pretty boy, consumed by death (Armand x Female Reader)
You're Daniel's assistant, and you can't but feel intrigued and attracted to Armand. Just some good ole fashioned porn with a bit of plot.
Word Count: 5844
Author note: I cant lie, I really wanted to write period sex in this fic cos I just felt it would be fitting, but maybe another time. Hopefully you like this! I havent written in so so long tbh, Im super rusty
TW: Blood licking, piv sex, fingering
You weren't sure how you’d become Daniel's assistant and if you were asked honestly it wasn't really where you had seen your life going. You weren't a journalist but an English major and while you had wanted to use your degree for something in the field, the real world had slapped you in the face. Months of working as a server to pay rent had gotten to you and on a whim you had clicked a vacancy for a Personal Assistant. You had no real relevant skills for the job but when you turned up for the interview which was at a cafe in a suit as Daniel sat across from you in jeans you realised skills may be optional. It was quick learning, and on occasion Daniel would let you edit his notes which was the highlight of the job. Daniel had soon dubbed you his Alfred, choosing to call you this over your actual name. It annoyed you immensely which you had told him once, however that just made him call you it more. But Daniel was a great boss, okay, he was a boss and you got paid almost always on time and free coffee.
When he had asked if you wanted to come to Dubai to interview a vampire you had thought he had either relapsed or was going through some kind of mental health crisis. Nonetheless you had accepted because why wouldn't you, and that's how you had yourself face to face with two actual vampires. Except when you had first gotten there, neither you nor Daniel were aware of the second vampire. You remember it clearly, meeting Rashid, the doe-eyed employee of Louis constantly glued to his ipad. You had watched as Louis had drunk from him, a small smile on Rashid's face as he stared at you all bright and shiny eyed Or maybe it was at Daniel, you weren't quite sure. At the time you were mildly disgusted at the inappropriateness of the situation (hello, power imbalance) and yet you couldn't find yourself tearing your eyes away.
In the end it was all fine though because Rashid turned out to be the 500 year old vampire Armand. You still cringe at the memory of trying to tip Rashid after he made you a drink; his voice surprised as he declined the folded up notes. You haven't figured out Armand, he's mostly quiet during the interview with Louis and Daniel; interjecting on occasion to add a comment or correct something. His presence however, is very loud. You're sitting slightly to the side today, you've been moving positions the entire time - Daniel's idea, something about seeing the story from all angles. You acted invisible during the interviews, mostly there to jot down the occasional note and get Daniel another coffee.
You look at Armand as Louis talks to Daniel, his side profile like marble carved from the hand of a god. Of course he wasn't human; how could someone with a beauty like his ever have the same beating heart and air in his lungs as you? Your eyes trace down his jaw to his neck, the same neck that you watched Louis drink from and you wonder what his skin feels like. Is it so cold that it hurts to touch, or is there warmth there lingering from his past humanity? He must feel your eyes on him because he turns his head to meet your gaze. You make a show of rubbing your eyes, acting like you’ve got something in them as you blink rapidly. Offering a tight lipped smile at Armand, his face completely blank, you stare at the notebook in your hands and don’t look up for the rest of the session.
It’s around what you would consider dinner time by the time the interview is done, and Daniel, as always, retires back to his bedroom. Without a word to you, both Louis and Armand disappear too, leaving you alone in the dark dining room. It was a common theme by now for you to be left to your own devices and while this was certainly the most interesting experience of your life, you couldn’t deny that you were a bit lonely. With a sigh you got up and made your way to the kitchen, your stomach grumbling. The kitchen was the same as the rest of the house; all slate grey walls and concrete floors. The handleless cupboards that lined the walls were painted the same colour as the walls and much like the other rooms in the house, there was no warmth to it, no heart.
Your own kitchen wasn’t anything to write home about; it was small with dated pine wood cupboards that came with the apartment that you didn’t have the money to replace. But there was life in it; magnets on the fridge from various trips, a stain on the ceiling from when you dropped a pot of pasta, mismatched utensils on the worktop sitting in a sunflower vase your mom had bought you.
Humming softly to yourself, you push on the corner of a cupboard, the fridge sliding out of the wall. You would never get over the novelty of a built-in fridge; it was certainly something that was way out of your tax bracket and probably always would be. You scan over the abundance of food lining the shelves; various meats, fruits, a fucking lobster. It seemed a waste to have so much when it was really just you that ate. Daniel barely had anything more than a piece of toast most days and the vamps, well, you were sure they had their own fridge somewhere filled with various types of blood.
Grabbing a yoghurt, some fruit and some deli meats, you go to close the fridge before your eyes settle on a bottle of wine, slightly hidden behind a bottle of apple juice.
“Fuck it,” you mutter, grabbing the bottle and a glass and placing it along with the food. You weren’t a huge drinker, not unless it was a special occasion, but for some reason you felt you needed something a little stronger than juice. You find bread relatively quickly to make the sandwich you’ve conjured in your head and set it down with everything else. Finding the corkscrew to open the wine is not as easy, and after searching all of the cupboards that are hip level, you look at the ones that are above arms reach. Clambering up onto the worktop, your hands find the edge, gripping as your arms shake a little. It’s not a high drop but you’ve never been one for heights; even the top of a ladder made your heart beat a little faster. You shuffle awkwardly to get in a better position to push one cabinet open, nothing in it except plates, far too many plates for owners that don’t eat food.
Twisting your body, you make your way to the next, but the worktop is narrower than the width of your body and your hand misses the edge you go to grip. Your hand falls to grab at nothingness and your body follows, falling backwards off the counter. It happens in slow motion, the cabinets that were just at eye level now higher than they were before and then suddenly your back hits something solid. Your legs are still bent on the counter, and the pulling feeling behind your knees begins to hurt. A hand is at your hip, and looking over your shoulder you see the same blank face of Armand. He doesn’t say anything as he pushes you back onto the counter with the same ease as one would pick up a cushion.
He offers that same hand that was previously on your hip as you turn yourself around on the counter, and you accept it as you jump back down without any grace. He’s not cold as you would have thought, there was warmth there but you’re not sure if it’s your own body heat radiating against his skin.
“Thank you,” you say softly and it startles him almost, like he’s forgotten you were here. His hand is still in yours though there’s no reason for it to be, but you don’t want to pull apart from him. He’s even more beautiful up close, and the thought of running your fingers through his dark curls appears and disappears so quickly you barely even register it.
“Were you looking for something?,” he asks, pulling his hand away, gesturing to the cupboards.
“Oh! Uh, yeah I was looking for a corkscrew,” you reply, nodding your head towards the bottle of wine on the counter. “I hope it’s okay, I should have asked maybe-”
He ignores you, opening a thin cupboard near the sink that you had missed, pulling out a corkscrew and a square crystal decanter with the shape of a bat’s head as the lid. You suppress a giggle but not enough and he looks at you in mild confusion.
“Just feels a little cliche…vampires….bats,” you trail off, feeling immediately stupid for saying anything.
“This decanter is from 1872, do you see the fangs of the bat? Those are diamond,” he explains, holding it for you to see. It’s beautiful, the cold light of the kitchen makes it look almost 2D, the rigid edges almost blurring into one. The bat itself has its mouth open, the fangs glittering.
“Where did you get it?”, you ask as he places it back onto the counter. You watch in confusion and awe as the bottle of wine and the glass out of arms reach from him glides across the counter into his hand.
“I won it in a poker game,” he replies simply, unscrewing the bottle with ease and pouring the dark liquid into the glass and decanting the rest before passing the glass to you. You know nothing about wine, vintages and types are a different language to you - your favourite wine is whatever the cheapest and can get you drunk.
Taking a sip, you feel his eyes on your face and you’re sure you were meant to swirl it in your glass and sniff it first. Or at least that’s what you saw them do on a wine tasting once - you can’t really remember it after the 4th glass. It’s fruity on your tongue and a little bitter but not unpleasant, and unlike cheap wine, it doesn’t make you grimace when you swallow. You stand in silence as you take another drink, but it’s not entirely awkward. Armand has an intense quality about him and you think he’s almost like a haunted Victorian doll but in the body of a bloodthirsty killer. There’s a look on Armand’s face as you think this, a mixture of offense but slight amusement and then a realisation dawns on you and your heart drops into your stomach.
You ignore the question that’s on the tip of your tongue, instead choosing to think of nothing, the word nothing in big bold red letters flashing in your brain.
“I should make my food,” you say to yourself more than anyone because Armand is just doing that thing where he’s looking at you blankly and it should be unnerving, the way he just stares but he did just acknowledge your existence by actually talking to you so it feels like progress. You notice he leaves you halfway through compiling your sandwich, and of course he didn’t say a word, maybe he had hit his word quota with you for the day.
With your phone in one hand, you finish your dinner quickly, barely chewing it and rounding it off by throwing back the rest of the glass of wine in one gulp. Your cheeks feel a little warm and there’s a little weariness settling in your bones so you make your way back to your bedroom.
Your bedroom is bigger than your one at home but the vampires clearly do not have guests over as it’s sparsely decorated. There’s a double bed with a small nightstand and in the corner sits a large wardrobe; far larger than necessary for your small suitcase of clothing. There’s no soft furnishings, and you wonder whether this Brutalist sense of decor comes from Armand or from Louis. One positive thing about the room is there is a window - a real window where you can feel the sun on your skin in the morning.
Shedding your clothes onto a pile on the floor, you step into the bathroom, turning the shower on and letting the hot water pelt against your skin. You close your eyes, standing under the showerhead, letting the day roll off you into the drain beneath your feet. Your mind thinks about Armand in the kitchen earlier, his hand on your hip. The thought disappears into the steam that surrounds your body and replaces it with another. His hand between your legs, his hands gripping at your tits. Your eyes snap open and you turn the shower to cold, yelping as the warmth is superseded with cold, any thoughts disappearing as your brain yells out at the unpleasantness.
You weren’t going there, you weren’t going to fantasise in the shower about a vampire, a vampire that was married no less. Sighing, you get out of the shower, drying yourself off before throwing on some pyjamas and settling into bed. The lights were automatic, and after detecting no movement, they turn off, and you close your eyes allowing sleep to roll over you.
Your back is against the wall, his hands at either side of you, pinning you to the cold stone.
“Insolent little brat,” he hisses into your ear. Threading his fingers through the hair at the base of your neck, he yanks. You gasp at the pain, your scalp tingling as his face gets close to yours, his fangs out in full. “You just love to talk, let me see what else that mouth is good for.”
He pulls you from against the wall and shoves you to your knees, his hand moving to the top of your head and pushing his crotch at your face. Your hands move up to this fly, fingers wrapped around the zip as you pull down and - “
You awake with a start, your hands tangled in the sheets. It was just a dream. Your eyes dart around the room; it’s just you. You can’t help but feel disappointment. You sigh, rubbing your forehead, wiping the slight sheen of sweat onto the covers. Closing your eyes, you force yourself to sleep again, ignoring the wanting ache between your legs.
Morning comes around much too quickly for your liking, sunlight bathing the room in a warm glow. You feel tired and you pull the covers up to your neck and sigh heavily. It’s a rest day today, the burden of remembering and reciting his entire life had been getting to Louis emotionally and Armand had suggested he take a day from it. Surprisingly Daniel had agreed, muttered something about getting out of this “fucking concrete prison”.
You get up and shower (with no dirty thoughts thankfully) and grab some casual clothes since you had no reason to dress up. The band t-shirt you wear is from high school, there’s a hole in it at your ribs from where you caught it on a door handle, and the seams at the neck are hanging on for dear life. But you can’t bear to throw it out. Dubai is too hot for leggings which is what you’d usually wear so you grab a pair of simple black shorts. Even with the place being airconditioned, you can still feel the heat, especially in your room when you have the window open.
To no surprise, the apartment is empty. You assume the vamps are asleep and Daniel must have gone out, leaving you, yet again, all alone. The living room is silent, the air too still, lifeless in comparison to the bustle of the city you can see below at the window. You really should go out at some point, find something to occupy your mind instead of just sitting, killing time. But not today. You settle on the couch and answer emails, drink copious amounts of coffee until you can feel the buzzing under your skin and before you know it, the sky starts to dim.
Daniel hasn’t come back yet and there’s a tinge of worry that prods in your gut, but he’s a grown man, he’s not your dad, he can take care of himself. Grabbing the headphones that you had discarded onto the couch earlier (you weren’t sure if music would wake the vamps up) you pop them into your ears and scroll on your phone, settling on a playlist.
The couch you lie in on isn’t the most comfortable, it’s slightly hard, not one that you sink into, but you throw one leg over the back cushion and lay back in a position your mother would certainly deem “unladylike”. Closing your eyes, you let the music flow over you like water, your muscles relaxing into the firm cushions. It feels like hours of relaxation and you open your eyes blearily to see Armand standing at the foot of the couch.
“Jesus fucking Christ Armand!,” you shout, your eyes widening. You sit up in a scramble, throwing your headphones out of your ears, your heart hammering in your chest.
"Did I startle you?," he asks, his tone even and soft and you gawp at him but there’s no sense of a joke at all on his face or voice.
“No, I greet everybody like this,” you say, every word dripping in sarcasm. “Were you watching me sleep?” You groan in embarrassment as you look down at yourself and you wonder how you must have looked to him. You grab your phone, checking the time, “Why are you even awake, it's 4pm?”
He sits on the couch opposite you, all straight posture and crossed hands in his lap like he’s never sat on this couch in his life. “Louis prefers to sleep into the evening, I prefer an earlier rise.”
You nod dumbly, not sure what to reply to that. “What are you listening to,?” he asks and the question surprises you. You tell him, and when he looks at you blanky, you take the headphones next to you and offer them to him. He takes them and your fingers brush slightly, the sensation feeling like a shock to your fingertips. It’s a sight to behold, the powerful vampire Armand that could rip your throat out wearing purple over ear headphones. You scroll through your phone, the pressure of choosing a good song suddenly a heavy weight on your chest. Did he listen to music? Perhaps not now, but ever? You knew so little about him but you wanted to. You aren’t like Daniel with Louis, you don’t want Armand’s life story to make into a book. You want to know him, what he likes, what he doesn’t. Not for fame or fortune, but just to know him on an intimate level. You select a song, one of your favourites and you just watch as he closes his eyes.
His shirt is open to his mid chest, a triangle of smooth skin calling out to you to touch. He looks so soft in the dim lighting of the late afternoon, the previous sharp lines of his jaw and collarbone almost blurred. In this moment he looks human, and perhaps this is when he's at his most dangerous. He nods his head softly in time to the music, and you just sit there in silence, gazing at the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life.
His face is ever expressionless as he slides the headphones off and hands them back to you. You can’t even tell if he liked the song, and you feel a little embarrassed. It’s such a personal thing to share music, like you’re sharing a piece of your heart.
“I liked it,” he comments, a small smile on his lips, halting your thoughts.
“You can hear thoughts, can’t you?” you ask, the question falling from your lips before your brain can stop it.
“Yes,” he says simply looking at you. The answer hangs in the air between you, the proverbial elephant. You nod, pursing your lips. You think back to every thought you had ever thought about him, the gazing and the yearning and the dreams and oh god, this was possibly the most mortifying moment of your entire life.
Slapping your thigh, you get up, his eyes following you as you gather your phone and walk past him without a word. You stay holed up in your bedroom for hours, the light afternoon sky replaced with swirls of blue and black. Opening your door, you peek out, trying to hear for any signs of life, for signs of him. When you feel the coast is clear, you pad your way to the kitchen on tip toes, your focus directed at the fridge. There’s a wrapped up chicken shawarma that wasn’t there earlier with your name written on it, and you open it up, inspecting it for anything suspicious. Shrugging, you put it on a plate and put it into the microwave, setting the time for 2 mins. There’s a song that’s been stuck in your head all day and you drum your nails against the counter to the imaginary tune, your hips swaying.
Turning round to grab a fork, you startle at the figure in the shadows lurking. “For fucks sake Armand, stop doing that!”
He comes closer to the light of the kitchen and you gasp softly at the blood that covers his face and chest. His face looks different than usual, not soft, but dangerous, his usual amber eyes are darker; the pupils so dilated you can only see a thin ring of orange around the black. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up as he looks at you, no, leers at you. You feel like prey, like a trapped deer in the corner of the lion’s den. The timer of the microwave dings but neither of you acknowledge it, you just look at each other.
Armand moves closer to you, slowly, like he’s taunting you but your feet can’t seem to move so you stand there, frozen. Not saying anything, he takes the fork you were holding and puts it down onto the counter. He is unnaturally still as you stand next to him. There's no chest moving up and down with each breath, no heartbeat and it occurs to you again (as it had done on many occasions) that Armand is truly not human.
You daren’t say a thing to break this moment, and your pulse is racing underneath your skin. You wonder if he can hear it. He steps into your personal space, leaning his head down, his breath grazing the top of your ear. “I can hear everything.”
His fingers move to the pulse point of your wrist. ”Your pulse,” he drawls softly. “The beat of your heart” his hand moves over your chest, pressing down above your heart. You swallow at the close proximity, a shaky breath escaping your lips. His hand continue to trace up to the hollow of your throat. “The breath you take.”
His hand settles back down to over your heart, his hand cool against your now flushed skin. Being so close, you can smell him, can smell incense and cloves and the coppery smell of someone else’s blood on his skin.
“Does that scare you?,” he asks, and you gaze up at him, your eyes flickering to the fangs that are ever so slightly peeking over his bottom lip. The question is heavy, there’s something else there that he’s asking you, but you’re not quite sure what.
“No,” you answer simply.
Armand exhales a soft laugh, “it should.”
“It should,” you repeat. The softness in his face seems to have returned, though his eyes are still dark and he’s still standing so close to you. In an act far bolder than you thought capable of yourself, you bring your hand up to his mouth, wiping the blood that lingered at the corner with your thumb. It’s still warm, and sticky, and you hover it over his mouth, smiling as his tongue swipes at it softly.
You haven’t even done anything yet, not really, and yet you can feel the heat pool between your thighs. Wrapping an arm around your waist, he pulls you close to him and your chest is heaving in anticipation as his eyes trace your face before falling to your lips. It’s almost automatic the way your heads move closer, his lips brushing yours and you can feel yourself melt into him. The mouth that is on yours has killed thousands and yet the way he kisses you is like he thinks you may break. You surge forward, the soft, delicate kisses no longer what you need and Armand lets out the smallest noise in surprise which you mentally take as a win. He gets the message quickly, kissing your lips with a force and desperation you’ve never had before. His tongue pushes its way into your mouth and you moan as his hands move to your hips, pulling you even closer. You can feel him hard against you and you roll against him, delighting in the way he hisses in a breath.
