. You ignored the flowers and your favorite chocolates lying innocently against the dining room table. Zapped totally of all energy, you collapsed into bed and did not rise again until the next morning.
When you were in your third year of high school, you had a crush on an alpha. Suzuki, or something. He was tall, and his skin was always slightly tan from all the time he spent outside on his family's ranch. He had a woodsy, grassy scent that you liked—you had no idea if it was his real scent or just what clung to his clothes after all of that work outside.
He had hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck. It had seemed, over the course of the summer the year before, Suzuki had grown handsome. Once, he had been willowy. And then, built. You liked to sit behind him in class. Once, he had turned to ask for a pencil. That had been the highlight of your year.
Satoru had come over for the summer. He usually does. You weren't known as yourself. You were known as hot Satoru's clumsy best friend—and he didn't even live there. He had barreled into your home the same way he always had, and immediately set to reconstructing your nest so that it was big enough to fit two.
He had you in there, lying on top of you, stealing every snatch of air from your lungs.
You stroked the back of his head where you knew he liked it best. His purr rumbled into your own chest, relaxing your tense muscles. He was ranting about his favorite topic lately : how much he hated alphas.
"And, to add insult to injury, she asked to scent me twenty minutes into our date!" Satoru whined, and then began to gnaw puppy-like on your finger, which made you giggle. "Alphas are so annoying. You're so lucky you don't have to deal with them"
The words stung. You gave him a wan little smile, lips stretched thin. He didn't mean it, you told yourself. It's not like you would ever say anything to him about it. You didn't want to come off as insecure or pathetic.
But didn't he realize that it wasn't normal to be practically invisible to alphas? With the way they treated you, you might as well be a beta. Not that there was an issue with being a beta. But was it so wrong to want an alpha to look at you and see potential for a relationship?
His finger trailed down the side of your throat. He was peering at you strangely. "It would be so much easier if we dated instead"
Your face flushed immediately. You wanted to brush it off as a joke, but you knew there was some degree of truth to the admission. Not because of his tone, or the look in his eyes. But because you knew him as though he were an extension of your own hand.
"I-I...uhm" You stammered, glancing away. "But we're both omegas..."
"So?" Satoru scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You don't seriously believe in all of that traditional bullshit, do you?"
"No of course not!" You weren't a bigot. "I. Well...I guess I just always saw myself with an alpha?"
"But how would you know?" He asked, pressing the pads of his fingers more firmly against the scent gland on your throat, where an alpha's mating mark would someday be. "You've never been with an alpha before"
The reminder of your virginity stung. Satoru had been with alphas. He had even gone all the way. He had no issue finding an alpha to spend his heats with.
If things continued at this snails pace; you would end up losing your virginity on your wedding night to whatever alpha your parents managed to find for you. And how embarrassing would that be?
"You've never been with an omega before" You pointed out. When Satoru said nothing, looking away, you faltered. "...have you?"
"No." He said, flippant "I'm not interested in omegas"
"But you just said—"
"I said we" Satoru stressed, as if that was somehow different. "It's not the same if it's you. Duh. You're...you're special. Different. And at this rate, my attraction to alphas fades every day"
A beat of silence passed. Satoru leaned back and straddled your waist. For some reason, your heart pounded inside of your chest. He toyed with the collar of your shirt absently. "If you were an alpha, what kind of omega would you go for?"
"Erm" You said, stupidly. "I don't know? A nice one?"
That made him laugh. "You're so cute" he teased, eyes fond. When you squirmed and looked away, he laughed louder. "Just the cutest. I'm gonna be so sad when an alpha finally takes you away"
Again, there was an odd bit of truth. It was a fear of his, you could sense it. You could not possibly see a world where you and Satoru were not close. You could both be eighty and still sharing the same nest.
"Come on now, Satoru" You murmured, gently massaging his scent gland to let some of his sweet persimmon-peach scent into the room. "You wouldn't lose to an alpha"
He laughed, and all was restored.
"No, of course not" Satoru leaned close and brushed your noses together. You returned the gesture. He moved his head down and your lips hardly brushed together. It happened sometimes. "I'll never let an alpha take you away from me"
When Saturday inevitably came, you found yourself sick with nerves.
No, literally. You woke up from a nightmare and went to spew up last nights dinner into the toilet. You clung limply to the bowl, gasping for air. You skipped work, barely remembering to properly call out (you sounded so awful over the phone that your manager didn't even kick up a fuss).
A pit had formed at the bottom of your stomach. It grew its roots until there was nothing left inside of you but fear for what was to come. Suddenly, your phone lit up with a text. You didn't have to look at it to know that it was from Satoru. Somehow, you just knew.
8.00. Don't be late :) !
You hurled again but nothing came up but bile that burned your throat. You wiped your mouth, flushed and then gurgled a lot of water to regain any fluids potentially lost. You brushed your teeth and forced yourself back into bed. When you woke from your nap (that conveniently lasted the whole day), it was 4:48 PM.
At 5:02, you got out of bed for the second time today and forced yourself into the shower. The water was scalding hot, just the way you needed it. So hot that it bordered on uncomfortable. So hot you couldn't even anxiously spiral about the whole Satoru-Suguru situation. You spent a long time underneath the shower-head, and then even longer sitting butt naked on the floor of your closet, wondering what to even wear.
If you were going. And that was a big if. Technically, you said no. You said you wanted nothing more to do with that. Them. So if you didn't want to go, what could they do? Drag you to their house? Chain you down and force you to stay?
You chuckled bitterly. That didn't seem so far from possibility with Satoru in mind. Suguru at least, had minimum contact with you these last few years. He sent you a happy birthday text once and very rarely liked your story posts on Instagram from his business account.
He wasn't like Satoru—who you suspected had somehow gotten flowers inside your house. Suguru respected your wishes enough to leave you alone.
In the end, you said fuck it, pulling on simple pants and a nice enough blouse (hiding it underneath a light jacket) and left your house with nothing but your wallet, house-key and phone. You weren't going.
Instead, you walked without any real destination in mind. It was a habit you hadn't managed to break. Back in your hometown, you could walk anywhere and eventually end up where you began. There was safety and familiarity in the same places. Whenever you became stressed, agitated, you would just set out walking. The scenery would calm you down.
You didn't think of how much of an easy target you made. An unmated omega without scent patches. It wouldn't be hard for an alpha with the wrong sorts of intentions to find you.
That was how you met Suguru, actually. An alpha with the right sort of intentions; stopping you from ending up on the channel 9 news. Immediately, you scrubbed the memory from your mind. You didn't want to think about him. If there was a way to forget them both completely, you were you would take it.
Eventually, you happened upon a park. It seemed familiar. Maybe all parks were that way—pockets of nostalgia that held the word together in its plastic slides and chain-link swings. You walked the perimeter of it for what felt like a dozen times and collapsed onto the nearest bench with a relieved groan.
Your legs and feet were pleasantly sore. You propped one leg up onto the other and gently rolled your ankle as though it were a ball on a hinge. The bone creaked and popped—maybe this was a sign that you were getting older.
You brought up one hand, fingers massaging the middle of your forehead. A killer headache was approaching. The sound of you greedily inhaling air was the only thing around for what seemed like miles. Until a car pulled up to a screeching stop and killed the engine. It wasn't a model you recognized.
Body frozen with fear, you watched apprehensively as the driver got out of the car and briskly made his way over. He didn't slam the door—that was never Suguru's style. Heart trapped wildly in your throat, you could say nothing when he called out to you.
He said your name again, this time with a familiar expression. His lips thinned and his left brow jumped, before a furrow appeared between them. You felt like a scolded child. It was weird when paired with the fact that when you saw him, you felt relief. Pure, unadulterated relief. You wanted to jump into his arms and let him make everything right again.
Ruthlessly, you squandered that down. Suguru was Satoru's alpha now.
"What are you doing here?" You asked instead, and your voice only sounded slightly winded, which you were proud of.
Suguru glanced around. "This is where you always go when you're stressed out, dear. I figured I'd check here when you didn't show"
The reminder made you want to grind your teeth together. Again with the assumption that you would just do whatever they wanted. Like you hadn't left on your own. Like you haven't survived three whole years, on your own.
"Well tough shit" You heard yourself say. Internally, you preened at the display of strength. At not crumbling. "I said I didn't want to go"
To that, Suguru said nothing. Your eyes bounced on him and away again. You didn't want to oogle him, to see all the ways his appearance might have changed or otherwise stayed the same. You didn't want him to look at you either, but you could feel his eyes sliding over your body anyway.
When he continued to say nothing, you scoffed and stood up. Pain flared in your legs and feet but you refused to show it. Hands shaking, you pulled up the maps app on your phone and quickly typed in the directions to the nearest bus stop.