You had kissed before; sweet kisses bathed in sunrise with an ex lover and sticky fumblings in a nightclub toilet with a faceless stranger. But this, this was something else entirely. This was like ice in your veins being poured on with molten lava; heat filling every nerve. Armand’s fangs nick your bottom lip, catching the plush flesh enough to taste blood on your tongue.
“I’m sorr-” Armand starts, pulling back but you don’t let him finish, capturing the words with your mouth. His tongue laps at your bottom lip and you can feel the blood drip onto your chin. It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does, the previous heat between your legs now a raging inferno. You can taste copper as Armand’s tongue finds yours, your hands moving down his chest to rest at the buckle of his belt. He moves to your neck, fangs tracing along your jugular and he forces your legs apart with his own, shoving his knee between your thighs. You whimper as his clothed knee brushes against your clit and your legs almost buckle at the slight contact.
You go to grind against him again but he moves and you groan in frustration. He laughs against the curve of your neck. “Let’s get you to a proper bed.” Before you know it, your legs are wrapped against his waist, your hands at his neck, his hands under your thighs. You don’t know where he’s carrying you to, his mouth is on your jaw and you can’t think of anything except his mouth on your skin. A door opens and you glance behind you at a room you’ve not seen before drenched in a dark grey with a black round bed at the centre.
Placing you onto the bed he pounces on you making you fall back and he uses one hand to pin both of yours to the mattress. One finger trails to the hem of your shorts, tracing at your thigh as he moves up underneath the fabric, pressing the pad of his finger to your clothed centre. “So drenched already and I’ve barely touched you.” It should be embarrassing, the slight condescending tone to his words, but you’re so turned on you feel like you could explode.
“Please Armand,” you ask, trying to arch your hips to get some friction on the hand he has between your legs.
“How lovely that word sounds from your lips,” he replies, but doesn’t move his hand. Instead he moves it away from between your legs and to your top, tugging it over your hands and throwing it to the ground. He moves to your shorts again, getting you to raise your hips so he can pull them down your legs. You feel exposed, and you really wish you had worn nicer underwear but the way Armand’s looking at you, you feel like the sexiest person in the world. Kissing down your stomach, he stops at the apex of your thighs, his nose pressed against your underwear. “You smell delicious, I can’t wait to devour you. But not right now.” He takes off your underwear and moves back up to your face, peppering kisses along your shoulders. His hand goes between your legs, a single finger trailing the length of your slit. You’re soaked, you can feel it, can hear it as his fingers move between your lips and finds your clit. You whimper, gripping at his clothed back. Closing your eyes, your head lulls back into the pillow as Armand’s fingers make quick work of you. The pleasure that rolls over you is almost overwhelming as his fingers expertly swirl around your clit, the pressure coils in your stomach and just as you’re about to cum, he puts two fingers inside you and curls up. Your cunt clenches around his fingers, your whole body tightening with the force of your orgasm, your mouth a silent scream as you grab at the sheets.
The aftershocks roll over you, making you shiver and you exhale, trying to catch your breath. You feel spent; your limbs heavy and jelly like but Armand is towering over you with a look of desire on your face. “I hope you don’t think you’re done.”
You watch as he undoes his shirt, button by button at a maddeningly slow pace, slipping it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. You take in his body, the smattering of dark hair at his chest that curls round at his nipples, skin curved over taut muscle. Your eyes travel downwards to his stomach, the curve of his hips disappearing under the trousers he’s still wearing. He catches you watching him, smirking as he undoes his belt buckle. You get up onto your knees, almost eye level with him as your hands move to his fly.
“You know, I had a dream like this once,” you whisper, your fingers playing with the zip but not quite pulling it down.
“Oh? Will you tell me about it?” he asks, tilting your head up to look at him.
You pretend to ponder it, making a show of tapping your fingers against your chin like you were deep in thought. “I didn’t say you were in it.”
“Teasing a vampire that’s killed thousands? It’s bold,” he replies, baring his fangs. You unzip him and your hand palms at his hardened cock, his eyes closing at the touch.
“Somehow I don’t think you’ll do anything about it,” you tease, pulling at the waistband of his boxers. He stands up fully off the bed, taking off his trousers and his boxers, his cock springing out to hit his stomach. In one quick motion, he grabs your legs and pulls you to the edge of the bed. You can feel his cock prod against your thigh as he looks at you hungrily and you take the moment of distraction to take him in your hand and position him at your entrance. Hooking a hand under your knee, he slides into you and you both moan. He feels like a missing puzzle piece, like your body was made just for him.
He’s big, bigger than you’ve ever had before, and there’s a stretch as he goes all the way in, bottoming out inside you. He starts thrusting slow, too slow for your liking, and you try to get him to move, rutting your hips. There’s a low laugh from him as he presses his chest to yours, and your hands move to the smooth expanse of his back. Your cunt clenches and unclenches all around him and you close your eyes, trying to take it all in.
"Don't you dare, open your eyes, pretty girl," he says, his curved fingernail tracing the edge of your jaw, your eyes opening to look at him. He quickens the pace, punctuating the pounding of his hips with soft gasps, amber eyes boring into your own. One hand is lingering on your neck, the illusion of a threat hovering above your windpipe.
His pace quickens and all you can think is him him him with every thrust. You can feel the sweat dripping down from your hairline as you grab at his back, the muscle in his shoulderblades flexing underneath your fingers. Your mouth moves to his shoulder and you bite a little, testing the water. It elicits a moan from him, so you bite harder, rolling soft, cold flesh between your teeth. He pounds into you, his hand moving between you to rub messy circles around your clit. You’re so wet, can feel it dripping down your thighs and there’s a sheen of sweat gathering at your collarbone. Armand laps at it, licks along the straight line of the bone before hovering at the hollow of your throat. His mouth sits there, fangs scratching but not enough to break the skin and you wind your hand to his hair, pushing his mouth into you. He bites at you, fangs piercing at your skin and breaking it and it burns, it hurts, but then he’s sucking at you greedily while he thrusts and all you can feel is pleasure.
You’re close, Armand’s hand is never wavering on your clit as he ruts into you. With a cry you come apart, your back arching, lights dancing behind your eyes. With a few more thrusts he cums too, shooting warmth inside you with a low growl. You can feel him softening inside you and he pulls out, wiping a small bead on the inside of your thigh as he does. The sheets beneath you feel damp, and you feel very naked and open as he gets up and goes to the bathroom. You lay there, sweat cooling onto your body and the door opens again with Armand holding a towel. Sitting up, you hold your hand out, expecting to clean yourself up, but he does it for you, wiping at you gently. He gets to your neck where he’s bitten you, and you hiss a little as he touches it.
“I hurt you,” he says, a tone of guilt in his voice. You can’t see the wound, but you feel it with your fingers, two perfectly circular dots raised on your skin.
“I liked it,” you reply simply. “I’d like you to do it again sometime.”
He looks at you, all wide eyed in awe, and then he softens, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re being genuine. You can almost feel him in your head, this slight pressure that wasn’t there before. “Maybe sometime.”
there’s something so romantic about bestie losing consciousness because of some sort of injury or near death experience and armand having to kiss his blood into her mouth to save her.
once he sees that she’s hurt, he tries holding his wrist to her mouth. there’s no response. armand lifts her head slightly and whispers soothing words in a shaky voice to her, but still, no reaction, only a terrible stillness that reminds him of true death.
so armand brings his wrist to his own mouth.
he drinks and then he lifts bestie’s head enough to kiss her. he does this again and again, not caring about the amount of blood he’s losing or the fact that he can feel tears welling in his eyes.
he tells bestie that she can’t leave him like this. that he’ll do anything, he’ll even play house with louis for another 77 years if that’s what she wants, she just needs to wake up.
the kisses become more frantic, more desperate as he tries to force his blood down her throat. and then, just when he’s about to fully lose it, bestie takes a sharp breath, and squints her eyes open.
the vampire armand distracting his newfound human “companion” after each beg of the passing of the dark gift with a kiss, sliding his hand down to their beautiful throat, unmarked, sliding his thumb over their pulse point and the slight jump of his fingers that come with it. he tells them about the perils of immortality and how companionship is poisoned once you become each other’s forever. tells them how the now is much more valuable when it’s temporary.
he does think of it. watching over you as you sleep, how easy it would be to drain you of your succulent blood, feast on you as you turn cold before he finally grants it to you and ends the ritual with his torn wrist to your gasping lips. make you his forever. but he just as easily passes the thought when he hears your heartbeat slow as you fall deeper into your slumber, your jumbled thoughts becoming dreams harmonizing with each breath that passes through your warm body.
and he does contemplate it in the moment. you sit on his thighs, arms hooked under his as he cages you, scratching your nails against his shoulders and whimpering and panting as he rolls his hips up to meet your weakening rhythm of grinds — whining when he pulls your hair from your neck and buries himself in it, dragging his tongue against your pulse and scraping his teeth at your soft skin. he bites, fangs not bared and not deep enough to puncture in any way but he truly considers it for a moment and he pulls back, slips his hands downwards to press at the bottom of your spine and deepen the arch in your back and reach further inside you, slowing his pace to test you and allow himself to clear his head. he wouldn’t turn you out of lust, wouldn’t bring unto you what was done to him, even as he reads the disappointment in your mind.
perhaps he should plan it, were it ever to happen, which it won’t, armand’s not impulsive. but he doesn’t always.. make the correct decision. and when it comes to sentimentality, he is weak.
Warnings: Fluff, bedtime, Cute!Frank Castle x You, Soft!Frank x You.
Word count: 1.8k
A little note: This is my very first oneshot, so I'd really appreciate hearing your thoughts! Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy reading!
Lately, you've been feeling a little... pushed aside.
It's not that Frank stopped loving you. He still gave you all the love in the world. It's just that he's been coming home later than usual, and more often than not you'd find yourself asleep on the couch with some random late-night show playing in the background.
Every night he'd quietly slip into the apartment, trying his best not to wake you.
"Sweetheart, I've told you already. Go to bed. It's late, and you've got work in the morning."
But you never listened.
How could you?
Sleeping without Frank felt empty. You missed falling asleep in his arms, the way he'd absentmindedly play with your hair while breathing in the scent of your shampoo. Lately... he was just too tired.
Tonight wasn't any different. You promised yourself you wouldn't fall asleep, but by eleven your eyes were already closing.
The apartment door clicked open.
Frank smiled the second he saw you curled up on the couch.
His stubborn girl.
He quietly washed the blood and dirt from his hands before kneeling beside you, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead.
"Frankie...?" you mumbled.
"Hey, sweetheart."
You immediately reached for him, only for him to take a small step back.
"You know the rules, young lady."
You sighed.
Frank refused to touch you before showering after a mission. He'd always say he didn't want to bring that part of his life anywhere near you.
You waited for him in bed.
A few minutes later he walked into the bedroom wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, damp hair falling over his forehead. He crouched beside the bed.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?"
"Nothing."
His thumb brushed softly over your cheek.
"There's no such thing as 'nothing' with me, sweetheart." His lips curled into a knowing smile. "Either you tell me what's bothering you..."
He crossed his arms, pretending to think for a moment.
"...or no foot massages for an entire week."
You gasped dramatically.
"Frank!"
He couldn't help but chuckle.
The threat was cruel, and he knew it.
You spent eight hours a day walking around the office in heels, and by the time you got home your feet were always aching. It had quietly become part of your nightly routine; you'd curl up beside him on the couch, resting your legs across his lap while he carefully rubbed your sore feet with slow, patient hands. Sometimes he'd even warm a towel first, wrapping it around your feet before massaging them because he insisted it helped.
He never skipped a night.
Not once.
It was one of those little things he did without you ever having to ask.
You let out an exaggerated sigh before looking up at him.
"Frankie..."
"Hm?"
"I miss you."
The teasing smile disappeared from his face almost instantly.
"You always come home so late..." you admitted quietly. "And when you do, you barely stay awake with me anymore."
Your fingers absentmindedly played with the sleeve of your pajama shirt.
"You don't play with my hair..."
"We don't stay up talking about random things anymore..."
"You just... lie down and fall asleep."
Frank's heart sank.
He hadn't realized.
He thought coming home every night was enough.
He hadn't noticed that somewhere along the way, he'd stopped being present.
Without saying another word, he climbed onto the bed beside you and slipped an arm around your waist, gently pulling you onto his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Sweetheart..." he murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought..." you whispered, avoiding his eyes. "...I thought you'd think I was being dramatic."
He frowned.
His fingers gently lifted your chin until you were looking at him again.
"Hey."
A soft kiss landed on the corner of your mouth.
"Don't ever decide for me what's silly and what isn't."
Another kiss.
"If it's important to you..."
His forehead rested against yours.
"Then it's important to me."
He smiled, the kind of smile only you ever got to see.
"Now..."
His hand slid up your back in slow, comforting circles.
"What does my girl want tonight?"
A tiny smile tugged at your lips.
"Play with my hair."
"That's it?" he teased. "I thought there'd be a whole list."
You laughed quietly.
"Hair first."
"Then maybe tell me about that documentary you've been pretending to watch every night while waiting for me."
You rolled your eyes.
"I wasn't watching it."
"I know." He grinned. "You were waiting for me."
He settled beneath the blankets, pulling you against his bare chest.
Almost instinctively, his fingers disappeared into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp in that familiar way that always made your entire body melt.
"Like this?" he whispered.
You answered with nothing more than a sleepy hum, burying your face in the warm curve of his neck.
Frank smiled to himself.
"There's my girl."
He kissed your forehead one last time.
"I love you, sweetheart."
His fingers never stopped moving through your hair.
Summary: After their devastating reunion, three days pass with nothing but silence. Still haunted by everything left unsaid, you return home only to discover an open window—and someone waiting in the shadows. Frank finally tells you the truth about why he disappeared, revealing the sacrifice he believed he had to make and the secret he carried all those years. Sometimes, love doesn't disappear... it just loses its way home.
Warnings: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence (Referenced), PTSD, Trauma, Crying, Angst, Mutual Pining, Emotional Reunion, Kissing, Frank Castle Being Soft, Fluff, Happy Ending.
Word Count: 3,3k
Little note: I wrote this chapter with my whole heart, trying to imagine what frank would really say. I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. thank you for being here.
Three days.
Three days since you had seen him again.
Three days since Matt had dragged you into that abandoned building and forced you to look into the eyes of the man who had shattered your heart without a single goodbye.
Three days, and somehow...
...everything hurt more.
You thought seeing Frank again would bring closure.
Instead, it had ripped open every wound you had spent years trying to stitch together.
You barely slept.
Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him.
Standing there.
Older.
Tired.
Looking at you like he'd been carrying the same grief all those years.
You hated him for it.
You hated that one look had undone years of pretending you were okay.
Because you weren't.
You never had been.
The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, pulling you from your thoughts.
You walked down the hallway toward your apartment, fumbling through your bag for your keys.
Your body felt heavy.
Every step was automatic.
You unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The moment you stepped inside...
...you froze.
The curtains moved.
Just slightly.
Your eyes immediately darted toward the living room window.
Open.
Only a few inches.
But open.
Your heartbeat stumbled.
No...
You always locked every window before leaving.
Always.
Because Frank used to lecture you about it.
"Windows first."
"Doors second."
"Never make it easy for someone to get to you, sweetheart."
At first, you'd rolled your eyes every time he checked the locks behind you.
Eventually...
It became a habit.
One of the few habits you'd never managed to break after he left.
Slowly, quietly, you shut the apartment door behind you.
Your breathing steadied.
Someone was inside.
Without taking your eyes off the living room, your hand slipped beneath your jacket.
The pistol felt cold in your palm.
You had bought it three months after Frank disappeared.
Matt hadn't liked the idea.
Not at first.
But eventually, he'd stopped arguing and started teaching you instead.
How to stand.
How to breathe.
How to keep your finger off the trigger until you were certain.
How to survive.
You flicked the safety off.
The soft click echoed through the apartment.
Silence.
Your pulse thundered in your ears.
You took one careful step forward.
Then another.
The muzzle tracked the shadows near the hallway.
Your voice came out firm despite the fear tightening in your chest.
"Come out."
Nothing.
You tightened your grip.
"I said..."
"...come out."
For a heartbeat...
Nothing happened.
Then—
Movement.
A figure slowly stepped out of the darkness.
Hands raised.
"No, no— easy..."
Your finger instantly relaxed.
"...Frank?"
He stood there beneath the warm kitchen light, both hands lifted in surrender.
For a second...
You barely recognized him.
The thick beard was gone.
His hair had been cut short.
The wild, exhausted appearance he'd had three days ago had disappeared, replaced by something cleaner.
Sharper.
He looked...
Different.
Still unmistakably Frank.
Still carrying the same tired eyes.
Still covered in scars.
Still wearing that old black jacket.
But he looked like a man trying to become someone he hadn't been in a very long time.
You lowered the gun slowly, letting out a shaky breath.
"Jesus, Frank..."
Your voice cracked.
"I could've shot you."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Small.
Almost invisible.
"I know."
"You broke into my apartment."
"I know."
"You scared the hell out of me."
"I know."
Your grip tightened around the pistol again.
"You know?"
His smile disappeared.
"...Yeah."
Silence settled between you.
Neither of you moved.
Neither of you seemed to know where to begin.
You finally walked to the coffee table and carefully placed the pistol down.
The click of metal against wood sounded painfully loud.
When you turned back toward him...
He was still standing exactly where he'd been.
Hands lowered now.
But he hadn't taken a single step closer.
As if he didn't think he deserved to.
Your arms folded across your chest.
"What are you doing here?"
Frank swallowed.
His eyes searched your face for a long moment before dropping to the floor.
"I..."
His voice caught.
He cleared his throat.
"I came to say somethin'."
You laughed once.
It wasn't amusement.
It was disbelief.
"You already said everything you wanted to say."
His brows furrowed.
"I didn't say anything."
"Exactly."
That one word hit him harder than any punch ever could.
He looked away.
His jaw flexed.
"I know."
Silence stretched between you again.
You hated it.
Because it reminded you of every night you'd spent sitting alone in this apartment, hoping to hear his footsteps outside the door.
"You don't get to come in here and pretend nothing happened."
"I'm not."
"You vanished."
"I know."
"No."
Your voice came out sharper this time.
"You don't."
He slowly lifted his head.
"I do."
"No, you don't."
You took another step toward him.
"You have no idea what that did to me."
Frank parted his lips.
Then closed them again.
A second later, he tried once more.
"I can imagine—"
"No."
You cut him off before he could finish.
"You can't."
His shoulders sagged.
"You can't imagine what it was like walking into that apartment and realizing everything that reminded me of you was gone."
You pointed toward the bedroom.
"I thought you were dead."
Your voice trembled despite every desperate attempt to keep it steady.
"Do you know what it's like waking up every single day wondering... where your body might be?"
His eyes slowly fell shut.
"I called everyone."
His breathing became slower, heavier.
"I spent days... days, Frank... trying to figure out what could've happened to you."
His head dropped.
"I couldn't even sleep."
Silence settled between you again.
Long.
Heavy.
Agonizing.
When Frank finally spoke, his voice was so quiet you almost didn't hear it.
"...I'm sorry."
A bitter laugh escaped you.
"Sorry?"
He gave a single nod.
"I'm sorry."
"You really think that's enough?"
"No."
The answer came immediately.
"No... it isn't."
His hands curled into trembling fists at his sides.
"I know it isn't."
Another pause.
Then, for the first time since he walked out of your life...
Frank looked directly into your eyes.
There was no anger there.
No walls left standing.
Only regret.
Raw.
Ugly.
Honest.
"I've replayed that morning in my head..."
His voice cracked.
"...every damn day since I left."
He inhaled shakily.
"I should've told you."
His gaze dropped again.
"I should've looked you in the eye..."
"...and I should've let you hate me to my face."
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, visibly struggling to find the words.
"But I couldn't."
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
"...I wasn't strong enough."
You stared at him.
The ache in your chest only deepened.
Because...
You had imagined this moment a thousand different ways.
You imagined screaming at him.
Slamming the door in his face.
Telling him to leave.
Instead...
All you could see was the man you had loved.
Standing in the middle of your apartment.
Looking just as broken as you felt.
And somehow...
That hurt even more.
The apartment fell silent again.
Neither of you moved.
The city carried on outside your windows—distant sirens, traffic, someone laughing on the street below—but inside, it felt like the whole world had stopped breathing.
Frank looked everywhere except at you.
At the floor.
At the couch.
At the pistol resting on the coffee table.
Anywhere but your eyes.
"I know 'sorry' doesn't fix it," he said quietly. "I know."
You swallowed the lump in your throat.
"No... it doesn't."
His jaw tightened.
"I didn't come here thinkin' you'd forgive me."
"Then why are you here?"
Frank took a slow breath.
Because he had rehearsed this.
Hundreds of times.
Maybe thousands.
But now that he was standing in front of you...
None of the words came out right.
"I heard what you said."
Your brows furrowed.
"Three days ago."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"'I still love you.'"
He let out a shaky breath.
"...Been hearin' those words in my damn head ever since."
Your chest tightened.
Frank rubbed a hand over his face before finally forcing himself to look at you.
"I couldn't stay away anymore."
Silence.
"You wanna know why I left?"
You laughed bitterly.
"I've wanted to know every single day."
He nodded once.
"I know."
His fingers flexed at his sides.
"I couldn't lose you."
Your expression hardened.
"You already did."
The words landed like a knife.
Frank closed his eyes.
"...Yeah."
"But you don't understand."
His voice grew rougher.
"I can't lose you."
He finally stepped closer.
Only one step.
Not enough to invade your space.
Just enough that you could see the exhaustion carved into every line of his face.
"I... I go fuckin' crazy just thinkin' about somebody puttin' a hand on you."
His breathing became uneven.
"You understand that?"
Another step.
"My head... it starts goin' places."
He shook it.
"I start thinkin' about who I'd have to kill."
He laughed once.
A broken, humorless laugh.
"And I hate that."
His eyes glistened.
"I hate that that's the first thing my mind does."
You stood frozen.
"I kept tellin' myself..."
He looked away.
"...if I left..."
"...if I stayed away..."
"...then maybe..."
"...you'd get to have a life."
He swallowed hard.
"A real one."
One without blood.
Sem que as pessoas te usem para chegar até mim."
He finally looked back at you.
"I would've rather hated myself every damn day..."
"...than buried you."
The apartment felt too small.
Too quiet.
Too full of things neither of you had ever said.
Frank took another breath.
"I never stopped watchin' over you."
You frowned.
"What?"
"I followed you."
Your heart stopped.
He nodded slowly.
"Every damn day."
His voice cracked.
"I waited until you got home."
You stared at him.
"I watched this apartment."
He glanced toward the window.
"The fire escape."
"The roof across the street."
"The alley."
"I knew every light you turned on."
His eyes filled with tears he refused to let fall.
"I knew what time you got home from work."
"What nights Matt stayed late."
"What nights Karen walked you home."
"What nights you cried."
You felt your knees weaken.
"...Frank..."
"I was there."
He laughed bitterly.
"You just couldn't see me."
He wiped at his face with the heel of his hand.
"You really think I was gonna let you be out there alone?"
His voice became firmer.
"No."
"Not a fuckin' chance."
"I stayed away..."
"...but I never left."
The tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over.
He noticed immediately.
His entire expression crumbled.
"Oh, sweetheart..."
The nickname shattered something inside you.
The same nickname.
After all this time.
He instinctively took a step forward before stopping himself.
As if he wasn't sure he still had the right.
"If... if somebody had touched you..."
His voice trembled violently now.
"If somebody had killed you..."
He couldn't finish.
He looked down.
His shoulders shaking almost imperceptibly.
"I don't..."
He swallowed.
"I don't know what I'd have done."
Another pause.
"I would've hunted down every son of a bitch involved."
His jaw clenched.
"Every single one."
His breathing hitched.
"I can't lose you..."
"...the way I lost Maria."
The room went still.
He had almost never spoken her name.
Not like this.
"I couldn't survive that again."
His eyes met yours.
"I wouldn't."
Silence.
"I'd do anything..."
His voice broke completely.
"Anything..."
"...to keep you alive."
He smiled sadly.
"Even if that meant watchin' you fall in love with somebody else."
Your heart shattered.
"Even if..."
"...I never got to hold you again."
He shook his head.
"That's..."
He laughed weakly through tears.
"É assim que eu te amo."
You covered your mouth.
Trying—and failing—to stop yourself from crying.
Frank took another slow step.
Still leaving enough space for you to walk away if you wanted.
"You think I didn't miss you?"
His voice rose for the first time.
"Jesus Christ..."
He laughed bitterly.
"Of course I did."
"Every fuckin' day."
"I missed hearin' you complain about the coffee."
"The way you'd steal my hoodies."
"The way you'd fall asleep halfway through a movie."
"The way you'd yell at me for leavin' dishes in the sink."
He smiled through wet eyes.
"I missed your laugh."
"I missed your voice."
"I missed..."
He stopped.
Unable to continue.
"I missed you."
"So damn much."
The tears streamed freely down your face now.
"So why didn't you come back?"
He looked at you for a long moment.
"Because I thought loving you meant lettin' you go."
Your breath caught.
"And I was wrong."
The silence between you wasn't painful anymore.
It was fragile.
Hopeful.
You slowly closed the distance between you until only a few inches remained.
"You hurt me."
"I know."
"You broke me."
"I know."
"I hated you."
"I know."
Your hand slowly reached for his.
"...I never stopped loving you."
Frank stared at your trembling fingers before carefully taking your hand, as though he were afraid you might disappear if he held on too tightly.
His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.
"I never stopped either."
Your forehead rested against his.
For the first time...
You could finally breathe.
Frank closed his eyes.
"I love you."
The words came so quietly they almost disappeared into the silence.
"I always will."
A tear rolled down your cheek as you smiled through your crying.
"I love you too"
He let out a shaky laugh.
The kind of laugh that only came after surviving something impossible.
Then, hesitantly...
Almost asking for permission...
He wrapped his arms around you.
You didn't hesitate.
You buried your face against his chest exactly the way you used to.
His heartbeat.
Steady.
Real.
Home.
Frank held you like he was terrified the world would steal you away if he loosened his grip.
This time...
He wasn't going anywhere.
And neither were you.
For a long moment...
Neither of you moved.
Frank's hands were still resting carefully against your waist, as if he was afraid that holding you any tighter would make you disappear.
You couldn't stop crying.
The tears came quietly now, no longer born from anger, but from relief.
From the unbearable weight that had finally slipped off your shoulders.
You had dreamed about this.
God...
You had dreamed about him standing in front of you again more times than you could count.
But never like this.
Never with his forehead resting against yours.
Never with his arms around you.
Never with him whispering that he loved you.
Your fingers slowly curled into the fabric of his jacket.
The familiar black leather.
You remembered this jacket.
You remembered burying your face against it after long days at work.
You remembered how it always smelled like gunpowder, soap and him.
You let out another shaky breath.
"I missed you..."
The words came out broken.
"So... so much."
Frank closed his eyes.
"I know, sweetheart..."
His voice was barely a whisper.
"I know."
You shook your head.
"No..."
A small laugh escaped through your tears.
"You don't."
Your fingers tightened around his jacket.
"I forgot what it felt like..."
"...to hold you."
Something inside Frank shattered.
His arms instinctively pulled you just a little closer.
Not enough to hurt you.
Just enough to remind himself...
You were real.
You were here.
Still here.
His nose brushed softly against yours.
His eyes searched your face.
Not with urgency.
Not with hunger.
Just...
Wonder.
Like he still couldn't believe you'd let him stand this close after everything he'd done.
"...Can I?"
The question was so quiet you almost didn't hear it.
You blinked.
"What?"
His thumb gently brushed away another tear from your cheek.
His rough fingertips lingered there for a second.
"...Can I kiss you?"
Your heart nearly stopped.
Frank Castle.
The man who had never been afraid to throw himself into gunfire.
Who had stood in front of impossible odds without flinching.
Was asking permission.
Because after everything...
He wasn't sure you still wanted him.
Your lips trembled into the smallest smile.
"You still ask?"
He let out the faintest laugh.
"...I have to."
You answered the only way you could.
By closing the tiny distance between you.
Your lips met his.
Softly.
Almost hesitantly.
Like both of you were terrified the moment would disappear if either one moved too fast.
Frank didn't deepen the kiss.
Didn't rush it.
He simply stood there, eyes closed, breathing you in as if he'd been deprived of air for years.
One of his hands slowly rose to cradle your face.
His thumb brushed away another tear that escaped during the kiss.
When you finally pulled back...
You were both smiling through tears.
He rested his forehead against yours again.
A quiet, breathless laugh escaped him.
"...I forgot."
You frowned slightly.
"What?"
His blue eyes met yours.
"...How perfect you feel."
Fresh tears filled your eyes.
"Oh, Frank..."
"I'm serious."
His voice cracked.
"I spent every damn night wondering if I'd ever get to do that again."
His thumb traced your cheek once more.
"And it was worth waiting every second."
You smiled, crying all over again.
"You idiot."
A soft chuckle escaped him.
"...Yeah."
"You really are."
"I know."
"You put us through hell."
"I know."
You sniffled, trying to glare at him through watery eyes.
"I'm still mad at you."
His smile grew just a little.
"...I'd be worried if you weren't."
You laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound was small.
Wet with tears.
But it was real.
Frank stared at you for a moment, completely mesmerized.
"There it is..."
You tilted your head.
"What?"
"That laugh."
His own smile softened.
"...God..."
"I've missed that laugh."
He leaned forward once more and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.
Not rushed.
Not desperate.
Just full of every word he'd never been able to say.
When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours again.
"I ain't leaving this time."
His voice was steady.
Certain.
"No more disappearing."
"No more goodbyes."
He gently squeezed your hand.
"If you want me..."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"...I'm finally home."
You smiled through the tears, your forehead still resting against his.
"I don't ever want to lose you again."
Frank's expression softened in a way you'd only seen a handful of times in your entire life.
"You won't."
It wasn't a promise made lightly.
It was Frank Castle.
Every word he spoke carried the weight of an oath.
His hand found yours again, intertwining your fingers slowly, carefully, as though he was relearning something he'd spent years believing he'd never deserve again.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You simply stood there in the middle of your apartment.
The apartment that had felt painfully empty for so many years.
Now, somehow...
It finally felt like home again.
Outside, the rain had begun to fall, gentle drops tapping against the windows.
Frank glanced toward it before looking back at you.
A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"...Still forget to close the curtains at night?"
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head.
"I learned from the best."
He smiled.
A real one this time.
Small.
But real.
"Yeah?"
You nodded.
"You never really left, did you?"
Frank looked down for a moment before meeting your eyes again.
"No."
His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your knuckles.
"I was just waiting until I found my way back to you."
Another tear escaped, but this one felt different.
It didn't carry grief.
Only relief.
You leaned up, pressing one last gentle kiss against his lips.
When you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours once more, closing his eyes.
For the first time in a long time...
Neither of you was surviving anymore.
You were finally living.
Together.
Thank you so much for reading!
I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. let me know what you thought in the comments, I'd love to hear your thoughts. 🤍
Tags • post-Dance, angst, non graphic description of childbirth, mention of marital rape, succession crisis, hopeful/open ending
Wordcount • 3,150
Five years after the Dance, you've nearly died giving birth to a daughter, leaving your husband King Aemond without a male heir. He's now faced with an impossible choice—forcing you to bear a son at great risk to your life, or make Rhaenyra's surviving sons his heirs.
Aemond Masterlist
It was raining that afternoon, heavy downpours that covered the Red Keep like a cloak. The labor pains had started in the night, waking you from slumber with discomfort that had slowly built into intense burns that made you wail. Locked in your quarters with the Maester and a flock of midwives, maids coming and going, fetching clean linens and fresh water, you had preferred to keep your husband outside.
Once filled with pride at the idea of bringing princes and princesses into the world, of providing your husband and king with an heir, you were now despairing—the hours had been too long and the pain too great, and the worried frown on the Maester’s face did not soothe your mounting terror.
Aemond paced the hallway like a beast in chains, helplessly listening to your wails and groans through the wooden doors. Never before had he felt so helpless and weak, hanging onto every sound that spilled into the hall, desperate for a word to assure him that everything was proceeding as it should have.
He had a crown on his head and a realm in his hands, lords and knights bowing before him and cowering in fear, but he was powerless against nature itself. Only the Gods could deliver you from your labor and grant the two of you a healthy babe.
Hours into his restless pacing, the doors opened once more and the Maester finally came out, looking more worried than was reassuring. Aemond did not wait for him to speak and instead pushed past the old man and rushed inside. “How is she?” he asked over his shoulder, the Maester following him back inside.
Coming to your side, he did not dare touch you—dressed in a linen shift tainted with pinkish fluid, you were standing on trembling legs, gripping the back of a chair, your head hanging limply between your shoulders.
“I will do my best, but there may be a choice to make,” the Maester said precariously.
“It is not your choice to make, but mine!” you wailed, and Aemond reached for you, pulling your soaked hair from your face. It was when he noticed the way your entire frame was shuddering in exhaustion and pain, cold sweat making your clothes stick to your skin, and the sight of you so sickly turned his stomach.
“What is happening?” he asked, only then registering the words the old man had spoken.
“The baby is breech,” he explained. “There is danger to it, and to the queen.”
Aemond rose from his crouching position at that, dread settling low in his chest, behind his ribs, and he thought he might never breathe again. He had of course heard the numerous stories of ladies meeting tragic fates in their birthing bed. He knew himself only to exist for the fact that his father’s first queen had perished while bearing him a child, but in his arrogance, he had thought him above such tragedies.
“Speak plainly,” he said coldly, but you interrupted before the Maester could speak.
“Cut the mother, and you save the child. Kill the child, and you may save the mother,” you said through gritted teeth, your groan morphing into another wail of agony. “It is not your choice to make, but mine!”
Both men waited until your cries had abated, the wave of searing pain receding enough so that you could breathe again. “The choice is yours, your grace,” the Maester insisted, and Aemond could not understand how that could be true, how a man could ever order the death of his wife.
“We should not be having this conversation,” he replied severely, towering over the old man. “Save the queen, or you will meet the end of my sword.”
At that, a middle-aged woman came forward, holding you up as you tried to breathe through the pain of yet another contraction. “We may try to turn the baby again,” the midwife suggested.
Reluctantly, the Maester agreed and you were led to the bed to lay down, while Aemond was encouraged to leave the room once more. He remained in the doorway, refusing to be left outside but unwilling to get in the way of the midwives, and prayed to whatever Gods still wanted to listen.
More soiled linens were carried out, and more cries of agony came from you but you held fast, and finally, after what seemed centuries of suffering, the wailing of a babe was heard in the room and all could breathe again. Aemond rushed to your side without care for the blood, kissing your exhausted face.
“It is done, my love,” he murmured against your temple, and you laughed, relieved despite the pain.
“The queen is exhausted, but not in any imminent danger,” the Maester said, and it was the first words he had spoken that did not provoke Aemond’s anger. A younger midwife approached then, carrying a babe wrapped in fresh linens, and tucked the small miracle into your arms.
“It is a daughter, your grace,” she announced carefully, and Aemond watched your face fall, your eyes filling with tears of sorrow even though your mouth was still smiling down at your child.
“I am sorry, my king, that she is not the son you wanted,” you said, your voice thick with disappointment.
For now Aemond wanted to curse the requirements of the realm, and thought that no heir was worth sacrificing his queen for. “Worry not, my love. Rest now,” he said again, kissing your brow and thanking the Gods that you had been delivered safely.
Months went by and as his daughter grew, Aemond took pride in parading her around the castle. She might have been a girl instead of the son all had hoped for, but he was confident that a boy would still come while he was a young king, and in the meantime, made a point to raise the little princess as was appropriate for any Targaryen child.
Never before had he thought that seeing his blood come alive in another would fill him with such pride and strength. She was proof that his marriage was solid and his seed healthy, and he had no reason to think that a boy would not come, except perhaps the health of his queen.
While your daughter thrived month after month, healing from the birth had been dreadfully slow, and you had come back to his bed with apprehension. He had welcomed you, the two of you finding pleasure in each other’s touch again, and he equipped himself with patience when you flinched at his requests to take you as a husband took his wife.
Instead he found satisfaction in the touch of your hands and mouth, and after a full year, the Maester had confirmed your wounds to be mended. Still, weeks went on and you did not welcome him back into your body. Aemond thought time would heal your fears, surely, and you would give yourself to him fully again.