"Wait, wait" He said, sounding all out of breath. You did not, and put one foot in front of the other. Suguru exhaled a sharp breath (how similar he and Satoru were, in some lights) and grabbed onto your arm. Of course you tried to break free, but there was no beating the natural strength of an alpha. "Let's just talk about this, alright?"
You shook your head, saying nothing. You didn't want to talk. Talking with Suguru was worse than fighting. He had such a way of words. Spinning them in such a way that you got all mixed up and tired—always admitting defeat. Shamefully, you felt tears rising up at the threat of a verbal confrontation with him and harshly scrubbed them away with the palm of your free hand. More tears fell.
A lump formed in your throat as you pushed down a hiccuping cry. Stupid. You were stupid for leaving the house. This whole situation was stupid. You were just a stupid girl who never seemed to learn.
"What are you doing out here, all by yourself?" You heard him ask. Suguru's voice was soft and slightly condescending, as if you couldn't be trusted to make decisions for yourself. "It's late. Your phone doesn't have much battery left to it. What if something had happened to you, dear? Could you really walk nine miles back to your house?"
"How did you–?" You stopped crying long enough to blink your teary-eyed gaze up at him quizzically. You powered on your phone. Just like he said, the battery was pitifully low. Then, you glanced down at your feet. Had you really walked nine miles? You shook your head. That didn't matter. "I can take care of myself. You...you don't have to worry about me anymore"
"I always worry about you" Suguru said, and his face looked perfectly believable.
You tried to scoff, but it sounded weak. And more importantly, it sounded like you were about to cry again. Once more, you tried to tug away from him. He didn't let you—instead crowding too close into your space. Stop, let go of me, you said pathetically quiet , but he cut you off with soft shushing noises.
Suguru pressed your foreheads together. And it reminded you so painfully of Satoru, and the sweet way you always brushed your noses against one another. His eyes were open, unblinking as they bore down on you. Even when you screwed your own eyes shut (which you couldn't do forever, and then opened), you felt his stare keenly.
"Why didn't you come?"
You set your jaw, swallowing thickly. "I...I was scared"
"What's there to be afraid of?" He asked "It's just us"
And therein lied the problem. You felt yourself sighing heavily, trying to resist him. It wasn't worth getting yourself hurt again. You knew that. No matter how badly you wanted to feel loved again, it wasn't worth being passed back and forth between them like a chew toy. But before you loved Suguru, there was Satoru. And he was always impossible to resist.
That's why you needed to get away. And stay away. Because no matter what Satoru did to you, it was impossible to truly hate him. Not when he was so wrapped up in your DNA you couldn't tell where he ended and you began. You spent the past three years shuffling through the motions, hardly living.
You said nothing. Maybe you didn't need to. Suguru knew you well. How many times had you cried into his chest, feeling pathetic and worthless without Satoru there to guide you? Before they even met, he hated Satoru, for what he put you through. You wondered how that worked. Being fated for a person you could only half-stand. Maybe these three years had given the two of them plenty of time to sort everything out.
"It's alright" You heard him murmur. His hand snaked underneath your jacket, unzipping it to expose your top. You feared only for a second what he would do before your inner omega calmed that right down. It was Suguru. Suguru would never do anything to hurt you. His hand pressed against your unbitten mating gland. He studied it silently for a bit, gently tipping your head this way and that to get a better look at it.
Then, without another word, his palm slid to the back of your neck, and he scruffed you.
With a panicked noise, you fell into his chest, breathing hard against the instincts that made you submit to him. It didn't take long at all for that too to die out, leaving you boneless against him.
"I know you don't like being scruffed, honey." You heard him say as he gently hoisted you up into his arms and walked over to the park. "But you can't run away forever. We need you back"
"I le-left..." You slurred; with great effort as he gently deposited your prone form into the passenger side. "I don't...I wan–I wanna go home"
"We are going home" Suguru murmured, buckling you in and kissing your forehead, and again on your slack mouth. "Now sit tight. That'll wear off by the time we get there, don't worry"
You felt sick the entire ride there, like you did this morning. In reality, it couldn't have been longer than 30 minutes. You tried to focus on the scenery, maybe deduce where Suguru could be taking you. But your instincts and mind were all muddled.
Because Suguru scuffed you. Something that alphas did not to reign in their unruly omegas—something that was meant as a last resort. He used the intrinsic trust placed in him by you and he took away your autonomy. You never thought he would do something like that to you.
Your head lolled in the seat as you tried to wait for the effects to run out. Suguru drove with one hand on your thigh; making soft conversation with himself. He didn't seem to mind the fact that the only thing you could get out were incomprehensible little noises.
Just like he said, the effects of the scruffing wore off just as he pulled into the driveway of a luxurious penthouse complex. The sort you would never be able to afford. Your heart dropped right to your ass and when Suguru rounded the car to open the door for you, you fitfully whimpered.
"None of that now," He chided, gently kissing you on the mouth again. You hated how much that relaxed you.
To that, you said nothing, allowing him to hold your hand as he led you inside. The man at the front desk, nor security, seemed to care that there was a fearful smelling omega clutching at one of the alphas. He simply waved a greeting and that was the end of it.
Your body thrummed with nerves as Suguru herded you into the elevator. There was no one else present. A small mercy. Even with the constant touching meant to soothe, you were terrified. You didn't want to be there. You wanted to go home. But you weren't so sure either of them would let you.
At one point (just how high up was this penthouse), Suguru crowded you against the back wall, chuffing into your throat. He didn't seem to mind that your scent stunk of distress. If anything, he just made more soothing noises and rubbed your sides—his own scent smelling completely at ease.
Like this was normal.
The elevator lurched to a stop, and your heart with it. You planted your feet on the floor, a last ditch effort, wildly shaking your head as Suguru made move toward you.
"No, no, I don't—" Want to. You could laugh so hard that you burst into tears. It was clearly obvious that neither of them cared what you wanted. Instead, you tried for a different angle. "He's going to be angry with me"
Suguru glanced at you, and hummed. "Only for a little while" He said, and pulled you out. You could feel the searing warmth of his hand on the back of your shoulders—as if he didn't trust you not to make a break for it at the first chance.
You were completely silent as he led you down the hall. You gnawed at your inner cheek harshly, tasting the copper of blood as he slid the key expertly into the lock. Suguru ushered in you inside with an amused huff and a gentle shove.
Their combined scents slapped you in the face. It was potent, maybe even more so with so much distance and time between you. Even your own place didn't smell this strongly. Openly curious, your eyes traveled around the place.
It looked how you would imagine. Clean, like something out of a magazine. Suguru's work, no doubt. If there was a mess made from dinner, there was no way of knowing. The kitchen was spotless and slightly smelled like cleaning products. The lights were off, save a lamp in the sitting room and a small one over the stove. Satoru was nowhere in sight.
Confused, your steps faltered, clumsily sliding out of your shoes. "Where's—?"
"Here." Suguru said, gentle smile on his face, bangs slightly obscuring his eyes. His hand settled on the small of your back as he once again herded you around. He led you to what you could only assume was their bedroom.
Your stomach churned with nerves. You tried planting your feet again, shaking your head. "W-wait. Wait, I changed my mind. I don't, I want to go home—"
"Ssshh" He soothed, and kissed your cheek from behind. His chest was like a brick wall behind you. He pushed the door open, gently guiding you inside. The door closed behind you both with a click, and the lock sliding into place sounded like the end of any further escape attempts.
Just like the rest of the penthouse, the big lights in the bedroom were killed. There were a couple of floor lamps that illuminated the space into a gentle glow.
And there he was.
Satoru was sitting on a plush chair. He was wearing a large shirt—probably Suguru's, and...a pair of your sheer pajama shorts. You recognized the blue fabric immediately. How long had that set been missing? Why, after three years, is Satoru wearing your lingerie? Why had Suguru kissed you, not once, but twice. Why do neither of them seem to accept the word 'no' for an answer?
The lamp made shadows against his face. He looked sweet, gentle, kind, white hair framing his face as his slender fingers splayed across the book pages. It must have been act. You have never willingly seen him pick up a book. He glanced up at you, and you felt the air around you prickle.
He wore a blank expression. You couldn't tell if he was pissed off or the happiest man on the planet. It wasn't like a couple of days ago—when he saw you and leapt into your arms. Satoru studied you for a few moments, and then tossed the book aside. He waved you over, though not unkindly, somehow, that was worse.
You knew what he expected of you. You turned your head, glanced once more at Suguru. He wasn't going to save you. Not when he wanted the same thing Satoru did. The omega's eyes tracked you as you stepped closer. He widened his legs a bit and sighed pleasurably once you straddled his lap and hugged him.
Of course, three years wasn't nearly enough time for you to unlearn him. Not all of him. You carded your fingers through his hair and let him nuzzle and lick at your chin and cheek.