That night was much like any other—you came to Aemond’s bed and laid down at his side, enjoying the warmth of his skin, however you could tell sleep was eluding your husband, and that a particular subject was weighing on his mind.
Accustomed as you were to the times when the whole realm was a burden, with too many issues to solve or matters too complex to even consider, you could tell the difference when one precise problem was at the forefront of his mind.
Nestled in the crook of his arm, your face tucked safely on his shoulder, you watched the steady rhythm of his chest, far too deep and slow to be any other than deliberate.
However you had learned long ago not to pry, and that he would come to you whenever he felt ready to talk. Instead you melted into the line of his body, your thigh slightly propped against his, your arm wrapped over his waist, your fingers curled along his ribs, and you enjoyed the mindless pattern his fingertips were tracing over your back.
Slowly you felt and saw the particular heaviness of arousal creeping into him—his breathing lost its precise rhythm and instead came in shuddering sighs, his skin rising in shivers as his abdomen clenched minutely. Through the thin cotton of his sleeping trousers, you could see the curve of his cock slowly filling, rising from where it usually rested on his inner thigh.
Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, you slowly extracted yourself from his embrace to mouth at his chest, your hands cradling his waist, and you began your slow descent between his thighs. However as you reached his hip bones he brought you back to his face, and you were glad for the kiss of his mouth to yours.
Curious as to what he wanted more than your mouth on him, you allowed him to tip you to the sheets, until he settled between your parted knees and rolled his hips into yours. The feeling of his hard length felt as though a tongue of heat had licked up your core, but nausea rose in you all the same.
“No,” you said firmly, and Aemond removed himself from atop you, an obvious look of disappointment and sadness upon his face.
At that you rose from the bed, picking up your robe and pulling it over your shoulders, simply to occupy yourself and regain some composure. Sitting up with his knees bent, Aemond watched you with a pained frown, then sighed. “It has been over a year now,” he commented, direct but careful in his tone.
“I have satisfied you in other ways, haven’t I?” you asked, tightening the belt of the robe around your abdomen, and you heard him whisper his affirmation. “What is it, then?” you inquired even though you knew the answer.
Rising to follow you, no doubt in an attempt to calm your anger, Aemond came to stand before you, and his eye bore into yours as he spoke. “I need a son and heir,” he said, and the firmness of his tone made it sound like a command from your king rather than a request from your husband.
“I nearly died the last time I bore you a child,” you replied harshly. Neither of you had forgotten the utter agony of that day and how close to falling into the Stranger’s arms you had been, along with your babe, but the shadow of the realm was ever present on your marriage.
“The realm needs stability,” he argued, but you cut him off before he could bring any more arguments.
“Do not speak of the realm. It is not about that so much as your pride!” you cried out, and never before had he seen you so distraught. “Rhaenyra’s sons still live, two of them, grown and healthy!”
No other words could have provoked your husband’s fury so quickly, but you could not bring yourself to regret saying them—they were the truth, the undeniable reality of the line of succession, and yet Aemond considered it the greatest insult. “I will not have the son of the usurper upon my throne!” he shouted.
“Would you rather see me dead?” you accused, and the question struck him into silence.
For a moment the room fell silent, only interrupted by your harsh breaths, and you waited for him to retract his statements, to apologize and swear that the matter was closed, but he did not. “The choice is simple then,” you decided, quiet and cold. “If you truly want a son from me, then you will have to force yourself upon me. I won’t fight you.”
Many queens before had to sacrifice themselves for the realm and the sake of their husband’s legacies, and you supposed it was only fair that you would subject yourself to it. Sorrow taking over your senses, you walked towards the bed and laid down on the sheets. True to your word, you parted your knees and let your legs fall off the bed limply.
To his horror, Aemond followed your taunt and came to stand between your knees, reaching for the laces of his night trousers only to find that his cock was soft. He closed his eye, and the idea of taking his pleasure while you surrendered your will to him made nausea rise in his throat. Perhaps another king would have done it without thought, but he could not bear the idea of diminishing his queen as such.
“I cannot,” he said, and only then did you break, curling on your side and bringing your knees to your chest, one of your hands coming to cover your mouth as you sobbed silently into the sheets.
For days on end neither you nor Aemond spoke to the other, existing side by side as king and queen, father and mother, but the husband and wife you had been first and foremost were gone, an irrevocable change between the two of you.
Time seemed to slow and stretch around you, and where a peaceful future once laid, now only uncertainty remained. The only hope you found was in your daughter. Bringing her into this world had nearly ended your life, and as such you were grateful that you were still on this earth to see her thrive. Seeing the first few sparks of her character grow made you wonder what impact this unfortunate situation would have on her, to be the only child, a daughter when her being a son would have changed the face of the realm.
Inside of you, rage and shame battled, and while some days you felt bitter guilt that you were not able to bear a son for Aemond, other days were filled with resentment and the terrible fear that he would one day grow desperate enough to force himself on you.
Trust had been broken, surely not irrevocably, but shattered enough that even years from now, there would be visible cracks in it. Every day you prayed for guidance and wisdom, unable to let go of either your humiliation nor your anger, until one morning as you made your way back from the Weirwood tree, you glanced towards the gardens that stretched to the seaside, and noticed your husband in unknown company.
Aemond was walking up one of the garden alleys, and at his side was a young boy you had never seen and yet instantly knew the parentage of—your gaze caught on his slender features and long, thin white hair. “Who is this?” you asked your lady-in-waiting.
“One of Rhaenyra’s sons, the youngest, I believe,” she replied, and you could not name the emotion that rose in your throat at that information. With a quick word and a small smile, you dismissed her and turned towards the gardens.
As you came up to them their words grew quieter, and as you approached, you could see the line of your husband’s shoulder tense further. When finally the three of you came standing face to face, you searched for Rhaenyra’s likeness in the set of his eyes or the dimple in his chin.
“Good morrow, my queen,” the boy greeted—his voice was deeper than you had expected for such a young, slender child.
“This is Viserys,” Aemond introduced with a careful tone before you could inquire, then gave the boy an encouraging tilt of his head.
“The king has offered to supervise my education,” the young prince explained with a touch of pride, and you could not help the way your heart ached. “From now on I am to attend the Small Council meetings.”
To any other child, you would have commented on how generous such an opportunity was, but in this case you said nothing, your husband’s intentions still unclear. “What of your older brother?” you inquired.
“My brother is not suited to ruling, our tutors say,” Viserys explained, lowering his eyes.
Aemond stepped in then, nodding towards the guards at the end of the alley. “Go along, I need a word alone with the queen,” he instructed. Viserys complied without hesitation, and the two of them watched him walk away, his arms neatly crossed at his back as was Aemond’s custom. “Does that satisfy you?” he asked when the boy was far enough.
“Is this boy supposed to mend the trust you have broken?” you asked, suddenly furious at the question, at the way it was worded rather than the intention, as though it implied you were the unreasonable one.
“He is meant to be my heir, because no matter how bitterly I hated his mother, I would not see you dead in the pursuit of a son,” Aemond said quietly, sounding just as enraged as you felt. “I have set aside my pride for you, what more would you want from me?”
Unshed tears burning the back of your throat, you turned towards the garden, unable to sustain his gaze, and heard him groan in frustration.
While he could hardly look at the child, his very presence a reminder of the costs to the realm and the sufferings he still carried in his very bones, his hatred for his sister and her offspring did not compare to his devotion to you.
“I will raise my enemy’s child for the love of you,” he shouted, and never before had you heard him raise his voice on such a private matter in public. “I have lost everything to the throne, I will not lose you as well.”
Even years after the war had ended, you knew the loss of his brothers still stung as fiercely as it did on the days of their death, and you could not deny you understood the weight that rested on his shoulders. “It is right for a king to expect a son from his queen,” you finally admitted, cold and defeated.
Aemond came to stand behind you, his hands hovering beside your arms, reaching but not touching, and his voice turned soft in the way it only did when addressing you. “I have never held it against you, and never will,” he vowed.
“Not in words, but in your heart, I’m sure,” you accused, and he did not refute it—he could not.
For nights on end he had blamed you in his prayers, too caught up in his pride to admit the hurt he had caused you, no matter how righteous his pursuit of a legacy was. “Are we meant to resent each other until death do us part, then?” he asked, a touch of desperation to his voice.
With one last heavy breath you turned to look upon him once more, his sharp face contorted in agony. “I am your queen, I shall love you until death pries me from your side,” you promised, and while it did not fill the cracks of your broken trust, perhaps such a simple truth was enough to keep the realm together.
Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Based on an anonymous request.
Type: fluffy two-shot with sprinkles of angst; peek on a scene from a masquerade ball
Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader
Warnings: Steve being charming as hell a bit of a little shit, mention of alcohol, reader being a bit tipsy and not blind to Steve being tall drink of water¨✨🤭
Word count of the peek: 850
He straightened, briefly caught off-guard, two surprised blinks passing before you realized he was, funnily enough, taken aback to have been recognized.
Like any mask could hope to hide all… that.
A self-deprecating smile curled his lips.
“What gave it away?”
The shoulders, your hazy slightly drunken mind supplied immediately. The size of you altogether. The jaw. The gentle timbre of your commanding voice that probably carries some kind of magic. The heavenly eyes with an unfairly attractive spark framed by kindness and gorgeous eyelashes.
You congratulated yourself on not speaking any of the things on your mind, formulating a more polite answer.
“I’m afraid no mask can hope to conceal you, Captain Rogers. It might have to do something with the fact you often wear one as a part of your uniform.”
Or that it covers very, very little of you.
You being a specimen and mountain I’d like to climb-
You bit the inside of your cheek as if to scold your mind and to remind yourself that you were, all in all, in serious trouble. Sneaking into a party could be fun and games you supposed, unless someone, someone like Captain America, realized you were basically trespassing.
But it was rather hard to convince your brain to think firmly in those lines when the Captain’s shoulders fell, his smile turning genuine again, the glint of his eyes seemingly having a lot more to do with himself than all the lights of the glamorous hall.
“That’s what Nat said,” he said, extending his right hand forward. “Steve Rogers, nice to meet you. Thank you for not saying ‘costume’.”
Despite all logic – or perhaps only alongside it, since trying to outrun a supersolider while wearing heels, on his home turf no less, would actually be the foolish move – you slid your hand into his and squeezed, pretending his grip, firm but tender for a hand of a soldier, didn’t send your not-quite-sober mind straight into the gutter.
“My pleasure. And I stand by my words… even as one might probably argue it’s more of a cowl or a helmet--- not that I’m an expert on armour!”
Or fashion.
Or polite talk, apparently.
Captain Rogers – Steve Rogers, as he had introduced himself, you just realized – chuckled.
“I won’t argue about either. I pick my battles.”
“Wisely and always one at the time, I’m sure,” you chirped, the words out before you could actually think them through.
A soft surprised laughter erupted from his throat at being perceived more – or commented more bluntly on – than he had expected.
He squeezed you hand as he did so, never having released it; and there was no escape. Your face was set aflame and your belly burned all the more, because you had made this specimen of a man and the closest to paragon of justice and morality and all goodness that laid in humanity laugh and he was looking at you with so much interest you’d thought he had to be faking it, because it was too good to be true.
“I see no mask can fool you indeed… but I believe this is the part when I learn your name, miss…?”
You lowered your gaze, smiling to yourself.
Captain Rogers surely had some nice moves in his arsenal and you were all quite ready to swoon; but not to give away your name, stubbornly clinging to the illusion you were not a completely lost cause looking to be locked up for life.
“Charming as you are, Captain-“
“Steve.”
You gaze snapped up automatically at his interruption. “I’m sorry?”
“I’d really prefer if you called me Steve, especially if you call me charming in the same sentence.”
You felt your face flush further, grateful for your mask, your entire vernacular suddenly shrinking to the words ‘Steve’ and ‘charming’ indeed; there was no other words in English language to describe him as he sweetened his offer with a boyish smile, eyes twinkling with mischief.
God, he was criminally, terminally handsome. …which were other words to describe him, but you’d rather not embarrass yourself further on top of everything by saying so, so you stuck to your original claim, even as you couldn’t help gulping against your suddenly dry throat. You resisted the urge to lick his lips too.
YOUR LIPS.
Your lips… mainly.
Who even made a man with such a kissable mouth and then added a body like that and made him a goddamn moral compass of the entire country if not the entire planet? And made him a gentleman with a boyish smile with a mischievous edge? Deadly combination.
You cleared your throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. He waited patiently, his smile ever-present, messing with your head and challenging you to mirror his playfulness despite what rationality commanded you to do.
Blame it on the alcohol
Blame it on his charm.
“As charming as you are and as naïve as I was, thinking I wouldn’t immediately be made, I’m not a complete idiot to give away my name… then again, I did get some time here, so it can’t be that bad?”
Fingers crossed?
“Sure,” he agreed, one corner of his lips rising to a smirk now, leaning closer to you, your breath catching in your throat. “Enough to have two glasses of champagne.”
-.-🥂💕-.-
What do we think? 🤭🥰 I think I'd like to write a bigger part of part two before even considering posting this one... this one also needs some edits still. But I hope you enjoyed 🥰
Let me know and let the rest of July be kind to you, because you deserve it 💕
According to the CDC, in 10 percent of those drownings, the adult will actually watch the child do it, having no idea it is happening. Drowning does not look like drowning—Dr. Pia, in an article in the Coast Guard’s On Scene magazine, described the Instinctive Drowning Response like this:
“Except in rare circumstances, drowning people are physiologically unable to call out for help. The respiratory system was designed for breathing. Speech is the secondary or overlaid function. Breathing must be fulfilled before speech occurs.
Drowning people’s mouths alternately sink below and reappear above the surface of the water. The mouths of drowning people are not above the surface of the water long enough for them to exhale, inhale, and call out for help. When the drowning people’s mouths are above the surface, they exhale and inhale quickly as their mouths start to sink below the surface of the water.
Drowning people cannot wave for help. Nature instinctively forces them to extend their arms laterally and press down on the water’s surface. Pressing down on the surface of the water permits drowning people to leverage their bodies so they can lift their mouths out of the water to breathe.
Throughout the Instinctive Drowning Response, drowning people cannot voluntarily control their arm movements. Physiologically, drowning people who are struggling on the surface of the water cannot stop drowning and perform voluntary movements such as waving for help, moving toward a rescuer, or reaching out for a piece of rescue equipment.
From beginning to end of the Instinctive Drowning Response people’s bodies remain upright in the water, with no evidence of a supporting kick. Unless rescued by a trained lifeguard, these drowning people can only struggle on the surface of the water from 20 to 60 seconds before submersion occurs.”
This doesn’t mean that a person that is yelling for help and thrashing isn’t in real trouble—they are experiencing aquatic distress. Not always present before the Instinctive Drowning Response, aquatic distress doesn’t last long—but unlike true drowning, these victims can still assist in their own rescue. They can grab lifelines, throw rings, etc.
Look for these other signs of drowning when persons are in the water:
Head low in the water, mouth at water level
Head tilted back with mouth open
Eyes glassy and empty, unable to focus
Eyes closed
Hair over forehead or eyes
Not using legs—vertical
Hyperventilating or gasping
Trying to swim in a particular direction but not making headway
Trying to roll over on the back
Appear to be climbing an invisible ladder
So if a crew member falls overboard and everything looks OK—don’t be too sure. Sometimes the most common indication that someone is drowning is that they don’t look like they’re drowning. They may just look like they are treading water and looking up at the deck. One way to be sure? Ask them, “Are you all right?” If they can answer at all—they probably are. If they return a blank stare, you may have less than 30 seconds to get to them. And parents—children playing in the water make noise. When they get quiet, you get to them and find out why.
Can I just say thank you to OP for putting such a detailed description on this?
I’ve been a lifeguard for 6 years now and of all the saves I’ve done, maybe two or three had people drowning in the stereotypical thrashing style. And even those, like the save I made last weekend, it was exactly like OP describes where the person’s head is going in and out of the water but it isn’t long enough to get any air. Mostly you recognize drowning by the look on someone’s face. If someone looks wide eyed and terrified or confused, chances are they’re drowning. That look of “oh shit” is pretty easily recognizable. And even if you can’t tell for sure: GO AFTER THEM ANYWAY. I’ve done “saves” where a kid was pretending to drown and I mistook it for real drowning, but that’s preferable to a kid ACTUALLY drowning.
Also please remember that even strong swimmers can drown if they have a medical emergency, get cramps, or get too tired. If your friend knows how to swim but they’re acting funny get them to land. And even if someone can respond when you ask them if they need help, if they say they do need help? GO HELP THEM.
However . If the victim is a stranger, I can’t recommend trying to get them. Lifeguards literally train to escape “attacks,” because people who are drowning can freak the fuck out and grab you and make YOU drown as well. If you do go in after someone, take hold of them from the back and talk to them the whole time. IF YOU ARE GRABBED: duck down into the water as low as you can get. The person is panicking and won’t want to go under water and should release you. Shove up at their hands and push them away from you as you duck under. Don’t die trying to save someone else.
Please guys, read and memorize this post. Not all places have lifeguards. Being able to recognize drowning is such an important skill to have and you can save someone’s life.
In a water park once, I was suddenly grabbed by a child and he dragged me under the water without warning. I was going to get angry with him when I resurfaced because I thought he was being an ass, until I looked at him go back in and out hyperventilating the entire time. I grabbed him under his arms and began trying to drag him out while screaming for the lifeguard.
When the lifeguard got us both out, a woman came running down and accused me of harming him and said he had been completely fine in the water. That there was no reason to drag him out of there. The lifeguard had to explain to her that her son had been drowning, to which her response was to say that she didn’t hear him call for help.
ִֶָ🪽་༘ body worship, messy make out, praising, vulnerability
post-sex glow
glowing. sensitive. shaking. nothing gets shane harder than seeing you like this. not just fucked. completely satisfied. skin flushed. eyes soft and hazy. lips plump and red from his biting and rough kisses. cum and saliva still on your thighs. you’re blooming. you’re beautiful. things that make him want to stare at you. or fuck you again. this time, he’s itching to do both.
you’re breathing heavily beside him. messy hair. tears dried on your cheeks. your body heavy and boneless. every nerve ending is open and sensitive. shane lays beside you, breathing the same. he looks at you before pulling you to his chest, pressing tiny kisses on your head. he buries his nose in your hair, breathing in the sweat mixing with whatever products you used. he wipes the sweat across your forehead, looking at your half-lidded eyes. the bastard smirks. “you okay, baby?” so proud of himself every time he makes you end up like this. all pretty and tired.
“hmmm…” you just hum tiredly.
his lips trail to your jaw, kissing down your neck. smelling you. the way the sweat, the smell of sex, and his own scent cling to your skin takes all his patience not to fuck you again. he drags his tongue out and sucks a long, hard line into your neck. “taste so good, sweetheart…” he whispers against your skin before giving you a bruising suck.
he can’t stop touching you. squeezing your thighs. playing with your nipples. sliding his fingers through the cum on your skin. he loves every bit of reaction because your body is just all sensitive and fucked. his hips keep rocking, a slow, desperate grind against your thigh. he’s hard and aching and deliberately holding back.
“shane… let’s get cleaned up…” a light giggle slips out from your lips because of how he can’t seem to keep himself off you.
he sighs deeply before sitting up. stops. his breathing halts as he looks over your body. you’re laying on the bed, spent, legs shaking slightly. marks and bruises all over you. from him.
you notice him staring so you kick his foot. he catches your leg and massages it gently in your thighs. his fingers work the sore muscle, then trail up through the slick you’re still leaking. “shaneee” you whine. your voice comes out low and broken. raspy from how he made you scream. he loves that sound. loves the way it rumbles in your chest because of him.
shane scoffs and leans in. he just hovers above you, drinking in the sight. your flushed skin. that fucked-out glaze in your eyes. the way you’re barely holding onto consciousness.
“what a pretty girl you are,” he murmurs under his breath. he watches your lips part, watches your chest rise and fall. then his mouth is on yours. immediately messy. aggressively kissing you, fucking your mouth with his tongue. he only stops when you tap his arm and pinch him.
he pulls away, breathing heavy. looks at you again. at the spit-slick mess he’s made of your lips. “think you can take another round?” as his hand slides down your thighs again.
content.ᐟ 18+, large legal age gap, sensitive reader, slightly mean shane, pet name (baby), dacryphilia, p in v, teasing
thinking about shane maguire and his crybaby!gf...
you're a naturally sensitive person, you can't help but tear up at little things, things others your age wouldn't even care about. like gas running low, scraping your knee, or any other minor inconvenience.
but you don't mind as much when you have a boyfriend to run off and complain to, when you can sob in his arms while he wipes your tears and kisses your head (begrudgingly).
so when you get a flat tire in the middle of the nowhere and he has to come pick you up, he's already expecting and preparing for the waterworks.
he finds you sobbing into your hands in the drivers seat of your car, looking up at him when he makes him way over to your rolled down window. "m'so stupid!" you cry, "i- i-" before you can call yourself another name or spiral even more, shane is grabbing your wrists and pulling them from your face firmly, "yer' not stupid, baby." he says firmly, helping you hop out of the car with a hand on the small of your back, and guiding you to the passenger seat of his old pickup truck.
right as he buckles your seatbelt for you, shuts your door for you, and climbs into the drivers side, you're sliding over on the bench seat to climb into his lap, burying your face into his neck with a trembling lip. he starts up the engine of the truck and starts to drive, letting you settle comfortably into his lap and cling onto him. he wraps a heavy arm around you, rolling his eyes at your pathetic little sniffles. "stop all that cryin', s'jus a flat tire" he drawls, giving your ass a little pat. it's his own, unique way of comforting you.
same goes for when you're upset after a long day at work, your boss being on your back from the moment you clocked in to the minute you clocked out with tears already brimming your eyes.
you made your way to shane's camp and found him sitting on a log carving a knife. he sees you and already knows you're in a mood again, so he just sighs deeply, sets his knife down, and opens his arms so you can cry all you want into his chest. it's nothing new for him.
you walk over with your lip trembling and tears finally falling from your glassy eyes as you climb onto him. "i hate my job" you complain, "boss s'so mean" you hiccup. he listens to your whining, rocking you soothingly in his lap as you ramble on and on with that shaky voice he hates so much. he interrupts you, "stop talkin' for a few, okay? sound like yer' throats bout to give out" he sighs, rubbing a heavy hand over his face and cradles you as you hiccup and sob into his now wet shirt.
there are times, however, when you're not crying from sadness or exhaustion, but from pleasure. he really doesn't mind when you cry like this.
when he's got you in a mating press, hips pressed flush against his and ankles up by your ears. "there ya' go" he coos. he huffs a laugh at the hot tears running down your flushed face, the sting of the position youre in and the stretch of his thick cock being overwhelming.
he's pushing your calves further with warm palms splayed against them. "my little crybaby, huh?" he teases you, pulling another embarrassed sob from your sore throat. "sh-shane!" you're whining, clawing at his biceps, leaving red marks in your wake. "ohmygod– s'too much" you're crying out for him to slow down, but he just loved seeing those glistening tears falling from your eyes.
"no s'not." he says, his voice low and gravely. he leans down to kiss all over your damp skin, "yeah, that's my girl– cryin' just f'me" he almost sounds loving, like he isn't teasing you for once. "so sensitive" he reaches down to flick your clit, enjoying the way you twitch and sob harder, clinging to him like a lifeline.
shane who’s so mean to literally everyone but his pretty princess (you) and everyone thinks he must’ve be replaced with a look alike when they see how soft and sweet he is with you bc “the real shane would never!” but he loves takin care of u and making u feel good :((
ugh :( the thought of shane being so soft n sweet only for his girl!!
it's a total 180 from his personality, he's usually such a dick, so cocky and demanding. when others see him talk to you, however, they think it must not be him! he's just cooing at you and rubbing your shoulder tenderly, speaking to you like you're the most precious little thing. he's always got you in his gentle hold, hugging you softly and kissing your head, so enamored by you, just wants to make you feel good!! :(
not in a million years would anyone think they would hear shane maguire calling somebody "angel", or "babygirl", or any other of the sickeningly sweet pet names he has for you.
and you're oblivious to his reputation, people asking you why he's so nice to you, or trying to warn you he's manipulating you or something, you just think that's silly! "my shane? he would never do that!" you say to concerned folks, brushing them off and skipping back over to your sweet, doting boyfriend. he would never catch himself acting like that for anyone else, only his baby.
truthfully, nothing makes him happier or turns him on, more than when he's taking care of you. he sees it as his duty in life to make sure his princess is pampered and loved, always keeping you wrapped in his arms, right where you belong.
꒰ wc ꒱ 15k words
꒰ summary꒱ after stalking you for years, dex is completely unprepared for the dizzying reality of finally being invited into your life—your apartment, your bed, your soft thighs opening for him so sweetly that he can barely tell where fantasy ends and addiction begins.
.ᐟ contents |
18+ (MDNI), stalking, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f&m!receiving), pervert!dex, canon!dex, fbi!dex, horny!reader, oblivious!reader, stealing, panty sniffing, panic attacks, mental breakdown, suicidal dex, mentally unstable dex, canon compliant, somnophilia, dub-con, inexperienced!dex, mentioned murder, humping, groping, spit swapping, finger sucking, creep!dex, breeding kink, fluff, dark romance, manipulation, gaslighting, all in dex's pov
.ᐟ lizzy’s note |
this fic has been plaguing my life for the last three months and now im finally free. genuinely just wanted to write smut, then forced myself to create plot leading up to it. trying out a new layout, pls don't burn me at the stake.
at this rate stay tuned for my next dex fic in 2027 <3
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
divider by @uzmacchiato
Dex loved sushi night Fridays.
You two had settled into the routine months ago without either of you ever really acknowledging it. Fridays after work. The same tiny sushi place tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, the sign flickering like it was running on borrowed time.
Inside was all warm amber lighting and fogged windows, the air thick with rice vinegar and the low hiss of the grill.
The hostess smiled the second you walked in now, already reaching for a menu you never looked at, because you already knew what you wanted, and Dex already knew you’d order it before you did.
You referred to it as your “cheat day,” something Dex privately thought was bullshit. You were always working on cutting back on takeout or “trying to be healthier,” only to cave every Friday night without fail.
But the word cheat implied you were doing something wrong. Indulging something shameful. And he hated the idea of you apologising for your own appetite.
He’d watched the pattern long enough to know it by heart; Sushi Fridays. Thai food on bad days (red curry, extra spicy, no matter how much it made you sweat). Wings—any kind really— when you were too tired to cook… or on your period.
And coffee, too much coffee, all throughout the week, the same two-pump vanilla order from the cart on 47th.
Dex didn’t think you needed to worry about your weight. The thought irritated him every time it surfaced, a low-grade static at the back of his skull. You were beautiful exactly as you were.
If he had things his way, you’d indulge every craving that crossed your mind. Midnight milkshakes. Extra dessert. Those strawberry candies you liked from the bodega near your apartment.
He’d drive across the city at two in the morning if you suddenly decided you wanted dumplings or lemon cake or greasy diner fries.
The restaurant lights caught against your jewelry when you moved, tiny gold hoops glinting near your jaw. Warm light softened everything about you.
Your skin took on a honeyed tone, the shadows beneath your cheekbones gentle rather than sharp. It made you glow in a way Dex had never been able to properly explain to himself.
Like candlelight catching honey, or the last sun ray through a window at dusk.
He watched you pick up another fried roll with your chopsticks, your nose wrinkling slightly when it nearly slipped apart before you got it into your mouth.
That made him chuckle. A sound that died in the hollow of his chest, swallowed by the space between his ribs.
God.
He needed this.
Needed the quiet rhythm of it after the last week spent buried in FBI work. The lies. The noise. Too many voices in his ear, too many meetings, too much time spent orbiting Wilson Fisk and his suffocating shadow.
His apartment never helped either. Too quiet and too still. Silence had a way of making his thoughts louder, the walls pressing in until he had to pace just to feel like he still had room to breathe.
But here, things felt… normal.
Outside, rain poured weakly past the windshield of Dex’s car.
The wipers had been off for a while now, leaving the glass streaked with dried residue. The heater hummed low near his knees, filling the car with dry warmth and the heavy, layered smell of fried tempura, soy sauce, and burnt coffee that had long gone cold in the cupholder.
Across the street, through the fogged window of the sushi place, you laughed suddenly at something on your phone, leaning forward across the table.
Dex smiled before he could stop himself.
He adjusted the takeout container balanced carefully in his lap before it tipped against the console. The plastic lid was beaded with condensation, the heat of the food fogging it from inside.
Soy sauce packets crowded the cupholder beside the coffee and crinkled napkins were shoved messily near the parking brake.
One dumpling had leaked grease through the paper container onto his slacks minutes ago, a dark stain spreading across the fabric near his knee, but he barely cared.
He hadn’t even registered the warmth of it until it had already cooled.
Dex stuffed another piece of sushi into his mouth absently, chewing without tasting, his eyes never leaving you.
The rice was a little dry. The ginger had that sharp, stinging bite that made the back of his throat tighten.
He’d picked up the order right before you came in, timed it so the food would still be warm when he settled into the driver’s seat.
His monocular rested against his thigh for barely a second before he lifted it again automatically. He settled it back against his socket without thinking, the world snapping into that familiar, compressed clarity.
His pulse eased the moment your face sharpened back into focus.
There she is.
Chin propped lazily into your palm now, reading something intently on your phone. A server passed behind you carrying a tray and even distracted, you looked up at him automatically. Sweet and polite.
Warm in that effortless way that still twisted something painfully tight inside Dex’s chest after all these years.
You gave pieces of yourself away carelessly without even realising it. A smile here. A laugh there. A small wave to a regular who held the door for you.
You never hoarded your warmth. It just spilled out of you, abundant and unguarded, and Dex collected every stray drop like a man dying of thirst.
His thumb moved slowly against the steering wheel, tracing the seam where the leather had begun to crack near the top.
This was exactly what he needed after the week he’d had.
Just you and him.
The thought surfaced without permission, settling somewhere deep behind his sternum. He let it sit there as his hand drifted toward the glove compartment without looking away from you once.
The latch gave with a quiet click, and his fingers found the familiar bundle by touch alone, soft cotton folded neatly in the dark, tucked beside his registration and a crumpled gas receipt.
He drew it carefully into his lap, keeping his eyes fixed on your silhouette through the monocular.
The pale fabric bunched lightly in his fist. The lace trim was cool against his palm, delicate, a detail he’d traced with his fingertips so many times that he could map it blind.
Almost absentmindedly, like a man reaching for a cigarette or rubbing a familiar scar, he brought the stolen panties toward his face and inhaled slowly.
The smell hit him in stages. First the faint, clean scent of your vanilla lotion, the one you applied after every shower. Then the warmer note of your shea body oil, the one you massaged into your elbows and knees before bed.
Beneath that, something warmer and distinctly you, something saline and soft that settled low in his stomach hard enough to make his slacks tighten slightly. A familiar, hungry ache that bloomed behind his fly at just your scent.
He held the breath for a long moment, letting it steep in his lungs, before exhaling through his nose.
A small souvenir he’d rewarded himself four months ago, after letting himself into your new loft late one night to make sure everything was secure.
You’d forgotten to latch one of the windows facing the fire escape. Careless sweet thing. The lock had been loose, the frame warped slightly from humidity, and when he’d tested it with his fingertips, it had swung open without resistance.
Dex had fixed it for you before leaving. Tightened the screws on the latch, oiled the track, made sure it would hold.
He’d found the panties in your laundry basket on the way out. A pale blue cotton pair, with a small tear near the waistband that you’d never bothered to mend. He’d slipped them into his jacket pocket before he could think better of it.
Across the street, you laughed again, shoulders shaking lightly this time, your head tipping back just enough to expose the column of your throat.
He exhaled softly through his nose, smiling along with you like he really was sitting across the table
Just you and him.
That was all he needed.
He didn’t know what to think when he saw the newspaper.
For one suspended second, there was nothing. Not anger. Not fear. Not even confusion. Just a sharp, empty stillness, like a pin had dropped somewhere inside his head and every part of him had gone quiet trying to hear where it landed.
Dex had been sitting there for hours, spine rigid, eyes fixed on the bank of screens showing Fisk’s penthouse from every angle. The man himself was visible in one frame, seated at his dining table. Calm and unbothered like always.
Then the paper landed in front of him.
FBI INVESTIGATES ONE OF THEIR OWN.
Agent Kane shifted beside him. “I’m sorry, Dex. This isn’t right,” she said quietly.
He heard her voice, but it came from somewhere far away, as if she were speaking through water. The words landed and dissolved.
Dex stared at the headline until the letters stopped being letters and became just shapes—black ink pressed into pulp, arranged by somebody who didn’t know him, didn’t care about him, didn’t understand anything about what he’d done or why.
The static began to rise. It always started like this, a low hum at the base of his skull, building as the world pressed in.
Around him, the room kept moving. Agents passed behind his chair, their footsteps a rhythmic interruption. Phones rang in overlapping cadences. Somebody laughed too loudly near the elevators, the sound slicing through the air before smearing into everything else, sharp and meaningless.
He could feel them looking at him.
Not directly, none of them were stupid enough to stare. But he felt the glances anyway. The way people looked at car wrecks when they slowed down just enough to see blood but not enough to admit they wanted to.
His jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple pulsed once, twice.
He was being used as a scapegoat.
By the time Winn and Hattley called him into the office, the static had thickened. It filled the room around their fake sympathetic voices.
“We’re going to find out who leaked this,” Hattley said, leaning forward with that practiced look of concern people used when they wanted to seem human.
Dex looked at her mouth while she spoke.
Not her eyes. Her mouth.
The words were too clean. Too prepared. Every syllable landed exactly where she wanted it to, like she’d rehearsed this conversation. There was no surprise in her tone, no real outrage. Just a performance of solidarity.
She was lying.
They all were.
The thing inside him stirred, restless and cold. He pressed it down. But it was harder now, when the structure he’d trusted was cracking around him, when the rules he’d followed were being used to crush him.
It had been the Bureau.
They were throwing him under the bus because someone had to bleed publicly, and it was easier if it was him. Easier because he had no wife waiting at home. No kids. No loud, charming friends in the office to make a scene on his behalf.
Easier because he was useful until he wasn’t, precise until precision made them uncomfortable, disciplined until discipline stopped protecting him from becoming disposable.
After everything, they were disposing of him.
If he followed the rules, he could be normal. He could be safe. Everyone else could be safe.
But the rules had just thrown him away.
“Think of it as a paid vacation,” Hattley said, offering a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
The static in his skull sharpened.
Dex looked down at his badge before he realised he’d already taken it off.
He didn’t remember doing it. His fingers had moved on their own, undoing the clip, sliding the leather folder from his belt.
Now it sat in his palm like something foreign, the gold shield winking at him tauntingly.
His hand didn’t feel like his own when he set it on the desk. The leather made a soft, final sound against the wood. Then the gun. The weight of it leaving him felt wrong in a way that made his stomach tighten sharply.
Badge. Gun. Credentials.
Structure.
Mercer’s voice rose in his head before he could stop it.
Get a job with structure, Dex. Rigid structure. Stay disciplined. Stay useful. Routine is important for you.
Routine. Rules. The job gave him rules. Rules told him what to do. Rules made the edges of the world sharp enough to hold onto. Without them, everything blurred.
Everything bled into everything else. The thing inside him pushed against its cage like an animal scenting an open door.
And now they were taking it away from him like it was nothing.
By the time he reached the hall, the migraine had settled behind his right eye, hot and pulsing. It pressed against his optic nerve, sending thin spokes of light across his vision.
Nausea turned slowly in his stomach, a greasy, rolling sensation that made his throat tighten.
He was aware of his body in pieces. His pulse hammering in his wrists, too fast. Sweat cooling under his collar, the fabric damp and clammy against his neck. The empty space at his hip where his gun should have been.
Empty.
Empty.
Empty.
By the time he stepped back out into the hall, the Bureau felt wrong around him. Hostile in a way it hadn’t ten minutes ago.
But the air had changed. It pressed against him differently now, thick and heavy, as if the building itself had decided he didn’t belong here anymore.
He walked past an agent he’d worked with for two years. The man met his eyes, then looked away.
Dex’s fingers twitched at his sides.
None of it belonged to him anymore.
Or he didn’t belong to it.
The job was gone. The badge was gone. The rules were gone. And without them, he felt himself starting to come apart at the seams, the threads that held him together snapping one by one.
His breathing thinned. Too shallow. Too fast. The edges of his vision began to grey, just slightly, like someone was turning down the lights from far away.
He needed out.