"I'm really hurt, you know?" Satoru murmured, eyes flickering upwards to meet your own. You said nothing, but nodded to signal that you understood him. "I worked really hard, all week, to make dinner for you. I wanted to make you feel special. And you didn't even show!"
"I'm sorry" You said immediately, because the pout in Satoru's voice was so familiar. As youth, you never did anything truly heinous to him. Your biggest offense was always not giving enough of your attention to him. All you had to do to get back into his good graces was dote on him some, pet his hair and croon about how sorry you were. How you'd always be right where he wanted. "I'm sorry for not showing up, Satoru"
You felt him sag against you at the sound of his given name.
"No you're not" He said suddenly. Terrified, you watched as his expression went from cheery to hard. As if you were nothing. "I don't believe you. You'll leave again. The minute we turn around....you'll leave. You always leave. You're always trying to leave us"
"Ow–ow, Satoru, you're hurting me—"
His hand presses bruises in the shape of his fingertips around your forearm as you foolishly attempt to get up. He quickly follows after you, and the more you fight him, the harder it gets to break your way free. Until you can do nothing but huff, scent tinted with heavy fear and distress.
Satoru's purring now, happy and pleased now that he has you restricted underneath him. He's wrapped himself around you—and the omega is much too tall and gangly for the hold to feel anything but terrifying. It takes great force to relax, trying to project notes of soothing into your scent so that he'll let go of you.
He doesn't. He just purrs louder.
You're forced at an eye level with his mating mark. Only then do you seem to remember that Suguru is still there. His feet sound almost silently as he crosses the room over to the bed. A shadow falls over you both and Satoru lets up only a bit so that you can look the alpha in the eye.
"I get to have her first" Satoru says, voice thin once Suguru attempts to touch. He pulls you in against your chest and restricts your airflow with the strength of it. "Remember?"
"You're going to make her pass out" Comes Suguru's blithe reply, somewhere above you.
Satoru makes a noise of surprise, releasing you all together. You get a handful of seconds max to categorize your positions before everything shifts again as he begins pressing hurried little kisses all over your face. "Lemme make it up to you baby, 'm sorry"
A whimper gets caught in your throat as Suguru maneuvers your form on the bed. You try to fight him, but Satoru pins down your arms as the alpha unbuttons your slacks and pulls them down your legs and then off; tossing them somewhere you can't see.
The omega pulls a face. "I wish you would have worn sexier panties" He says, like he has any right to dictate what underwear you choose. Satoru's fingers find the band and snap them against your hips. Then does it again once you flinch. "Hm. Nevermind. I can sorta see the appeal to these, can't you, Suguru?"
"The simple ones have their charms" He agrees, studying the lower half of your body. "I think the white makes her legs look longer"
Satoru tilts his head and sucks his teeth. "Yeah, you're right. Baby, you've got really pretty legs, you know that?"
Two sets of eyes shift upwards to where you're desperately trying not to cry. You know you should say something. You know you just can't lie there and let them fuck you. But your mind is drawing a blank. Satoru sucks his teeth again and murmurs, why's she upset? And to which Suguru replies, maybe she's tired of you teasing her.
Even if you can somehow get past Satoru and Suguru both, there's no way you're going to escape the penthouse. Much less the locked bedroom door. And what would you do then? Run down to the lobby with no pants on? As you struggle to think of an escape plan (with the dawning horror that there might not be one), the mated pair strip you bare from the rest of your clothes.
Once you're naked and trying to curl up on yourself, you're forced to watch them both makeout. Even when you turn away you can still hear them, Satoru's exaggerated moaning and them swapping spit. It dredges up bad, awful memories. You walking in on them the very first time, Suguru's teeth at his throat, both of them naked from the waist down like they just couldn't wait.
And when Suguru gets a hand on you, rolling you once more onto your back, Satoru snarls and goes—"I get to go first"
"I know that," Suguru says, and has the gall to roll his eyes. "I'm just getting her ready for you, is that okay, you big baby?"
"No" Satoru snaps, petulant. You say nothing, watching with wide fearful eyes, hardly daring to breathe as the alpha and omega regard one another with a series of looks. At last Suguru gives in, hands held up in surrender and Satoru crowds your entire vision, smiling.
"Hi" He says, booping your nose.
"Hello" You reply, sniffling.
"Don't worry, I wouldn't let that brute go first" The omega murmurs, spreading your legs around his waist. Like that's the source of your concern. "You haven't fucked an alpha in a while. I bet his cock would break your poor pussy, wouldn't it?"
The words make it feel more real, suddenly. Satoru is going to fuck you. He found you, tracked you down. Stalker you. Got you to meet him at the cafe with the intention that on Saturday (today), he was going to fuck you. Your omega ex best friend is going to fuck you and his alpha is probably next and there's nothing you can really do about it.
"Please, no, please–" Satoru rolls his eyes, but the words won't stop pouring. "I don't—please. Please don't, Satoru. 'm sorry. I'm not....'m not ready. I can't—"
"Of course you're not ready, silly" The omega says, grinning as he sucks on two of his fingers before bringing them down to your hole. "It's been three years. Did you think I was just going to stick my cock in?"
You try to snap your legs shut, sniffling and whimpering. But Suguru pins down your knees and keeps you spread open. Satoru's fingers are thick, a little longer than what you're used to. They seem to reach deep inside, scooping out most of your coherent thoughts.
It's good, I don't like this, it feels really good, I don't want to do this; I want to go home—
All the while, Satoru shushes your cries, like the sea lapping against rock. Sssh, sssh, sssh. He coos at you, flicks your clit with his thumb to get you wet. Noses along your scent gland and murmurs, "That's it baby, just like that. Feels good, doesn't it? Your omega's makin you reel good"
He seems to have never ending patience. Goes slow until your body feels laden and heavy, pussy noisily sucking in his fingers. Two, then three, Satoru mumbling encouragements while hovering exactly three centimeters away from your face all the while. Reassures you that he isn't mad. Not anymore. Tells you how much he loves you, how happy he is to have you home. How long he's been waiting for this.
It makes you sick. Even worse when the omega pulls his fingers free and you whine, dazedly wanting to feel full again. You don't even try to close your legs again, maybe because Suguru is still there and you know he wouldn't let you. Maybe because you like it and you want Satoru to keep going.
You just lie there, sucking in lungfuls of air and mentally prepare yourself. They'll have to stop sometime, won't they? And then you can leave. All you have to do is endure for a little while, and it'll be over.
Satoru teased you with his cock, smirking. He's more well endowed than what you would expect a male omega to be, but you know from personal experience that Suguru's much bigger. Satoru though, is a little shorter than 6 inches, and pretty girthy. And as much as you hate to admit it, you're glad he's going first.
Because Satoru is right—you haven't had sex with anyone, much less an alpha male, in close to three years. And there seems to be this superstition that omegas are always loose and wet, but that isn't really the case. Of course omegas slick up, but mostly during heat cycles. Outside of that, your pussy is meant to stretch to birth pups, not to take alpha cocks without prep.
"Ready?" Satoru asks, and you bite down on your lip as his cock pushed in. The omega grunts, bucks his hips, and shoves inside all in one thrust. You yelp, legs threatening to snap shut. Satoru smiled smugly against your cheek. "Big stretch, sweetheart, yeah, you can take it. Good girl"
You turn your face into the sheets, keeping your noises trapped behind your teeth as Satoru starts fucking you entirely too quickly. How to describe it? It's unlike anything you've ever felt before. You and Suguru had what most would 'lovemaking'.
He was hardly ever rough with you. It was soft and slow and gentle—like every whispered fairy tale omegan girls told themselves, sighing and simpering amongst their own second gender. This wasn't that.
Satoru was fucking you meanly. Like he was punishing you for leaving even though he swore he wasn't mad anymore. If you moved too much against him, hips trying to get some sort of relief, he would attack your throat, growling lowly until you stopped trying to run.
The noises you tried to bite back escaped, and it was too intense to be called pleasurable, really—it was too much feeling for all of it to feel good. You couldn't describe it, just that your whimpers turned to wails that you were sure others could hear (which only embarrassed you further), hands scrabbling at Satoru's slick sweaty skin.
He delighted in the markings, even if you were sure they had to hurt. He pinned your hips down to the mattress, laving at the skin of your scent gland with his wet tongue as soft, animalistic noises pouring out of his throat.
"We coulda had this the whole time" He grunted, grabbing your chin in his hand and directing your attention back to his face. "Isn't this nice, baby?"