He needed air.
No.
Not air.
You.
He needed to see you. Now.
The thought cut through the static like a blade. A fixed point in the chaos.
Dex looked down at his watch.
6:17 p.m.
Thursday.
You did your grocery shopping on Thursdays after work because you hated weekend crowds. End of the week, but not the weekend. Practical. Smart.
Sometimes you bought tulips even though you worked at a florist and could probably get better ones for free.
He had never understood that.
He loved that he didn’t understand that.
The Bureau, Hattley, Winn, Fisk, the paper, the headline, the badge sitting on that desk like a dead thing. None of it mattered. Not right now.
Not when his mind was splitting open and the only thought holding him together was the image of you standing under grocery-store fluorescents.
He turned before he’d fully decided to move.
His feet carried him toward the elevator. Each step felt like pushing through water. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in, then expand, breathing with him.
By the time he reached the elevator and pressed the button, his jaw ached from clenching. His hands were steady, but only because he had trained them to be.
Inside, everything was coming apart in small, quiet pieces. Like a dam with a thousand tiny cracks, water seeping through each one, the whole structure holding only by habit and memory.
That was fine.
He didn’t need the badge.
He didn’t need their rules.
He had you.
The drive from the bureau to the grocery store did nothing to settle the storm clawing through Dex’s chest.
His palms were slick against his slacks. He’d just walked in. Empty-handed. Bereft of purpose beyond the single, desperate need screaming through every nerve ending in his body.
Find her. Find her. Find her.
The automatic doors hissed shut behind him, sealing him inside a world of too-bright lights and Muzak and the sharp chemical sweetness of floor cleaner.
His tie felt like it had shrunk two sizes since he’d left the Bureau, the knot pressing against his throat like a noose. He tugged at it once, twice, but it only made it tighter.
The migraine was still there, settled between his eyes like a hot coal. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a steady, throbbing pressure that made the aisles seem to swim when he moved his head too fast.
And Mercer’s voice.
She was there, in the back of his skull, the way she always was when things got bad. But today she wasn’t the steady, grounding presence he remembered.
Her voice flickered and warped, sliding between registers like a broken radio.
Stay calm, Dex. Breathe. You’re okay.
Then, lower, twisted. Freak. Look at you. They threw you away because they saw it. They knew what you were.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
You were supposed to be better than this. All that discipline. And you can’t even—
“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, but the words came out wrong, too loud, and a woman passing with a toddler shot him a strange look.
He didn’t care.
He checked the endcaps, the seasonal displays, the little stand with flowers near the entrance because you liked stopping there.
You weren’t there.
His breathing got thinner, shallower, each inhale less satisfying than the last. A tightness gathered behind his eyes, hot and humiliating, frustration swelling so quickly it scared him.
Not here. Not here. Not—
He crossed the store, his shoes squeaking on the polished floor. He passed a man in a dark coat who frowned at him. He ignored him. He rounded the corner into the makeup aisle and his chest seized.
Empty.
The shelves stretched out before him, neat rows of bottles and tubes and compacts reflecting the harsh light. A woman stood at the far end, examining a lipstick, but she had different hair. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
The frustration crested, crested, broke.
Tears pricked at his eyes, and he blinked furiously against them. His throat closed. His hands shook.
This was stupid.
This was—
Where the hell are you?
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. The pressure helped, briefly, grounding him in pain instead of panic. He counted to ten. Then to twenty.
He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, the way Mercer had taught him when he was thirteen and didn’t know how to exist without breaking things.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. You’re in control, Dex. You’re always in control.
But the voice was quiet now, drowned out by the static.
He dropped his hands and looked up.
There.
The fruit and vegetable aisle. Eight feet away. Your back.
And everything stopped.
The world snapped into focus like a lens being adjusted. The lights dimmed to something bearable. The buzzing of the fluorescents faded to a dull hum.
A shock ran through his system, ice-cold and bracing, like being splashed with water in the middle of a fever dream.
His throat worked. He swallowed once, twice.
He dragged his eyes up, angry at himself and not angry at all. Angry that he couldn’t just walk up to you, couldn’t just be normal, couldn’t just—
His hands were still shaking.
His chest was still tight.
His breathing was still too shallow, too fast, each inhale catching on something sharp lodged in his lungs.
He was still falling apart, and you were right there, six feet away, squeezing pears and humming to music he couldn’t hear, and he couldn’t calm down.
The realisation hit him like a fist to his throat.
If he couldn’t pull himself together now, if he couldn’t drag his shattered pieces back into something resembling a whole person, he was going to have a full mental breakdown with you a few steps away from him.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He couldn’t.
He stood at the end of the aisle, frozen, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his heart hammering against his ribs, his eyes fixed on the curve of your spine and the gentle sway of your hips as you moved down the display.
And for a long, terrible moment, he didn’t know what to do.
The word nectarines repeated in his skull like a lifeline.
He didn’t know why that particular fruit had caught his attention—maybe because they were closest, maybe because they were red and blushing and reminded him of the colour your lips had been at the diner.
It didn’t matter. He grabbed one, then another, turning them over in his trembling hands pretending to inspect them.
Three steps away. You were three steps away.
Dex’s shoe scuffed against the linoleum as he adjusted his stance, positioning himself so he could see you in his peripheral vision without turning his head.
Look at something else. Let your eyes find the target naturally. But his eyes weren’t listening.
They kept sliding back to you, hungry and helpless, drinking in the curve of your hip where your sweatpants rode low.
He could smell you.
Estée Lauder. Beautiful Magnolia.
He knew the scent because he’d bought a bottle once, from a department store in Midtown, just to understand what it was that clung to your clothes and lingered in the air long after you’d passed.
He’d sprayed it on his pillow that night and buried his face in the fabric, breathing you in until the noise in his head quieted to a hum.
He inhaled now, deep and long, hoping it would do the same.
It didn’t.
His hands were still shaking. He could see the tremors as he turned a nectarine over, the fruit wobbling in his grip like he’d never held anything in his life.
Just breathe, Dex, Mercer whispered, but her voice was thin, frayed, like a recording stretched to breaking.
We don’t know how this got out, Hattley’s voice cut in, smooth and false, dripping with pity. We’re going to find out who leaked this.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
He wanted to hit something. Wanted to drive his fist into the display of nectarines, into the wall, into his own skull if it would make them stop.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
He tried to focus on you. On the sound of your breathing. On the fact that this was the closest he’d been to you in years.
But nothing helped.
The voices swelled. The migraine throbbed. His hands shook. His chest constricted. And he was drowning, drowning, drowning in the fluorescent light of a grocery store—
“Excuse me.”
The world snapped into silence.
Dex’s head shot up so fast his neck cracked. His eyes found yours, and everything in him locked up like a circuit breaker tripping. You were looking at him.
He stared.
He blinked.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
The silence stretched, and your smile tightened at the edges, just slightly. You cleared your throat, shifting your weight, the picture of casual confidence.
“I don’t know if this is gonna sound a bit creepy,” you said, and your voice was smooth, rolling, the same voice he’d heard a thousand times in his memory, “but do I know you?”
His heart stopped.
Then restarted at double speed.
Say something. Say something normal. Say something human.
“I—” He cleared his throat. The sound was raw, scraping. He forced a smile onto his face, “I don’t think so.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “No, I do.”
There was no room for argument in your voice. No uncertainty.
He tilted his head, mirroring you. Let his eyes narrow slightly, as if he were searching his memory.
As if he didn’t have every moment he’d ever seen you catalogued and cross-referenced in his mind.
As if he wasn’t memorising the way the light caught in your hair, the faint sheen of gloss on your lips, the tiny beauty mark just above your collarbone.
You snapped your fingers, before pointing to yourself. “I used to work at this diner a few years ago. I don’t know if you know it—Bel Air Diner, maybe?”
He let the pause hang. Let his brow furrow. Let himself pretend, when all he wanted to do was reach out and touch you to make sure you were real.
“Bushwick?” he said finally, his voice steadier than he felt.
Your eyes lit up, and the sensation of seeing that, of being the cause of that light, was like injecting ecstasy straight into his veins.
“Yeah!” You nodded, your smile widening into something that crinkled the corners of your eyes. “The one on the corner of 9th Ave. That’s the one.”
Dex’s breath caught. He swallowed, trying to find his footing, trying to remember how to be a regular person, having a conversation with a woman who had no idea that she was the only thing that had kept him from falling apart for years.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. “Yeah, I remember.”
“But you don’t remember me?”
Dex blinked at you, the words landing like a slap he didn’t see coming.
For a long, terrible second, his brain seized, caught between the instinct to apologise and the dawning realisation that you were teasing him.
You were teasing him.
The corners of your mouth curved, and there it was, a glint in your eye, a playful tilt to your chin that he’d never seen before.
Not in all the hours he’d spent watching you. You were straightforward. Bold.
In his head, you were soft. Sweet. A little shy, maybe, the way you’d duck your head when a customer thanked you, the way you’d bite your lip when you were concentrating on an arrangement.
He’d built a version of you that was gentle and malleable, a fantasy that existed to be consumed, not to talk back.
“I’m kidding,” you said, after his silence stretched a beat too long. Like you could see him drowning and had thrown him a line.
He hated himself.
The feeling was familiar, worn smooth by years of repetition, but this was a fresh, raw kind of hatred that made his palms itch.
The Dex in his mind, the one he’d imagined a thousand times, would have had a smooth response ready. Would have leaned against the display, flashed a grin, said something that made you laugh.
That Dex was charming. That Dex was normal.
But that Dex wasn’t real. And the real Dex was standing here, sweat beading at his temples, hands shaking.
He scrambled, forcing a smile onto his face that he hoped read as charming rather than manic.
“No, no.” His voice came out too quick, too eager. He reined it in, softened his tone. “I do remember you now. I’m just surprised you remember me.”
You tilted your head smiling, and the movement pushed the apples of your cheeks up. God, you were beautiful.
“Can never forget a handsome face,” you said.
Handsome. She said handsome. She’s flirting with you. That’s what this is. Say something back. This is how it works. So do it.
But his brain was a white-noise void, every thought scattering like roaches in harsh light.
His smile felt brittle on his face, but he held it there, hoping you couldn’t see how badly his hands were shaking.
“Thank you,” he managed, and the words came out rough, almost shy.
He shifted the nectarine to his other hand, wiping his palm against his slacks in a motion he hoped looked casual. Then extended his hand.
“Dex.”
You smiled and told him your name. Like he didn’t already know it. Like he hadn’t whispered it into the dark of his apartment with his fist wrapped around his cock, gasping it into his pillow like a prayer.
Your hand slid into his.
The contact was electric. Your skin was warm, soft, impossibly real against his calloused palm.
He had to stop himself from closing his eyes, from letting the sensation wash over him and drown him.
Every nerve in his body screamed at him to pull you closer, to bring your hand to his mouth and press his lips to your knuckles, to your wrist, to the delicate skin where your pulse beat just beneath the surface.
Instead, he shook your hand once, twice, like a normal person, and let go before he did something he couldn’t take back.
“So, Dex,” you said, drawing his name out just slightly, testing it, like you were deciding whether you liked the way it felt on your tongue.
You had no idea he’d been waiting to hear you say it for years.
“What brings you to the supermarket at—” you glanced at your phone, then back at him, a small smile playing at your lips, “—seven pm on a Thursday.”
Simple question. Normal question. The kind of question one person asked another when they wanted to keep a conversation alive, when they wanted to prolong it.
And you hadn’t even seemed to notice that he had no shopping cart. No basket.
Just himself, standing here in the produce aisle like a man who’d wandered in off the street with no purpose other than to stare at fruit he had no intention of buying.
There was no way he could tell you the truth. That just hours ago he’d been framed by the FBI, scapegoated for an ambush he’d had no part in, cast out of the only identity he’d ever known.
That he’d spent the last hour spiraling in his car, hallucinating voices, pressing a gun to his own jaw before forcing it back into the glove compartment.
That he’d driven here not for groceries, but because your Thursday evening routine was the only fixed point left in his collapsing world.
He couldn’t say any of that.
So he said the first plausible thing that surfaced from the scrambled mess of his brain.
“End of the week,” he heard himself say instead. The words came out rough, but he pushed through. “But way less crowded on weekends.”
You raised your brows, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “So I guess I’m not original at all, huh?”
You were making a joke, and he’d walked right into it and now he was supposed to respond. Laugh. A laugh would be normal. People laughed at jokes. That was the expected behavior. He should laugh.
He made a sound that was supposed to be a chuckle but came out more like a choked exhale, his lips stretching into a smile that felt too wide, too stiff.
“Great minds think alike, I guess.” He tried for laid-back, tried to make his shoulders relax, but they stayed hunched, like he was bracing for impact.
You tilted your head, just slightly, and hummed in agreement.
And then there was a pause.
A little one, at first. The kind of pause that happens naturally in conversation, where one person waits for the other to speak next.
But it stretched. It grew. It filled the space between you like something physical, and Dex felt it pressing against his chest, tightening around his throat.
Say something. She’s waiting. She gave you an opening and now you’re letting it die.
But his mind was a blank wall.
He cleared his throat, the sound rough and too loud in the quiet aisle. “So, uh—” He glanced down at the nectarine in his hand, then back up at you. “You come here often?”
The words landed and he wanted to die. You come here often? That was the line he’d pulled from his brain.
The most generic, cliché, forgettable question in the history of human interaction. The kind of thing a mannequin would say if it were programmed to simulate human speech.
He braced for the look. The one that would say really? delivered with a curl of the lip, a shift of weight away from him. He’d seen that look on women’s faces before, when a man tried too hard or said the wrong thing.
So when you let out a laugh, genuine and surprised, it hit him like a punch to the chest.
You were laughing. At him, maybe, but not at him. With him. Like you found him funny, endearing even. Like his awkwardness wasn’t a turn-off but a joke you were both in on.
Dex felt his face go warm. He rubbed his brow, a nervous tick he couldn’t control, the heel of his hand pressing against his forehead as if he could massage away the embarrassment.
“Yeah, I heard it when I said it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Sorry…”
He risked a glance at you through his fingers, and you were looking at him with an expression he didn’t recognise.
You looked like you were trying not to smile and failing, the corners of your mouth twitching upward.
His heart was hammering so hard he felt it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers.
“I’ll give you a pass for now,” you said, a smile breaking through fully now.
Dex’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Nothing came out.
He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. “Thanks,” he said again , the word barely above a whisper. “I—I’ll try to do better next time.”
You raised your brows again, but your smile didn’t shift. In fact, it seemed to deepen, the corners of your mouth curling with delight. “Next time?”
The question hung in the air, but to Dex it felt like a tightrope. One wrong step and he’d plummet.
He hoped to God you couldn’t see the sheen of sweat beading on his forehead, the way his pulse was visibly jumping in his throat.
Adapt. You have to adapt. She’s smooth, she’s quick, she’s going to eat you alive if you don’t keep up.
He forced his mouth into something resembling a smile, though it felt more like a grimace on the way up. “You’re the one who said for now.”
And that’s how Dex ended up with your number.
Thirty minutes earlier, Dex had been sitting in his car, the engine off. His spare gun had been in his lap, cold and heavy.
He’d pressed the muzzle against the soft skin under his chin, felt the metal dig in, tasted the copper of a future he’d almost chosen.
His career. His structure. His livelihood. His reputation. All of it gone, stripped away in a single afternoon by people who’d used him and discarded him like a broken tool.
One pull. That’s all it would have taken.
Now, driving home, the streets of New York blurring past his windshield in streaks of neon and headlights, Dex felt something he couldn’t name.
It wasn’t relief, exactly—the weight of what he’d almost done was still there.
But it was layered over with something else, something bright and unfamiliar, like sunlight breaking through clouds after a storm.
He kept glancing at his phone. It sat in the cupholder, screen dark, but he could feel it like a beacon. Your number.
Your number, given willingly, freely, without coercion or manipulation.
The thought made his chest ache, a dull, insistent pressure behind his ribs. He flexed his hands on the steering wheel, and let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob.
It was a high he’d never experienced before. And he was terrified of coming down.
He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, cut the engine, and sat there for a long moment, staring at his phone. The screen was dark, but he could still see your face, the memory of your smile burned into his eyelids.
And then his phone buzzed.
The screen lit up with a number he didn’t recognise, but the area code was familiar. New York. Manhattan.
He stared at it for three rings. Four. Five.
His thumb hovered over the decline button, but something made him pause. Something cold and familiar, settling in his gut like a stone.
He answered, “Hello.”
“When I was a boy…”
His skin wasn’t buzzing.
It was flaying itself from the bone, a high-frequency current ripping through every nerve ending until he couldn’t tell where the violence ended and his own body began.
The climb back through his window was a smear of pure sensation, the groan of the frame digging into his bruised ribs, the distant wail of a siren that might have been real or might have just been the echo of the screams still ricocheting inside his skull.
He tumbled into the living room, the red suit clinging to him like a second skin of sin and sweat, and the silence of his apartment hit him like a physical blow.
He spared a blank look at the microwave. 2:37 AM.
The high was curdling. The exquisite, crystalline purpose Fisk had injected into his veins was souring into a dense, suffocating fog.
The voices in his head were warping and overlapping, layered with the fresh screams of the people he’d just killed.
They weren’t separate voices anymore. They were a single, roaring static that made his skull feel too small for his brain.
He fumbled at the gloves, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, tearing at the constricting seams.
The helmet followed. The seal broke with a soft hiss of trapped breath, and the cool night air of the apartment hit the raw cuts on his cheekbone and split lip like a strip of litmus paper.
He wasn’t in control. He was a passenger, a ghost haunting a machine made of meat and bone.
The machine moved on autopilot, carrying him across the sticky floor through the debris of his life, toward his closet. His safe.
His fingers knew the combination better than his conscious mind. Beep. Beep. Beep. The door swung open.
Mercer’s tapes.
He reached for them, his fingers brushing the familiar edges, and he could already hear her voice in his memory. She would fix this.
She would rebuild the walls, draw the clean lines of the diagram, soothe the static into structured silence.
He paused.
The tapes felt dead in his hand. Cold. Alien. The thing inside him, that had killed tonight with a terrifyingly genuine grin splitting his face under the mask, revolted.
Structure was a cage. Control was a lie he told himself so he didn’t have to look at the abyss. Mercer’s voice was the voice of a woman who had never existed, a blueprint for a life he had never actually lived.
He didn’t want to be fixed tonight.
He wanted to be real.
He set the tapes down. The plastic clattered against the wood shelf, and the sound was a door slamming shut on his old self.
His body, no longer his to command, drifted to the phone on the nightstand. The screen was a blinding star in the gloom of his apartment.
Before he could rationalise the catastrophic stupidity of it, his thumb pressed the call button.
The phone pressed against his ear. The flat, electric hum of the dial tone filled his head.
First ring. A knife.
Second ring. His breathing turned ragged, harsh stabs of air in and out. He couldn’t control it.
His hand shook, the tremors traveling up his arm to his chest, making his heart rattle against his ribs.
Third ring. Where the fuck were you? The thought was a claw in his chest, desperate and raw, scratched out from the bottom of his fractured soul.
Fourth ring. Despair hit him like a bullet. The rejection he deserved. The silence he was born for.
His thumb was already moving to sever the connection, to retreat into the familiar dark, to let Mercer be the only voice he ever heard again.
The click.
A breath on the other end. The soft rustle of sheets. The sound of someone shifting out of sleep, pulling themselves back to consciousness for him.
A voice, sleepy and warm, cutting through the static in his soul.
“Hello?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His throat had sealed itself shut, his tongue a dead weight.
The buzzing in his head didn’t stop, it changed, shifting from static into a high, thin whine of pure panic.
What the fuck was he doing?
He should hang up. He should hang up right now, pretend this never happened, crawl back to the tapes and let Mercer stitch him back together.
But he didn’t move.
“…hello?”
Your voice again. Groggy, yes, but there was an edge now. Caution. Awareness creeping in.
He could picture you propping yourself up on an elbow, squinting at the phone, trying to place the unknown number glowing in the dark.
He cleared his throat.
“Hi. It’s Dex.”
Silence. Long enough that he felt his stomach drop through the floor.
“From the grocery store,” he added, stupidly. “Earlier today.”
More silence. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. His heart was a jackhammer against his ribs, and he was suddenly, acutely aware of how insane this looked.
He had your number for less than twelve hours. He had called you at 2:37 AM. There was no version of this that didn’t make him seem unhinged.
Then your voice came through, softer now, a hint of recognition bleeding through the drowsiness.
“Oh. Guy from the fruit aisle.”
The words were flat, stripped of the teasing lilt from earlier. He winced. He was an idiot.
But he couldn’t hang up either.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the single syllable. He cleared his throat again, harder this time. “Sorry. I know it’s late. I—”
He stopped. Ran a hand through his damp, tangled hair. The words weren’t coming. They never came when he needed them. “I couldn’t sleep.”
A beat. Then, “You call everyone you meet at the grocery store when you can’t sleep?”
There it was. The faintest edge of something, not quite playfulness, but not hostility either. A testing of the waters. He latched onto it like a drowning man grabbing a rope.
“No,” he said, and the honesty slipped out before he could stop it. “Just you apparently.”
The silence that followed was different. Softer. He could hear the rustle of fabric on your end, like you were shifting, settling deeper into the conversation.
“You’re weird, you know that?” you said, but your voice had lost its wariness. There was a thread of amusement in it now.
“I know,” he said. He didn’t even try to deny it.
He could have left it there. Could have apologised again, said goodnight, let you go back to sleep.
But the buzzing in his head was quieter now, drowned out by the sound of your breathing on the other end of the line.
“I was wondering,” he started, and his mouth went dry again. He pushed through it. “If you’re free tomorrow. Or, I guess, today now. For dinner.”
The words came out rushed, jumbled together like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t get them all out at once.
He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the rejection.
Another long pause. Then, a soft, breathy sound that might have been a laugh.
“You’re asking me out at three in the morning?”
“Depends on if you say yes,” he said, and the words surprised him. They were smoother than he’d intended, a sliver of confidence he didn’t know he possessed.
Your laugh came through fully this time, quiet and warm, and something in his chest cracked open.
“That’s a good line,” you said. “You rehearse that?”
“No,” he admitted. “I’m kind of making this up as I go.”
“Pretty good for improv.”
He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, almost a smile. “Does that mean you’ll say yes?”
A beat. Then, “Depends on what you’re offering.”
He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His fingers tightened on the phone, grounding himself in the plastic and the warmth of your voice.
“Anything you want,” he said. And he meant it.
Dex prided himself on focus.
It was the cleanest thing he had, the discipline that held the loose pieces of him together. But here, across the table from you, that focus was a dead wire. Useless.
Ten minutes in and he still couldn’t land anywhere. His eyes kept skirting, from the deep crimson painted across your mouth to the sharp neckline of that tight black dress, down to where the fabric pulled across your chest.
He felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck, forced himself to your eyes instead. The dark liner made them bottomless, pulling at him with every slow blink.
His body was wired tight, locked up like he was bracing for impact. Every breath measured. Every movement too careful.
Terrified of the wrong word, the wrong look, shattering whatever luck had gotten you here.
You took a sip of your wine, watching him over the rim. Then you tilted your head, a smile catching at the corner of your mouth.
“Relax. You’re sitting like I’m gonna jump over this table and bite you.”
The image slid under his skin before he could stop it.
I’d let you, he thought. Anywhere you wanted.
He locked that down, managed a rough chuckle. “Still can’t wrap my head around why you said yes.”
You shrugged, setting the glass down. “Got nothing better to do. Thought I might as well get a free meal with a hot guy.”
Hot. You called him hot.
Then your eyes narrowed. “Unless you’re one of those guys who believe in fifty-fifty for the first date.”
The question caught him off guard. For a second, he just stared at you, his brain struggling to catch up. Then he let out a choked laugh, shaking his head quickly.
“No. No, god, no. I promise.”
“Good.”
Your voice softened into something warm, teasing. You leaned back in your chair, swirling the wine in your glass, and the candlelight caught the curve of your smile.
The waiter appeared and Dex grabbed the menu like a lifeline, staring at the words without reading them.
He nodded when you ordered, asked for the same thing. When the waiter left, you leaned forward, elbows on the table.
The neckline of your dress dipped just slightly, and he caught the black lace underneath.
Fuck. Were you doing this on purpose?
“So, Dex from the fruit aisle.” Your voice had dropped, stripped of the teasing edge from earlier. Something warmer now. “Tell me something about yourself.”
His stomach dropped. Just a flash. He pushed it down.
“I’m an FBI agent,” he said. Safe. Simple enough. “Or—was. It’s complicated.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Complicated how?”
“The kind that makes for a bad first date story.” He tried to smile. It came out crooked.
You laughed, and the sound loosened something tight in his chest. “Fair enough. I’ll take a rain check.”
He nodded, scrambling for footing. “What do you do?”
You rolled your eyes and he felt a flicker of panic before you huffed, amused. “Just a florist. Completely boring compared to chasing bad guys, I’m sure.”
There’s nothing boring about you. The thought hit him hard and fast, and he heard himself say it out loud before his brain could catch up. “There’s nothing boring about you.”
You let out a small laugh. “So you do know how to sweet talk a girl.”
He couldn’t hide the blush that crawled up his neck to his ears, burning against the collar of his shirt. “I’m just saying it how I see it.”
“Maybe,” you hummed, “but then again you don’t know anything about me.”
Never had he heard a more untrue statement in his life.
He knew your schedule. Your favourite coffee order. Your comfort shows you loved to binge. Which soap you preferred. Your go to nail colour. How you liked cats and dogs equally.
But he couldn’t say that. So he just looked at you across the table, watched the candlelight catch your eyes.
The food arrived. Steam rose from the plates between them, the scent of ginger and soy cutting through the moment. The waiter said something he didn’t catch.
“Well,” Dex murmured, “I’m hoping to learn if you’ll let me.”
Being here with you was something he had never experienced before.
The night before was a smear of violence but it all felt muted now, distant, like a transmission he couldn’t tune into anymore.
Not with you across the table, your voice cutting through the static in his head.
You kept the conversation easy. When he fumbled an answer or went quiet because his brain short-circuited trying to keep up with you, you didn’t pull back. You just smiled, shifted, let him find his footing again.
Once or twice he found himself wondering why you were even giving him a chance. You could have anyone. Smarter, smoother, someone without the weight he carried.
It made no sense that you’d picked him. Not that he’d let anyone else close enough to try, but the thought still lingered.
Still, there was a weight pressing down on him the whole time. A clock ticking. He felt it sharpest as the check arrived. Signing it, his stomach twisted into a knot so tight it made him nauseous.
The thought of leaving, of stepping into the cold air alone and watching you walk away, hollowed him out.
He could already feel the emptiness waiting. Maybe he’d just follow you home. Watch you through your window. It would be enough to comfort him.
“How are you getting home?” The words came out before he could stop them.
“Walked here,” you said, pulling out your lipstick. “Guess I’ll do the same.”
He watched your mouth as you reapplied it, the careful, practiced stroke of colour. He couldn’t look away.
“Let me drive you.”
You paused, the compact half-closed. Your eyes lifted to his, and he could see you weighing it, the stranger across from you, the risk of letting him know where you lived. The silence stretched. He felt the whole night teetering.
Fuck. He’d done too much. He ruined it. He’d pushed too hard, too fast, and now—
“Okay.”
It hit him somewhere between the Williamsburg Bridge and the mouth of your street, a strange hollow equation he couldn’t solve.
Away from you, the restlessness ate at him, he couldn’t settle, couldn’t quiet the noise inside his head.
But here, with you in the passenger seat, so close he could feel the warmth coming off your skin through the space between them, he wasn’t any better. His body was locked tight, every muscle braced for a mistake he hadn’t made yet.
He couldn’t stop glancing at you while he drove.
His hands were rigid on the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the passing streetlight. You leaned back in the seat, your head tilted, completely relaxed, watching the city slide past the window.
No tension in your shoulders. No flicker of anxiety. Just calm. It made him feel transparent, like you could see every loose wire and frayed thread in his head.
By the time he pulled up outside your building, his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, a quick, raw pulse that wouldn’t steady.
How had this happened so fast? He’d spent years wanting you, fantasising about you from a distance, and now that you were here, the wanting had twisted into a kind of fear.
The fear of doing something wrong. Of saying the wrong thing. Of breaking whatever fragile spell had let him into your space tonight.
You turned toward him. Your expression was different now. At dinner, your eyes had been sharp, playful, like a vixen toying with her prey.
But here, in the dim lamplight bleeding through the windshield, your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, and your gaze was wider, softer, something he didn’t have a name for.
“I had a good night,” you murmured.
Dex opened his mouth. His tongue felt thick, useless. “Me too.” It came out pitiful, barely a whisper.
You kept looking at him, waiting. Your lashes lowered, then lifted, like an invitation he couldn’t decode.
He stared back, frozen. Should he get out? Open your door? Walk you inside? He had no script for this, no smooth line rehearsed. His eyes drifted from yours to your parted lips. Red. Soft.
He was still scrambling through the noise in his head for the right move when your hand moved. It slid up the back of his head, fingers threading gently into his hair.
Before he could react, before his brain could catch up, you were pulling him forward.
Your lips met his.
For a long, heavy beat, Dex didn’t move.
His body locked up completely as the reality of your mouth sank in. You were kissing him. The thought cracked through the static in his brain like lightning. You. Kissing him.
Then instinct took over before he could wreck it. His lips started moving, awkward and unpracticed, trailing behind the rhythm you set.
A shaky breath left him, his shoulders dropping a fraction as he relaxed into the warmth of your mouth, the simple unimaginable fact of it.
Until he felt the wet tip of your tongue brush his bottom lip.
He tensed immediately. His eyes cracked open, found yours closed, your face slack and completely lost in it. He parted his lips. Let you in.
The second your tongues met, a raw sound caught in his throat. His cock hardened painfully behind his zipper, a rush of blood that made everything else go distant.
The taste of you flooded his senses, faintly sweet, the slick slide of your tongue against his. His brain went quiet for the first time all night.
Then something inside him snapped.
The careful, terrified version of himself fell away. He had to touch you. Now.
He pulled his hand off the wheel, lifted it. Fingers spread, hesitated. Your hair? Your waist? Your cheek? He had no idea what he was doing. Every option felt wrong, but doing nothing was unthinkable.
His palm landed on your throat before he could decide.
His fingers curved around the column of your neck, thumb settling against the flutter of your pulse. You moaned into his mouth, pleased and approving, and the sound shot straight through his chest. You liked it.
He pushed harder against your mouth, greedier. The hand on your throat tightened fractionally, pulling you closer across the console.
He didn’t care about breathing anymore.
The taste of you flooded every nerve in his body like a drug he’d been starving for his whole life. He’d rather suffocate against your mouth than take another clean breath of empty air.
Your hands found his jaw, and for a split second his brain screamed that you were pushing him away. Too rough. Too fast. He ruined it.
His grip started to loosen, a fresh wave of shame crawling up his throat—
But your fingers dug into his skin and pulled him closer.
The sound that left him was raw, almost animal. Relief and hunger tangled together as you yanked him deeper into the kiss.
Little noises escaped your mouth, muffled against his tongue, and he tried to memorise each one even as he lost himself in the wet slide of your lips.
His hand slid from your throat to your jaw, fingers curling around the bone, tilting your head back as he pushed further into your mouth.
His tongue swept against yours, messy and desperate. He didn’t know what he was doing, he just knew he needed more. He wanted to crawl inside your skin.
Then your palms pressed flat against his chest.
Push.
The separation hit him like cold water. He broke away gasping, and his mouth chased yours before he could stop himself. But you didn’t pull further back.
You caught his lips in soft, quick pecks, barely there, just enough to soothe the ache you’d left behind.
Your mouth brushed against his when you spoke, voice low and rough.
“Do you wanna come up?”
Fuck.
The words hit him square in the chest, then dropped lower, settling hot and heavy in his gut. He was already nodding before his brain caught up, pupils blown wide, lips wet and swollen.
“Yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, “Yeah. Fuck—yes.”
Dex’s pulse slammed against his ribs the second the lock clicked behind him.
Standing in your apartment. He forced his eyes to wander like he was stepping in here for the first time, even as his brain catalogued every detail against the map he’d already burned into his memory.
“Nice place.” The words scraped out of him, rough and distracted.
He tilted his head at the bookshelf, the framed photograph he knew was your mother, the throw blanket draped over the armchair that he’d watched you buy from a street vendor three months ago.
Every careful glance was a lie, but he wore it like a second skin.
“Thanks.” Your voice came from right behind him.
Then your hands were on him again, sliding over his shoulders, turning him around. He went without resistance, boneless under your touch. You pulled him down and met his lips halfway.
Your tongue pushed past his lips and he opened for you like a starving thing.
Your fingers twisted into his hair, yanking his head forward just enough to deepen the angle, and he let you. He’d let you do anything.
You bit his bottom lip, sucked it into your mouth, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.
His hands began to move. Everywhere. Your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips.
He grabbed desperate handfuls of your ass, pulling you flush against him, and the heat of your body through that thin dress made his head spin.
You were soft in ways he’d only ever imagined, and his imagination had been thorough, but nothing prepared him for the reality of you pressed against his aching body. He wanted to touch every part of you at once, to map you entirely.
You broke the kiss first, panting, lips slick and swollen. Your forehead rested against his, your breath hot and uneven on his mouth. “I don’t do this often,” you murmured, the confession raw and almost shy.
“I know,” he breathed without thinking.
The second the words left him, he felt you stiffen. You pulled back, confusion knitting your brows. “What do you mean, you know?”
Dex’s stomach dropped into freefall.
His eyes snapped open, panic flooding his veins.
Fuck. Fuck.
He scrambled for a lifeline, his mouth opening and closing before the lie managed to crawl out. “I mean I—I know what you mean. Me too. I don’t—I don’t do this often either.”
You held his gaze for a long moment. The sharpness in your eyes softened, and you snorted, a puff of warm breath against his lips. “You’re so weird.”
Relief flooded him so fast it made him dizzy. Before he could dwell on it, you were kissing him again, swallowing whatever fragile composure he had left.
Your hands guided him backwards. He followed blindly, drunk on your mouth, stumbling until the back of his knees hit something soft. You shoved him. Hard.
He landed on the couch with a grunt, bouncing once before settling, looking up at you with wide, dazed eyes.
Before he could ask, you leaned down, bracing your hands on his knees, and kissed him again. Slow and deep, a thorough occupation of his mouth that erased every thought trying to surface.
He melted into it, his hands finding your thighs, stroking the warm skin exposed by the hem of your dress.
You broke the kiss gently, pulling back just enough that he could see you.
You were on her knees. Between his legs. Looking up at him through your lashes, your lipstick smudged, your hair loose around your face.
The sight of you there stole the air from his lungs.
“What—what are you doing?” Dex heard himself ask, his voice thin and wrecked, stripped of every layer he hid behind.
You smiled as your hands slid up his thighs, fingers pressing into the muscle.
“Having my dessert.”
Dex’s brain went completely blank when your fingers found his belt buckle. The soft click-clack of it coming undone rang through the room like a gunshot in his ears.
He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, to do something other than lie there like a trembling mess offering himself up to you, but all that came out was a strained, cracked confession,
“Are you sure—you-you don’t have to—”
His hips lifted off the couch cushions anyway.
A complete betrayal of every word coming out of his mouth. His body didn’t give a single fuck what his brain was trying to negotiate.
It wanted you. It had always wanted you.
You didn’t hesitate. You dragged his slacks and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, baring him completely to the warm air of your apartment.
He shivered, his cock springing free to slap against his stomach with a wet, heavy sound.
He was already painfully hard, leaking against his navel, the swollen head flushed dark and slick, and the sight of you looking at it made his stomach clench so hard he thought he might be sick.
Your hand wrapped around him like it belonged there. A firm grip that made him grunt, his hips bucking up into your fist before he could stop himself.
The heat of your palm was everything. He watched, completely mesmerised, as your thumb swept across the sensitive head, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there, using it to slick your stroke.
You looked up at him through your lashes, your mouth hovering inches from his tip.
Your breath was hot and uneven against his sensitive skin, and there was a tremor in your voice when you spoke that made his heart stutter in his chest.
“You don’t want me to suck your cock?”
Jesus Christ.
The visual was so fucking obscene, you, on your knees, looking up at him with those wide, innocent doe eyes while your hand worked his shaft and your lips hovered so close he could feel the ghost of them.
He had to lean his head back against the couch cushion and squeeze his eyes shut. He was going to cum just from looking at you.
A soft, dark laugh came from between his legs. “That wasn’t a no.”
Before he could answer, something wet touched him.