You didn't answer him, you weren't sure you could. A series of strangled gasps left your lips, hand maybe trying to shove Satoru off or pull him closer. "I can't" it's not even higher than a gasp. You register Suguru's hands brushing your hair back. "I c-can't—I can't—please....please"
"Ssssh, it's okay" Suguru, this time. Your eyes lift to meet his, and you realize that your head is pillowed in his lap. You can feel his hard cock jerking against the side of your face, which fills you with disgust. "You're having fun honey, that's all. I know it's a lot. But you're doing so well. I'm proud of you"
You slap your hand over your mouth, mouth making a wild, panicking sound as your orgasm slams into you suddenly like a train. Your vision whites out for a second. You're scared, you've never felt like this before, and you want so badly to go home.
"Yeah, see?" Satoru murmurs, a bit breathless. "We're having fun"
He makes a noise of appreciation, pulling out for a moment to watch your cum trickle out of you in slow trickles before gently, ever so gently, sliding back in again. You make a pained sound, oversensitive, but Satoru just shushes you. He coos, a more omega sound, and that settles your nerves enough to let him continue sliding into your puffy cunt with slow, languid strokes without much protest, save for the occasional whimper.
Suguru suddenly moves. He does not toss your head out of his lap, but he is not all too gentle either. The suddenness throws you off guard, so you miss the look the mated pair share.
Teeth settle over your throat. Instinctively, you suck in a breath, panicked sound caught in your throat, trapped on a plea, right as Suguru bears down and bites. The pain is blinding, and you squeal, to which Satoru easily holds you down, gives a couple of jerky thrusts, and cums.
He rests his head on your shoulder. Both of them do, one on each side. Panting. Hair tickles your neck, your sensitive gland, your face. You join them, caught in a sea of nothingness that seems to bobble as far as the metaphorical eye can see.
You're brought back to the present as someone bites down again. Satoru this time. You don't even struggle. You don't even feel much of anything. Even the pain seems distant. You register him licking the wound clean, followed by the sound of kissing from above.
They marked me, they marked me, theymarkedme how am I supposed to leave–they marked me—
Bonded omegas can't survive without their mates. Not this early. It'll kill you, or the bond sickness will become so bad that death will seem like the merciful thing to endure.
Satoru pulls out. His fingers push his spend back into your cunt. "Hey Suguru?" He says, questioning lilt in his tone. You can feel his eyes piercing into you. "It would be something if I got her pregnant before you did, huh?"
Suguru growls. A proper alpha one that has the hairs raising on your arms and the back of your neck. You start whining, plaintive little noises to try to calm him down—even though you don't care in the slightest. Your mind is suddenly overwrought with alpha mad, alpha's mad at me—
"No, no, not you sweetheart" Suguru murmurs, holding onto your cheek and stroking away your tears with his thumb. "Satoru just got me riled up, that's all"
You can hear Satoru cackling. You try to sit up, body aching. It's hard. Especially when Suguru intercepts the action with a soft, not yet baby—loops that toned arm around your waist and gently turns you over. You find yourself on your hands and knees. Not that the position lasts very long, because he pushes down lightly on your lower back, and you collapse like a house of cards, which delights Satoru greatly.
"Ready?" Suguru asks. Which is pointless. Of course you're not ready. You panic a little in the clutch, whimpering and trying to get away from him, summoning what little fight you have left. All Suguru has to do to put a stop to it is nibble on your mating mark. You turn your face into the sheets with a gasp, breathing in the dank scent of sex as the alpha pushes inside.
He's big. Of course. All alphas are (or so you've heard). Even though you feel like Satoru had fucked you to hell and back already, nothing really quite compares to the way Suguru's cock reaches in deeper, deeper than where Satoru could ever go, and molds your pussy to his shape.
Tears wet your cheeks, and you stile a sob as the alpha bottoms out. He groans, slides out an inch before slamming back in, his balls slapping against your ass.
"I know" Satoru murmurs, sounding almost wistful. You can't tell if he wants to be in your position or if he just wants to fuck you again. Hands that had once pinned you down and restricted your movements now brush the wetness from your face, followed by soft kisses.
"Fuck" Suguru isn't one for cursing. Even in spite of everything, you find yourself thinking, maybe he's changed this way, too. His head must hand forward, because you can feel his hair, like a curtain of ink, sliding over your back.
"Good?"
He nods. You can feel it. The curtain moving. "It's been so long"
"Careful" Satoru says, exposing a hint of teeth. "She was my omega first, and I might get jealous"
"Mmm...I let you have your turn" Suguru replies, running wide hands down the sides of your body. He sounds like he could have been trying for nonchalant, but more realistically, it sounds like he's short of breath.
Maybe it's the bond. Maybe it's just Satoru, who is undeniably closer. But you swear you can feel his breath on your skin.
"Alright, dear" Spittle trickles out of your mouth, and you can only summon a strangled noises as Suguru adjusts your position slightly, notching your hips upwards a bit. His hand rests on the innermost part of one of your thighs to keep you upright. Your eyes meet, or what you can see of him anyway, through blurred tears. "Oh, you really are so pretty. Okay, I'm going to start now"
"Oh, boo" Satoru says, leaning down to literally lick up your drool, kissing your forehead as you attempt to draw back from him. "You never fuck me that gentle"
"You don't like it gentle" Suguru points, and you think he might be rolling his eyes.
You want to protest that this doesn't feel gentle. But Suguru isn't jackrabbiting into your pussy, it's deeper than that. Your hands grip tightly onto the sheets, mewling as he finds your spot with uncanny precision and proceeds to target it ruthlessly. Your mouth cracks open on a moan—and then you just don't stop.
It sounds pornographic. It's made worse with the bond, you think. Suguru's satisfaction scrambles your brain, makes the room feel like it's spinning on a wobbly carousel. It feels like wading into a pool, except the water rushes up far too soon before you're ready, and overwhelms you.
At the bottom of the pool is Satoru. Or perhaps he is the water. Everywhere, inescapable. The beginning and the ends of your psyche. When Satoru fucked you, it felt like entirely too much from the beginning. Too much, too fast, too deep, no time to breathe. It's similar with Suguru, but different too. You don't know which is better or which is worse. All you know is that you want to stop.
There's a shaky cry, a hiccuping gasp that Satoru brushes away as you choke on air, mewling and pleading for mercy. To stop. Neither of them pay you any mind. To them, it's just another part of the fantasy. Your thighs tremble, and then you just...grunt, too exhausted to even move. Suguru adapts brilliantly, follows you down, molds himself to your back, and doesn't let up even for a second.
The bond is chokingly tight. It grips you tighter, and tighter until...
Until everything just goes black.
You wake to the sun shining entirely too bright, a killer headache and an absolutely terrible taste in your mouth. Stomach lurching uncontrollably and body feeling as though you were slammed into a brick wall, you groan and smack your lips; throat scorching hot and dry.
"I know sweetheart," A voice says. It sounds as though it could be nearly angelic. "I bet you've got quite the headache, let me see what I can do about that. Open up"
Dutifully, you crack open your eyelids and pain stabs through your entire form. The voice chuckles.
"Your mouth, darling" Suguru admonishes, playfully. Oh. You do, and small tablets are dropped onto your tongue, followed by a large gush of water to help it all down. Weakly, you guzzle for more, wetting your aching throat. At last, that weird foul taste seems to go away.
Memories suddenly come forward, each one as painful and quick as the last. No, baby, we're not done. You didn't think we were done, did you? With a lurch, your body jerks up so fast that the painkillers (or whatever they were) are nearly thrown up.
"Woah" Suguru whistles "Not too much, too fast. How do you feel?"
Disgusting. Sick. Broken. "I...I don't–not good" You grasp for something. Anything. "Hungry."
The alpha leans in and kisses your forehead. Satoru must feel it through the bond, because you can feel him skimming back. That'll take some getting used to.
"I know, my poor omega" Suguru murmurs "Don't worry. We'll get some food in you soon. Satoru's making breakfast"
That causes your brows to jump to your hairline, even amidst all the pain currently wreaking havoc on your body. Satoru? Cooking? When you were younger you distinctly remembered that he hated anything that could be considered slightly omega-like. Especially since everyone around you framed it as something to be done in service for an alpha.
Cooking, cleaning, babysitting. He refused to do any of it. When he was younger, everyone swore he would grow out of it. He did not. Then everyone just made peace with the fact that his future alpha would have to know what they were getting into, mating an omega as highbrow as Gojo Satoru.
Suguru traced his fingers down the side of the bite, which made your stomach lurch again. "He did it for you; you know? Wanted to impress you. Though if you ask me, I just think he did it so I couldn't take the glory of being the one to make all of your meals"
You're only half listening. Satoru taught himself how to cook. Satoru and Suguru, at some point, must have been thinking about this for a very long time. They knew, somewhere at the back of their minds, that you would not come to them willingly.
Maybe they knew you wouldn't show. That was how Suguru knew how to find you. And then he scuffed you. Fucked you. Both of them. And now there are two burning mating marks on the side of your throat that you can't get rid of.
"I think 'm gonna be sick" You gurgle weakly.
The alpha makes a noise of surprise, and grabs the trashcan just in time for you to hurl into it. He rubs your back all the while, murmurs his little there-there's. Once it's all out of your system, Suguru thumbs away a line of spittle.
"Might have been just a little too rough" He says, "I apologize on both of our behalves. We were...excited"
You squeeze your eyes shut so that you won't cry.
Suguru doesn't wait to see if you'll accept his apology. Maybe he doesn't really care. He got what he wanted from you. The bond flowers, bursts of happiness that take control of your thoughts and whisk them away to a more pleasant place.
One of them....maybe both. They're doing that. They're forcing you to feel good. Not even my thoughts are my own anymore.
"How about a bath?" Suguru says, too close to your face.
"Okay" You say, because what else is there to say.
"Good girl" The alpha responds, and smiles, very obviously happy. He lifts you up (still naked, covered in marks and bruises—and oh god, they didn't stop—even when you passed out they didn't—). "We're going to treat you so well here, darling. It'll be like nothing ever happened, you'll see"
There's a mirror, on the way to the bathroom. You catch a glimpse at the marks marring your throat. Suguru's, deeper, redder, then Satoru's. Like a Venn diagram. The skin between them mottled and puffy.
You lay your head down on Suguru's shoulder. You try to summon the tears to cry, but you can't. It like there's something physically blocking you from those feelings. You wonder how much longer it'll be before you even forget to feel sad and hurt over what happened to you.
As your alpha helps you into the tub, gently scooping the copious amounts of cum out of your cunt, you think to yourself, no one said that mating would make me feel this helpless. It was supposed to be glorious. Magical. Your fairy tale ending. This is a nightmare that you can't wake up from. You feel cheated. You wish you had never accepted Satoru's invitation in the first place.
But really, you snort, and Suguru says, what's funny, quirking his brow and you tell him, nothing. And then you think, realistically, how much longer would you have been to resist them?
the way Dabi would be the most abnormal person ever in a relationship because he was never taught how to be in one. oh my sweet boy.
the way you would be his many firsts. his first love, his first kiss, his first time making love, etc. the way he clings onto all of these sweet moments whenever he could when not dealing with the league.
the way he would be internally freaking out if/when you two have your first fight because he is so scared that you could decide to leave him. the way he would beg for you to forgive him and not hate him.
dex cant ever be normal about you sending him voice messages, the first time you did it, it was something as simple as "hiii! are we still meeting up later?" he played it probably 15 consecutive times before he texted back his typical one word reply "yes." and days after hes still listening to it, uses the sound of your voice to fall asleep, listens to it while he eats or takes his walks or when he needs to wind down, he never figures out how to tell you how much he likes them, dex is far too embarrassed to ask you for more too, what if you laughed in his face or something?
he's heard you uttering the question in the recording probably like a billion times by the time you finally send him a brand new audio message, he presses play in a desperate haste, dex gasps at the sound of your voice saying something as innocent as "can't text right now, ill message you as soon as i get home okay?", hes elated to have brand new content to replay over and over again, hes probably gonna jerk off to it too
You work for Mr. Charles assisting Dex’s assigned tasks. Things get tricky when he realizes he feels things for his second in command handler after months of working together, and your apartment is too tempting not to break into
Warnings: stalking like y’all know who this fic is about! He’s kind of a creep wow, Raw sex, A little dark!Dex, he breaks in and jerks off in your room, teeny Voyeurism kink, handjob and choking and dirty talk and sweetness, he fucks you in his lap, this should be the poster child for Dex switch agenda omg
Dex couldn’t help it. His hands had worked faster than his mind, and it started off as such an ordinary thought. This is where you sleep, I wonder what it feels like to have your heat so close. Mundane and domestic and the sick fantasy of all that would never be true just became too much for him.
And maybe that’s what ruined him, what made his manhood swell and leak in his briefs because it felt so unreachable until he came here. Until he knew what type of soap you used and where you keep your cutlery and how many pajama sets you have.
You’re at work, likely going through paperwork that makes you look like you’d do something illegal for a full eight hours of sleep. It’s also most likely affiliated with him, recent assignments closed and there are plenty of deposits to be made.
His included.
You’re good at your job. It was one of the many first things he noticed about you, and it made his ears perk up whenever you spoke and the hair on the back of his neck stand to attention.
Like whatever words rolled off your tongue was something he’d want to know, something he needed to know because missing it felt detrimental.
Whatever world you were brought into, clearly far too young, has shaped you into a person who completely understood objective. The cold hard truth of it in the unconventional, and more importantly how necessary it is.
And yet somehow, after he’d come back from something terrible and wretched in nature yet as easy as breathing, disgustingly normal for him with blood still splattered on his suit - you’d have a soft smile. Gentle, like reality held no meaning and the diner is going to close in an hour and you still have to be up for three hours so come with me Dex!
You’d drag him by his jacket like he’s a puppy who can’t be let off the leash too long or he’ll do something you don’t have enough money to pay for.
And he’d follow like he didn’t just end someone’s life hours before, and yet somehow he still deserved to have your hand on him and your late night grin beaming towards him in the midnight streets of New York.
Your energy is like a vortex of something that wants to peel away at him, pick at his brain and settle yourself between matter. He doesn’t get it. In a lot of ways it frustrates him, makes his skin itch a little because people aren’t just like that.
They don’t ask you how you’re feeling when you’ve still got fresh blood on your hands, or steal sips of your coffee and pretend they don’t see you subtly lick the edge of the cup where their mouth just was.
And yet, he felt the buzz in his brain start.
It started as a hum in the back of his skull, and yeah of course it was nice to go out for for breakfast at three A.M with a beautiful woman and chat business that always turned into talking about what movie you’d watched recently and how it changed your life.
And then he’d start talking about a mixtape that meant everything to him when he was nine and had no one but the boys in the orphanage who thought he was a fucking freak to talk about it with.
All because you asked what his favorite song is since he’s always wearing those ancient headphones, and maybe it was the faux compartmentalized safety box that he’d put you in that made it so easy.
Second arm to his boss, to a job he needs because structure had become wonky and he couldn’t have that. Not now, not after everything.
The hum quickly became a horrible, gluttonous, deafening roar.
He had, and still has no rational explanation. He knows the basics, he’s a man, and you’re you and you’re in close proximities and it is literally your job to make sure he is alive and well and every cog in the machine is well oiled.
So at his big age he should be able to differentiate between your professional and personal relationship. You meant something to Charles that wasn’t quite like a daughter, but something close and too parental in nature for Dex to understand anyways. He didn’t know what that even meant.
But Dex has never had a crush.
The word feels so fucking juvenile in his head, something from a life he’s never had and never will have. He has never felt love. Real, true, honest to god love.
He only knows the intensity of something under his skin, something that festers and writhes and aches inside of him. It crawls through veins and tendons and muscle and the framework in his spine and it beckons him.
So it did not take long for you to fester within him. To spread to every thought that wasn’t about his next hit or organizing his weaponry. Even doing the dishes, he wondered what you were doing in that exact moment.
Brushing your hair, your teeth? Were you still asleep and wrapped in your covers that he envied because they get to be bunched between your arms and legs and against your stomach?
You even seeped into the mundane everyday parts of life like something divine and real. When he did his laundry he thought of what you wore to bed and what soap you used and how you smell.
When he made his bed he thought about what your weight would feel like against his mattress, how your frame would ruffle the duvet and he’d be okay with it. And how the springs might creak when he crawls on top of you and kisses your sternum and makes a mess out of the softness between your legs.
Fuck.
He could lie and say he tried to fight it, but he’s more than grown now. He can take accountability. He’s just exercising a little free will, and he’s not hurting anyone, really.
No, this is the most devotional, wholehearted and earnest thing that he’s done in a very long time.
Your room is filled with your scent and he’s bathed in the glow of it like a wash of fresh air. His hands started shaking as soon as he walked in and felt surrounded by you, his belly hot and he really didn’t know what to do with himself with such an opportune moment.
His head went fuzzy, and his thoughts didn’t make sense anymore.
He scoped everything like forgetting would mean death. Your shaggy rug at the foot of your bed, your desk and the half open books and messy papers scattered everywhere. Your laptop still open and your chair rolled away like you got up and never sat back down.
Your bed is softer than his, and fluffy blankets surround your bedposts and there is no creaking of the springs when he sits himself down. You don’t make it in the morning like he does because the covers are still thrown from your spot and crumpled, pillow still indented with the shape of your head.
His fingertips graze the pink fabric and it lights something dangerous and hot inside of him very very quickly.
First it’s his palm on the sheets cause he wants to know if he can feel even the ghost of your heat when you lied here, and then his knees are on the mattress and god you really do smell so sweet, and then his face is in your pillow and he’s inhaling like a mad man.
He lets out a guttural groan, the blood rushing to his head as fast as it is to his dick and in the haze of it all he feels his hips buck unconsciously. Like his subconscious felt your insides too just then.
He doesn’t think about it. He can’t, or he’ll dwell and convince himself that he’s better than this. And he doesn’t want to be.
He just flips himself around, thick fingers fumbling with his belt buckle with all the trembling, and when he’s unbuckled he doesn’t even pull his pants down all the way to his knees before reaching for his weeping cock from the fold in his briefs.
He lets out a sigh of relief when the cool air from your overhead fan hits it, propping himself up on one elbow and letting his thick thighs part a little further. His feet are touching the ground, heavy boots scrunching your rug underneath their rubber soles.
He’s so hard it hurts, the tip is pink and leaking dribbles of iridescent precum down the thick of his veiny shaft.
His hand is as hot as his manhood when he wraps his thick fingers around himself and tugs with a dirty smirk and a half chuckle of disbelief that he’s so pent up. He hasn’t cum in months, and now this is happening.
“Fuck.”
He breathes out, hamstrings tightening along with his abdomen when the callouses tucked inside his fingers graze his sensitive mushroom head.
It’s dirty, and he feels like a teenager all over again because he’s staring at all of your stuff and is envious of everything that’s ever gotten to see you in your most human version.
He’s blushing at the thought of laying on the same bed you do.
He writhes his hips into his hand, pants like a dog in heat. He’s started getting a bit too messy, precum soaking into his underwear at this base. He’s still in a lustful haze when he’s looking off to his right and sees a haphazard piece of clothing that’s barely hanging off of your bed.
He twists his torso and grabs it like it owes him money. It’s inside out but he sees flashes of the white lettering on the front of the green fabric and he moans out loud. It’s one of your favorite tee shirts, you wear it to work at least three times a week and you’ve worn it on your after hours restaurant runs too.
He shoves it to his face, and if he’d done it any harder he’d break his nose but he doesn’t care. The smell of you after a shower and a night of sleep fills his senses, clouds him like a rainstorm and he’s so lost, so deep in it now so quickly.
He whimpers into the fabric, rocks his hips and the sound of his own arousal leaking out of him and being used as lube while he touches himself fills the room. He’s dragging his hand from his tip all the way down, and his head is just images of what you might feel like pulsing around him.
What it would be like if you were here right now on top of him, spread open on his thick lap and taking him to the hilt. Insides all battered and soft and sensitive. Crying his name over and over again. Getting him wet and messy and sticky.
“Fuuuuuck, baby fuck.”
It’s incoherent with your shirt pressed to his nose and mouth, at least that’s what Dex would be thinking if he had any thoughts other than your cunt and the shape of your mouth and the feeling of your cervix.
You’re honestly astonished he hasn’t heard you yet. He’s one of the best you guys have, so perceptive it’s almost superhuman and his reflexes are some of the best you’ve ever seen.
You, however, are quieter. Clearly. And it’s endearing, to see him through the crack in the door and understand almost immediately that he is the human embodiment of starvation and desperation.
It makes you gasp, because he’s so big and dressed in all black in your frilly room and the juxtaposition makes your insides throb. Of course it’s also the sounds he’s making, they’re whiny and loud your his whole hand is wrapped across his mouth with your shirt directly underneath.
It’s seeing a version of him that you never even fathomed would come to life. You didn’t even know it was this serious for him despite the fact that you knew his gaze lingered on you longer than normal during interactions.
Your heart feels like it’s going to leap out of your chest and onto the floor with a loud, squelchy thump.
You’re not disturbed, and that’s the most concerning part. But you’ve read up on his file over a hundred times now, of course. You know he’s not…conventional in his proclivities. You know he’s suffered, that it’s altered him permanently.
And you’ve spent time with him in the outside world, away from the murder and secrecy of your work life. You know what a real smile looks like when it spreads across his broad mouth, what a genuine satisfied hum sounds like when he takes a sip of his drink and it’s the right balance of milk and sugar.
And maybe you’ve always had a soft spot for the fucked up ones. For the ones that need to latch onto someone so badly they’d hang on until their fingers bleed. Because all you know how to do is help.
However, you can’t think too much about it right now when you’re distracted by how pretty his dick looks in his big hand and how neatly shaven he is or how his greying hair is getting long and you want to run your hands through it and tuck it behind his ears.
You just know you have to open your bedroom door all the way, so your hands find the cold knob and you’re pushing it open with a tepid step.
Dex stills, everything locking into place all at once. A series of thoughts run through his head very quickly, almost too fast for him to decide on one.
Ultimately, you didn’t break the door down. Or barge in with a gun aimed at his forehead although he’d kind of like that. In fact, you’re looking at him in a way that makes his balls tighten and his manhood twitch in his hold unconsciously. His body is just responding.
It’s not so much shock, or surprise or disgust. It’s like you’re curious, utterly transfixed by what’s taking place despite the fact that he’s staring dead at you and is slowly lowering your shirt to his lap over his erection and his cheeks and neck couldn’t be more beet red under any other circumstances.
“I have cameras, you know.”
Your voice hits him like a punch to the gut, he has to stop himself from doubling over a little because the taboo nature of the scenario is really fucking doing it for him and where someone normal would feel humiliation, Dex feels thrilled.
He’s been caught, and more so, he’s been surveilled while he thought he was being incognito and expertly smart about breaking and entering.
He looks like something scary and hungry right now, you can see his cock bobbing under your shirt where it’s covering him. He’s still panting, hair a little slick with sweat and you wanna lick the bead that trickles over his forehead and down the sharp bridge of his nose.
He looks like a person. Not a case file, not a weapon, not Bullseye. Just a man. And it makes you squeeze your thighs together when his eyes rake over you like he’s not ashamed of what he’s doing right now.
“You saw me come in?”
He asks, and his voice is rough like it has the permission to be when he’s pleasuring himself in your room. Completely wired and completely fucked. He licks his lips without thinking.
And now you’re advancing towards him, and you gently kick the door shut with the heel of your boot and he thinks he might spontaneously combust when it closes with a thud. He watches you like every step means something prophetic.
“I wanna know something,” You ignore his question, and he swallows so hard you hear it. He lets out a soft grunt of surprise when you’re finally so close he can map out details in your expression and feel your body heat in rivelets.
Your eyes are innocent and sparkling, head cocked a little.
You’re enjoying this.
Dex controls the cocky smirk threatening to spread on his face. He adjusts himself because he’s so sensitive and so unbelievably pent up and of course you’d have to be, well, like this.
Looking at him with saucers for eyes, breathing heavy.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
He asks, and now his heart is in his throat because you’re kneeling beside him on the bed, situating one foot under your bum and your weight dips him towards you a little and fuck. He’s ruining your shirt.
“You didn’t even go for my underwear drawer,”
You reach out and touch his face with your middle finger, grazing the scar on his cheek before tracing his jaw and chin. Then you’re pushing his hair back from his eyes and everything in his body starts vibrating.
He’s done something good. He must have, to earn this.
“you just saw a shirt I wear almost everyday and started touching yourself.”
Your hand doesn’t leave his face. It lingers and sears him, if he could see himself it’d be a sore sight. He’s molding himself to the curve of your palm and makes no effort to deny anything you’re saying.
“Thats kind of pathetic, Dex. Keep going.”
It’s a miracle he doesn’t cum from that alone. Nothing in his fantasies, nothing he’s fisted his cock to in the shower or humped his fucking mattress to could ever have conjured a sweeter vision than what’s in front of him.
He stutters when he speaks, trembling all over again with excitement and desire. Somewhere tucked away far and deep, he’s also nervous.
But you asked him nicely, and he can see your pulse thudding and feel how you’re starting to lean into him. He jumps a little when you reach out and pull your shirt off of the protrusion underneath it because it drags against him.
“You know I have cameras, Dex.”
Your breath is against the side of his face and he closes his eyes to savor it as he wraps his hand around the base of his shaft again. The goosebumps on his skin are tingling, and his blood is starting to swoosh inside his ears.
“You wanted me to watch. So move your hand, hmm?”
He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He gives himself a long stroke because doing anything else seems futile and useless and everything that could matter is happening right now.
His forearm is thick and strong and you watch how everything flexes and relaxes with each drag.
“Yes ma’am.” It’s said sarcastically, teasing at the end and yet his voice cracks a little when he says it.
He’s been caught, and you’re here beside him encouraging him with your voice and hands. What more could he reduce himself to?
He’s so beautiful it hurts. You’ll be angry at him later, maybe say some stuff that would humiliate and degrade a regular person and mean nothing to him. You just can’t get over how palpable your presence is to him, how intensely it’s influencing him.
All that strength, and brute and broadness and he’s nothing but this blushing, stuttering mess who’s jerking off with you whispering in his ear.
You grip his jaw with little to no force, and predictably he offers you his neck with his head lolling to the left a bit. The sound that leaves him is guttural and nasty and honest. His whole body jerks at the contact too, but you’re distracted by the taste of his skin.
You get caught up sooner than you expected yourself to. You’re mouthing at his throat, his jaw, his ear lobes. And you can hear the sounds coming from between his legs, sloppy and wet and it’s all him. Not to mention he is practically a lit wire under your touch.
You catch his thick wrist in your hand and the tendons flex harshly in your light grip. He looks over at you and now you’re low lidded gaze to barely restrained lust, noses brushing. You let the air between your mouths burn with the need to vanish.
You swat his hand away and he listens silently, fists your bedsheets instead and god, his pupils completely blow out when your grip replaces his.
“Fuck.”
You let him whimper it into your mouth, swallowing it with your lips against his and there are too many pleasurable sensations at once. His brain is completely empty, not capable of any other thoughts. He tries to use his free hand to touch you, but you shove it to the side and he knows he needs to behave.
He pouts and it’s earnest disappointment, but it doesn’t linger for long.
His tongue is explorative, finding yours immediately like he’s thought about kissing you over a thousand times.
Cause he has.
And he’s so reactive in your palm, you feel his pulse through the veins and he’s twitching with each pass of your teeth over his bottom lip and your nose brushing against his.
“Thought about this for so long.”
He confesses it like it hurts, and you finally move your hand and his pretty hazel eyes roll back. You already miss it, his overawe gaze, and so you grip his thick throat just enough to grab his attention and fuck it does.
“Did you? You’re unbelievable, look at you Dex.”
You’re toying with him now. With his emotions. It seems that anything you say will dial him up to ten and it’s riveting. Your grip on his throat tightens just a little, Adam’s apple bobbing underneath your palm and his pulse fluttering like a moth underneath his flesh.
He looks at you with watery eyes, like everything is burning hot where embarrassment should be. Where shame should be. You lick his open mouth, taunting him despite the slickness between your thighs and the blossoming heat in your gut.
“When did you think about doing this? Tell me the truth, I know you can do it.”
He scrunches his eyebrows together when you start palming the tip of his velvety cock, focusing on the sensitive underside while trying to draw out a response. You tangle your free hand in his hair now, tugging. He makes a pathetic sound through his nose.
“A w-week after I met you, fuck slow down.”
He’s genuinely overwhelmed. You can’t believe it. He’s more capable of submission than you thought, more attuned to your movements and your voice than what seems possible for not having an intimate connection until now.
His scar twists everytime his mouth quirks from your hand stroking him, crows feet crinkling by his eyes.
You tug his head back by his scalp, kiss his throat again and this time you let your teeth graze the surface. Just testing the waters, and his stomach convulses.
You remove your hand and he could really cry. But you can feel that perhaps that was going to do him in, and he’d spill all over his lap and make a mess of your sheets and you just don’t want it to be over yet and neither does he and you both know that.
Shouldn’t he know how much you’ve thought of this too? How many nights you’ve touched yourself to the thought of him? How you came home the moment you saw him on your cameras?
“Please, goddamit.”
He curses, clenches his jaw and he’s only confused for a second whenever you bring your cupped hand up to his mouth. He meets your eye and you nod, he spits at once, and then your palm is back over him with the hot saliva coating his length.
He smirks again because you let out a small gasp you didn’t think he’d notice, his lovesick eyes wondering how your lips could be so kiss bitten and swollen already, how you’re doing so good at trying not to act like this isn’t working you up so bad you’re leaking and aching just like he is.
“You’re so big, I always knew you were.”
His head starts throbbing, you’re getting dangerously sweet on him. Now you’re focused on his cock, switching to the sight between his legs and then his face because you don’t know which one you’d rather admire.
And your body has gotten so close you might as well be on his lap now, your tits against his bicep and your knees knocking his hips. He wants to lift your skirt and bury himself between your thighs, to know what your face looks like when you’re getting fucked by him.
“You’ve thought about it too.”
You just smile at his musing, and it’s sweet and familiar and it’s the version of you that he knows so well and he surges forward to kiss you again. You’re receptive, suckling the bottom and using your grip on the hair at his nape as leverage.
It’s sloppy, wet and loud and he groans down your throat. Your stroking has picked up its pace, focused on the tip where that hot stickiness leaks and lavishing his shaft ever so often. You’ve now thrown a leg over his thigh, pulling it towards you and effectively spreading them apart further.
“Of course I have, look at you. You might never know how much I’ve really thought about you.”
You breathe it out, and his heart feels like it’s grown three sizes, like it’s being mutated in real time. It might be at risk for swelling so badly it bursts from behind his ribs.
He’d chuckle in disbelief if he weren’t ruined, gutted from the inside out.
And now you’re kissing all over his face, his sharp nose, the creases in his forehead and neck. You’re hot to the touch, almost as hot as he is and your movements are full of tremble like you’re forgetting you initially started in a position of control.
He wants you to get lost like he is. He wants you to not be able to control yourself, to have no lingering thoughts about anything other than him and his body and his mouth and how heavy he is in your grasp.
He wants you to consume him, wholly and completely.
His eyes are closed so all he feels is you crawling on top of him and he bucks his hips instinctually, the heat between your legs just above his left knee as you straddle it firmly.
It’s thick, meaty and the rough material of these black cargos he’s wearing bumps right against your clit through the fabric of your panties.
He wants to feel your naked hips underneath where your skirt has risen up around your soft waist, and your breasts in his palm and how your nipples would feel rubbing against his skin.
He feels you right here on his thigh and yet he knows that he wouldn’t risk moving a muscle without your permission as to not end what’s happening.
When you start rutting yourself on the fabric, though, dragging yourself all the way up and then down over his knee, he has to grab your hand and stop you from pumping him for a second
“Just a second…please.” He asks, and you oblige him only because he looks so pretty. God.
“Using your manners, good job Dex.”
You say it like you’re genuinely proud and his eyes flutter shut as you fight his hand and start stroking him again. He grits his teeth, jaw clenched so tight it could shatter but he is surrendering in a way he’s never surrendered before.
And you’re not lost on it. No, you’re good at reading people too. You can see how the praise colors him in a blanket of warmth and lust and lightheadedness.
But now your clit is throbbing and you feel yourself leaking into your panties, the fabric is sticking to you and drags wet heat against your slit whenever you grind against his thigh.
The sight is just too much for you. Everything is clinging to him, every muscle and ridge and scar. And he is so pliable, so heavy on your fingertips that you don’t know what to do with the reality of it all.
Your hips surge forward again, and a sigh so soft leaves your mouth that he hopes he can hear that sound forever. It’s an immediate realization, a blinding sensation. He sees you with so much clarity.
“You’re so fucking pretty.”
It comes out dazed and it takes you by surprise because you didn’t expect to ever hear the word pretty come out of his mouth. And for everything he is, all the horror and all the hurt and all the misunderstanding, honesty slips out of him like loose teeth when he’s around you.
He’s pliant when you pull him to your mouth, and the kiss is raw now because you let him grab your face and his hands feel better against you than your thoughts previously cojurned in half asleep daydreams. They’re big and rough and his fingers are eager just to feel your soft cheeks, the curve of your nose.
His mouth is vicious and his tongue is greedy, and he’s making little plaintive cries in the back of his throat like your lips might be his immediate demise and he’s thankful for it, grateful for it.
“More, give me more.”
You say it like a demand but your voice is thin and weak and he just bucks his strong hips to readjust before using two hands under your ass to slide you over the shaft of his cock.
You’re planted with his length directly against your covered slit and it’s heavy and hot and twitches against you when your body recognizes what’s touching you. Who it belongs to. What situation you’ve gotten yourself into and you know you won’t refuse him. That he can’t refuse you.
Your thighs squeeze together, trapped by his broad waist in between them. You feel him everywhere already, the push and pull. Not to mention you’re sticky where he’s bobbing against you, and his chest couldn’t be more prominent through his shirt when he’s heaving like he is.
“Whatever you want. Take it from me. I’m yours, fuuuuuck f-fuck are you-“
He’s never felt anything like it, the softness of your slit and how you could be so syrupy and wet already, seeping and covering his pink tip in your essence. You’re so hot between your legs it’s making him lightheaded.
And he really is stunned in place. His body reacts for him, stomach tensing and torso attempting to grind up into you and the worst part is that you let him. That you’re allowing any of this.
Because now it’s made a home in him, not just the scrunch of your nose when something makes you laugh, genuinely laugh, or the skin by your fingers that you’ve chewed off, or your cunt rutting against him.
He’s already not the same, whatever infatuation he had is now dangerous and heady and sifting through his head like it’s trying to find ways to make it stop because he really needs this job.
Unfortunately, he needs you more.
Because now he’s gripping your hips and prying his arm underneath your ass to pull your panties to the side and you’re caged against him with the air knocked out of your lungs. He’s solid and strong and you’re clumsy when you reach between your bodies to grab his cock and shove it past your silken slit.
You lift yourself by the knees, and then lower yourself and he’s completely seated inside of you with one exhale and maybe if it were anyone else you’d be embarrassed about the noise that leaves you.
“Oh god, fuck.” You whimper it out, and he trembles. The stretch is severe.
You cling onto his shoulders and he’s so hyper aware of the pouting of your lips and the scrunch between your brows, your eyes closing like you’re savoring him. He’s should feel guilty for his thoughts, for how insatiable and miserable he’ll make you if you ever try to leave because you’re fluttering around his cock and he’s kissing your cervix.
“Take your time, not going anywhere.”
He encourages, and you don’t really know what to do with yourself because minutes ago you thought you had your head on straight, that you knew how to navigate all of this and all of, well, him.
But he’s big and throbbing against your gummy walls and you didn’t think you could ever feel so full of someone. It’s incredible how he can become Dex so quickly, not the new hire or the assassin or the anti hero or the mercenary.
He’s greying hair and scarred skin and rushing blood beneath you. And when your arms fasten themselves tighter around his freckled neck, he drags himself out slowly, savoring the syrupy glide before pushing himself back in to the hilt.
You melt against him further, body weakening with the intensity and he smiles to himself, satisfied and sanguine at your disarming. At how your hips couldn’t be more loose on top of him, with all that tension and tightness right where he’s disappearing inside of and your voice all gooey and soft now in his ear.
God, he couldn’t have dreamed it would go like this.
“You’re p-perverted for breaking in.”
You taunt him while he begins pistoning himself inside of you, hiccuping each syllable. The sound of your wetness is as loud as his jerking off was, a terribly gut wrenching sound that makes his possessiveness that much worse.
And your words, they shouldn’t make him shudder and convulse the way they do but you’re saying it while he’s fucking you and you just can’t really blame him.
Your fingers are holding onto the back of shirt so tight, your cheek planted against the nook of his jaw and shoulder. You’re putty in his arms, and they’re tighter by the minute in their hold on your middle.
His hips are so powerful, and you wish you could think about how bad of an idea this is. You wish you could break yourself out of your fucked out stupor, but you didn’t know he’d fuck you this good. You didn’t know that he’d be so deep inside you’re sure you’ll be able to feel him tomorrow.
“I know shhh, I know,”
he grunts it against your hair, starts searching for the skin of your neck. He just hovers there with parted lips and a red face and that hot wetness hugging him with each thrust.
“but l-look at us, you feel so goooood fuck, look how it turned out, yeah?”
He sounds dirty, menacingly nasty in what he’s saying and how he’s saying it and most of all how true it is. You love it, it’s terrible that you love it and yet you were buzzing with excitement when you checked your cameras and saw his big frame sauntering in.
The wet squelching sounds between your legs intensify, and somewhere between the grind of your hips and your teeth against his neck you’re crying his name.
“Dexxxx, ohhhh my g-god, baby.”
His hips genuinely stutter and his stomach starts fluttering, you feel him tense and relax three times over and his torso grinds into you a bit harsher than before.
He never thought he’d hear you call him that, and he’s glad you can’t see his face because his expression is so fucked.
That word is reserved for people who care about each other. For people in love. For people who can say soft things and not feel ridiculous and out of place or like they don’t deserve to hear it at all.
“Don’t stop, j-just don’t stop please.” You beg petulantly, hands rubbing his broad back, ignoring the way his pace has faltered and he’s softly panting in your ear.
He laughs, and it’s short lived and airy but you feel it in his chest. He grinds himself deep and unfairly into you, pushing you down on him while he’s fucking up into you. He feels the blunt ends of your nails leaving crescent moons in his skin.
“W-why would I stop? I can’t, I can’t.”
It’s true, he can’t fathom it. The thought doesn’t even seem feasible right now. You’re so tight, squeezing around him and he can feel your heartbeat inside of you. Rocks you against him sturdy and hard.
It feels like forever, with him pounding himself into you and your insides being bullied. In reality it’s only about five minutes, and you’ve been sucking on the side of his neck and his earlobe and he’s balls deep - writhing his hips.
Your clit is being rubbed by his pubic mound and you feel so much intensely deep pressure from his thick cock inside you that you’re sure you’re gonna burst. You’ve started pulsing too, milking him for everything he’s got.
He really didn’t know that he could feel things this intensely that aren’t anger or despair.
It starts unraveling when you take yourself out of the crook of his neck and meet his face. He swears he sees a little drool seeping from the corner of your mouth, and you’re looking at him like he’s a completely new person.
Or maybe he’d just never noticed it before, because he was too wrapped up in noticing you. And the idea of you noticing him too felt unrealistic.
But no, no it’s real and happening and you’ve got both hands on his cheeks and your nose is against his, your hips swiveling on top of him and your pussy making a mess on his lap that he’d frame if it were practical to do so.
“It’s all mine now, right?”
You kiss his mouth when you say it, and then your hand is splayed against the broadness of his flexing chest and you’re shoving him back until he’s lying down on your mattress, staring at you with so much devotion it’s scary.
You readjust while he’s still inside of you, leaning over to kiss him again and he knows he’s going to finish in this position. He’s already hiked his feet up on the bed to fuck you good and hard and he hates that his boots are on your pretty covers but he’ll wash them for you.
“I’m yours. My dick is yours. Everything. Take it, just like tha-a-at.”
He’s whining and blotchy, and the strain in his throat makes you double over because you feel the white hot tension move in your stomach when his cock curves into the deepest parts of you.
You want it to be true, all of it, and the physical reality is too much for you to handle.
You shove your face in his neck because you don’t want him to see how completely ruined you look when you cum. No, everything is shaking and you’re trying to close your legs and the tingling and throbbing is working its way through you like a virus that’s got to fever you first.
“O-ohhh god, Dex m’cumming.”
You slur it and he thinks he might pass out because he can feel it happening. He squeezes you harder than he has the whole night, holds your wriggling body firm against his frame when he starts delivering his last round of thrusts into your cunt.
It’s trying to push him out, it’s contracting around his cock and kissing it and weeping for it. He’s never been so high off of anything he’s done to another human being. Not even the most rectified kills have felt like this.
“Oh f-fuck, gonna fill you all the way up, mmfuck, you’ll take all of it honey, yeah yeah yeah.”
He sounds delusional and dizzy, he’s past the point of trying to sound nice or sweet because his balls are tightening where they’re still tucked in his briefs and he has to practice restraint like he’s never known so that he doesn’t crush you in his arms accidentally.
You put your tongue in his mouth when you feel the staccato thrusts, the immediate heat that swells in the space between your walls as he pumps his seed into you. And he’s moaning like he’s hurt, mmm’s and ooohhhhh’s and his teeth on full display like a wild animal from the curling of his lip.
You let your mouth linger on his while he’s twitching and you’re still pulsing.
His hands find your face, and he sloppily makes out with you, almost casually if it weren’t for the tremors in his wrists or the scrunch of his brows or the way he’s keeping himself inside of you while his cock softens.
He’s happy. He realizes that’s the emotion he’s feeling when you look him in the eyes again, and your face still hasn’t changed from that soft and frowny pleasure contorted look quite yet.
You don’t want it to end either.
You’re sobering up, and the ache still isn’t going away. You’ve completely crossed a line that has sent you into a realm you won’t come back from - because now he won’t ever be the same to you.
You know what he tastes like, what he sounds in your ear when he feels good, what he’s truly capable of when he’s got your body in his hands.
“Stay.” You don’t ask, just state it plainly like it’s already decided.
It crushes him from the inside out. It’s too much of a good thing that he’s never gotten and if he didn’t work with you everyday he’d think you were being cruel, offering him such a sweet thing.
Don’t you know it’ll make it worse? That now he’ll be in here every waking moment he’s not working? That he will memorize every part of your life that you think others will never notice?
“Really?”
He asks, and you don’t expect him to sound so small after all of that. To look so pitiful and blushed crimson and spent now, with blonde hair sticking to his forehead.
You nod, kissing his nose and his hands are smoothing over your shoulders, down your arms and over your back. Explorative and greedy and you arch into them.
“You can help me put my window lock back in place, creep.”
His smile is completely and utterly Benjamin Poindexter this time.