His eyes snapped open. He looked down just in time to see your tongue trace a slow path along the thick vein on the underside of his cock.
An embarrassing, needy whimper crawled out of his throat before he could strangle it. His hips twitched, desperate to push into the warmth of your mouth, but he held himself still by sheer, crumbling willpower.
You didn’t stop. You laid a soft, lingering kiss right on the crown, your lips parting just enough to ghost over the sensitive slit before pulling away.
When you looked up at him, your eyes were dark and hooded, your lips slick and parted.
“Keep your eyes on me, Dex.”
He nodded. A dumb, jerky motion. He didn’t trust his voice. He didn’t trust anything. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You didn’t even have his cock in your mouth yet and he swore he could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, coiling tighter with every second you held his gaze.
His hands fisted in the couch cushions, knuckles white. His breathing was ragged, each inhale a desperate gasp.
He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, watching in rapt focus as you parted your lips and took the swollen crown of his cock into your mouth.
Your eyes stayed locked on his. You held his gaze as you sank deeper, inch by agonising inch.
The wet heat of your tongue curled around his shaft, the velvet pressure of your cheeks hollowing as you pulled him further into the slick, perfect heaven of your throat.
Every inch you swallowed made his hips twitch involuntarily against the cushions. Every flutter of your lashes made his stomach clench tighter. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t.
Oh, fuck. Your mouth was so warm. So impossibly wet.
The slick slide of your tongue curling around his shaft, the flutter of your throat when the tip pressed against the back of your mouth, he didn’t think anything in this world could feel better than having his cock in your mouth.
He was certain of it. This was the single best moment of his entire miserable life. He was ready to die right here and call it a life well-lived.
You pulled back slowly, dragging your tongue along the thick, throbbing vein on the underside of his cock before taking him deep again with a low moan.
A broken whimper crawled out of his throat before he could clamp down on it. “Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” His voice was wrecked, barely more than a ragged whisper. “You gotta stop—or I’m gonna—”
You just hummed casually against his slick, swollen tip, your breath hot and uneven against his sensitive skin.
“No, no, wait—please, I want it to last,” he heard himself begging, the words tumbling out in a desperate, breathless rush. “I’m not gonna make it—I swear to God—”
You didn’t stop. You just held his gaze with those innocent, wicked eyes and took him deeper.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was so fucking pathetic. Lasting like some inexperienced teenager, his first time all over again.
He tried to think of anything else; baseball statistics, the cold metal of his gun, the layout of the presidential hotel, but it was no fucking use at all.
Every nerve in his body was tuned to the wet slide of your mouth, the curl of your tongue, the soft, muffled gag when he hit the back of your throat.
He squeezed his eyes shut, could feel the frustrated tears prickling hot behind his lids. He couldn’t look at you anymore.
He had to stop himself, had to make this last, but his body was betraying him completely, trembling, arching, pushing deeper into your heat.
You took him back into your mouth in a single, fluid motion. Hollowed your cheeks. Pressed your tongue flat against the underside of his shaft.
And when you swallowed around the head of his cock, pulling him deeper into the wet velvet of your throat, he shattered completely.
“Oh fuck—I’m coming—”
His hips bucked involuntarily, driving himself deeper into your throat, feeling you gag around him, feeling your throat constrict and pulse as you swallowed, milking the orgasm out of him.
His release slammed into him like a freight train.
Hot, thick ropes of his come spilled into your mouth, and you swallowed around him, milking every drop, refusing to let him go even as he convulsed through the aftershocks.
His back arched off the cushions. His hands fisted so hard in the fabric he thought he might tear it. His vision whited out completely.
When his hips finally stopped stuttering, when his body went limp and trembling beneath you, you released him with a soft, wet kiss to his oversensitive tip.
The tenderness of it made his chest ache.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he felt himself mumbling, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “That was so fast—I couldn’t—I didn’t mean to—”
His hand came up to cover his face, shame and self-disgust crashing over him in waves.
But you wouldn’t let him hide. You caught his wrist, gently pulling his hand away, and crawled up his body.
Your lips were slick and swollen, your chin wet with him. You cut off his rambling apologies with a kiss, and his own taste flooded his senses. He groaned into your mouth, as your tongue played with his.
You broke the kiss just barely, your lips brushing against his as you murmured, “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He blinked up at you, dazed and trembling. “Yeah?”
You hummed against his lips, a slow, satisfied sound. “And I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”
The words hit him like a spark in a gas tank. The shame, the self-hate burned away in an instant, replaced by an animal surge of hunger.
He looked at you, still dazed, a slow, disbelieving smile pulling at his lips.
He still hadn’t ruined anything yet. He still hadn’t lost you.
His hands found your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. Before you could react, he was moving, wrapping his arms around you and hauling you up with him.
You let out a surprised squeal, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.
He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss as he stood, walking blindly toward the hallway where he knew your bedroom was.
Dex lay perfectly still, afraid that even the smallest movement might shatter the fragile, impossible peace of the moment.
You were curled against him, your back pressed to his chest, your breathing slow and deep, the sound of someone completely and utterly spent.
He had never felt anything like this. Not once in thirty-two years. This is what it feels like. This quiet. This rightness. This terrifying, exhilarating certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Happiness.
His mind drifted back over the hours, replaying the sharp, vivid highlights like a film he couldn’t look away from.
He had learned so much about you tonight. How your breath hitched when he scraped his teeth along your pulse point. How your fingers twisted in the sheets when he found the perfect angle.
You loved being on your hands and knees for him. The first time, he’d followed your lead, sinking into you from behind, gripping your hips so hard he knew there would be bruises.
He pounded into you, watching your body rock forward with every thrust as you cried into your pillows, muffling your pleasure.
But something in him had itched. He hated it like this.
He couldn’t see your face. Couldn’t watch the expressions that flickered across your features when he hit that spot. Couldn’t feel your heartbeat against his chest or taste your moans with his own mouth.
It felt too much like taking, and not nearly enough like having you.
After you came the first time, your body shuddering and clenching around him, he pulled out before you could catch your breath and flipped you onto your back.
He needed to see you. Needed to watch the way your mouth fell open, the way your pupils blew wide when he settled between your thighs.
He buried his face between your legs and drank you in with a need that bordered on worship.
He lapped at your slick, swollen folds until your second orgasm crested, your hands fisting in his hair, your hips grinding against his mouth as you gasped his name into the dark.
By the time your third orgasm rolled through you, he had your legs wrapped high around his waist, his body pressed flush against yours.
He was buried so deep inside you that the world outside the space between your bodies ceased to exist. His nose touched yours. His forehead rested against yours.
He captured your gaze and held it hostage.
“Look at me,” he breathed, the command barely a whisper. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.”
He wanted you to see everything he had felt since the first moment he saw you in that diner. The obsession. The desperation. The hunger that had consumed him for years.
He wanted you to feel it in the way he moved inside you, as if he was trying to pour every ounce of himself directly into your bloodstream.
He knew you probably didn’t understand the full scope of it.
But lying here, in the aftermath, he let himself pretend. He pretended you had been waiting for him all this time. That your body recognised him. That this was always meant to happen.
When he finally let go, he held himself perfectly still, pumping his release deep inside you with a low groan.
He pressed so close that he could feel your heartbeat through his chest, grinding against you as if he could transfer his devotion through sheer physical proximity.
His nose stayed pressed to yours, his lips hovering just over your mouth, sharing the same warm, humid breath.
He whispered things against your lips. Broken things. Beautiful things.
Confessions that would never make sense in the harsh light of day, but here, in the dark, felt like the only truth that mattered.
“Been waiting so long. So long. I fucking worship you. You’re mine. I’m yours. Don’t ever leave me.”
His voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t care. He let himself be cracked open, let you see the raw, jagged edges of him that he had spent a lifetime hiding.
You didn’t answer. You probably didn’t even hear him. Your eyes had fluttered shut, your body going lax and heavy against him.
Lost to sleep. Lost to him.
He smiled against your hair, a real smile that softened all the hard lines of his face. He didn’t need you to answer. Not tonight.
Just having you here, warm and trusting and full of him, was already more than he ever dared to hope for.
The air in the room had cooled, but wrapped around you, he was warm for the first time in as long as he could remember.
Only twenty-four hours ago, he had been suffocating. Bound by rules and routines and the desperate need to keep himself contained.
But Fisk had shattered the cage he kept himself in. He had shown Dex a version of himself that was raw, hungry, and unapologetic. And instead of retreating from the wreckage, Dex had stepped into it.
He had let go of the ropes and the rules and the white-knuckled grip on control. He had chosen himself for the first time in his miserable, constrained life.
And by choosing himself, he had found the path that curved inevitably, beautifully, right back to you.
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder. His hand splayed across your stomach, feeling the warmth of you.
I did this, he thought, pride blooming in his chest. I chose this. I chose me. And it led me to you.
Dex buried his face in the curve of your neck, his nose pressing deep into the warm, sleep-soft skin just behind your ear.
He inhaled slowly, letting your scent flood his lungs. You smelled like home—the faint coconut trace of your shampoo, the salt of dried sweat from the hours you had spent tangled together, and something deeper, muskier, that was entirely, irrefutably you.
God. This was unbelievable.
And that was where his next problem laid.
He spared a glance down, past the rumpled sheet that clung to his hips, and saw the unmistakable tent of fabric where his cock had hardened again.
He let out a quiet, shaky breath, his eyes tracing the outline of his own need with a mixture of frustration and irritation.
He couldn’t fucking help it.
He felt like a kid in a candy store. The kid being him, a thirty-two-year-old man who had never known what it felt like to want something and actually get it. And the candy store was you. Access to your body.
The knowledge that he could touch you, taste you, sink into you whenever he wanted, and you would let him. You would want him to.
He had known it would be addictive. He just hadn’t realised how quickly the addiction would take hold, how it would wrap around his nervous system and tighten until he couldn’t think of anything else.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
Spooned against you, chest to your back, he felt his hips roll forward in a slow, instinctive grind.
The thick length of him slid into the warm cradle between your thighs, pressing against the soft, slick heat of you through the sheet. A low sound caught in his throat, a choked half-groan that he swallowed against your skin.
Fuck. He should let you rest.
He had been so rough with you tonight. Your body had given him everything.You deserved sleep. You deserved peace.
But his cock didn’t give a shit about what you deserved.
Before he could stop himself, his hips rolled forward again, and this time the tip of him nudged past the edge of the sheet, finding the bare, wet seam of your cunt.
He gasped against your shoulder, his eyes squeezing shut. The slide of you against him was obscenely slick, unbearably warm, a friction so perfect it made his toes curl against the mattress.
Shit. You were still leaking him from earlier.
The evidence of what he had done to you was still there, pooled between your thighs, making you slick and ready for him all over again.
He pressed a quick, guilty kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering just long enough to form a silent apology. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I just... I need you. I can’t stop needing you.
His hand moved, sliding over the curve of your stomach, tracing the soft dip of your waist before cupping your breast.
The weight of it filled his palm perfectly, the flesh so soft and warm, molding against his fingers like it was made for him. He squeezed gently, then let his thumb drag across your nipple, feeling the peak tighten and pebble under his touch.
A small shift rippled through your body. A subtle arch of your spine. A soft, breathy sound that caught in your throat.
He froze.
Every muscle in his body locked tight. His breath stopped. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he was sure it would wake you on its own. He waited, suspended in the pure terror of being caught.
She’s going to wake up. She’s going to see what I’m doing. She’s going to realise what a fucking creep I am—that I can’t keep my hands off her even when she’s asleep, that I’ve been watching her for years, that I am completely, irreparably obsessed with her.
The seconds stretched like hours.
But you didn’t wake. Your breathing deepened again, settling back into that slow, even rhythm. Your body relaxed against his, soft and trusting and completely oblivious to the war raging inside his chest.
He should have stopped. He should have been grateful for the reprieve, thanked whatever cruel god had given him this moment, and let you sleep.
Instead, he kept moving.
His hips resumed their slow, steady rhythm, grinding against your soaked cunt, the head of his cock sliding through the mess of his own release and your combined arousal.
The sensation was maddening; a wet, slippery tease that promised heaven without delivering it.
His hand stayed on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, feeling the way your body responded even in sleep.
He pressed his lips to the back of your neck, a long, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of salt and skin. His breath came hot and uneven against your nape.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your skin, barely a whisper. “But I can’t... I can’t stop touching you. Every second I’m not inside you feels like I’m wasting time I don’t have.”
His hips rolled again, slower this time, deeper, the blunt tip of him catching at your entrance before sliding away, teasing both of you.
A shudder ran through his entire body.
“Please. Just a little more.”
The words slipped from Dex’s lips against the warm skin of your neck, a prayer offered to himself more than you, a plea for permission he was already taking.
He buried his face deeper into the crook of your shoulder, breathing you in until his lungs ached, and let his hips move.
There was nothing graceful about it. He rutted against you like a man possessed, the thick length of him sliding through the slick heat pooled between your thighs.
The sensation erased every rational thought. There was only you. The need to be inside you again. To own you. To fill you so completely that you couldn’t forget him, couldn’t leave him.
His breath came heavier against your nape, as his hand slid from your breast down to your stomach. He pressed his palm flat against the soft curve of your belly and pulled you tighter against him.
The arch of your back pressed your ass directly against his cock, and a fractured groan escaped him.
That’s when he felt it. A shift in your body. Your muscles tensed, your breathing changed, the subtle alertness of waking. Your voice cut through the dark, rough with sleep.
“Dex...?”
He froze for the span of a heartbeat. Then his hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back just enough for him to press a kiss to your cheek.
His hips never stopped their relentless grind, his cock catching at your entrance before sliding away again.
“Shhh,” he breathed against your ear. “Go back to sleep, honey. I’ve got you. Just let me stay right here.”
He needed you to stay in that space between dreaming and waking, where you were pliant and accepting and he could pretend his need wasn’t completely out of control.
But you turned your head toward him, your lips parting.
“Dex—”
He couldn’t let you finish. He kissed you, his tongue sliding into your mouth before you could form the rest of the sentence.
And you let him. No, you kissed him back. Your mouth softened under his, your body melting into his, your tongue meeting his with a lazy, sultry rhythm that told him everything he needed to know.
He felt your hand slide down between your bodies, your fingers searching blindly until they found him.
You traced the slick head of his cock, your touch featherlight, and a shudder ripped through him so violently he had to brace himself against the mattress.
“Fuck,” he gasped against your lips. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged. “You want this too.”
You didn’t answer with words. You nudged the tip of him against your opening, a silent direction that drove the last shred of his restraint into the dust.
He answered with a small grunt as he pushed inside.
The heat of you swallowed him whole, and he dropped his forehead to yours, breathing you in. A soft, breathy moan escaped your lips, and your fingers curled against his back.
“Dex,” you murmured again, but this time it wasn’t a question. It was a sigh of surrender. A welcome.
He pressed another kiss to your mouth, before he began to move.
He tried to start slow. He tried to savour the sensation of sinking back into your slick heat. The attempt lasted only a handful of careful thrusts before the hunger surged through him.
His strokes turned hard and punishing. The rhythm of his hips fell into a desperate tempo that rocked the mattress beneath you, the steady thump-thump-thump of the headboard keeping time with the wild beating of his heart.
His hand slid up from your hip, fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach, your ribs, before curling around your throat.
You looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, your pupils blown wide, your lips parted around soft, broken ah-ah-ah sounds that spilled from your throat with every deep thrust.
He leaned down, his mouth hovering over yours, and deliberately let a thick string of saliva fall into your open lips. He wanted more of himself inside you.
More of his taste, his mark, his presence seeping into every crevice of your body.
A low, guttural groan rumbled up from his chest as he watched you swallow it without hesitation, without question. Your throat worked under his palm, accepting him, taking him in, and the sight nearly sent him over the edge.
“Fuck,” he murmured against your lips, his balls slapping wetly against your ass as he drove into you harder. “You liked that, didn’t you? Touching you while you were asleep. Groping you. Fucking you like I own you.”
Despite the dazed pleasure softening your features, despite the way he was fucking the very thoughts out of your head, you still had the audacity to smile.
That slow, lazy, knowing curl of your lips that had haunted him since the first time he saw it. You hummed a soft, satisfied, “Uh huh.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, a fractured sound against your cheek.
He hooked your thigh higher over his arm, opening you wider, sinking deeper into your perfect, willing heat.
Your voice came out in fractured moans, but there was a teasing edge to it. “’S fucking hot. Knew you were a freak the second I saw you.”
Dex couldn’t help it. A laugh cracked out of him, low and disbelieving, pressed against the warmth of your cheek.
Here he was, balls deep in the object of a years-long obsession, and you were calling him a freak like it was the highest compliment.
The laugh faded into a shuddering exhale as he shifted his angle, driving into you with hard, deep thrusts that pushed the air from your lungs and left you gasping beneath him.
He wanted to leave a permanent mark on your soul. He wanted your cunt to remember the exact shape of him, the exact weight of him.
He wanted the memory of this night imprinted so deeply into your body that you would feel the ghost of him every time you closed your thighs.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, breath ragged and hot.
“I’m gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”
Your response came as fractured, desperate moans, words swallowed by the rhythm of his hips driving into you.
Without breaking pace, his hand moved. Two fingers pressed against your lips. You opened without hesitation, taking them into your mouth just as you took every part of him.
He pushed them deep, curling them against your tongue in perfect time with his thrusts, a double rhythm that had you moaning around his knuckles.
The sight of you like this; mouth full of him, cunt full of him, eyes glassy and fixed on his face, pushed him to the edge. He could feel the tension coiling tight in his gut, the familiar ache building at the base of his spine.
He was seconds away from coming. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
He needed you there first.
With a wet gasp from you, he pulled his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva breaking between his skin and your lips. His hand dropped without hesitation, finding your clit.
He rubbed fast, precise circles against the swollen bud, his own rhythm faltering as he poured every ounce of focus into your pleasure.
His eyes locked onto your face. He watched every micro-expression. The furrow of your brows, the way your lips parted on sharp, punched-out breaths, the flutter of your lashes as pleasure overtook you.
You looked up at him, dazed and pleading, and he nodded like a man possessed, a dumb, frantic motion that matched the speed of his fingers.
“C’mon,” he breathed, the words cracking. “Let go f’me. Let go, baby.”
And you did.
The orgasm hit you like a wave, your back arching, your mouth opening in a loud moan. Dex felt it, the way your cunt clenched around him, choked him, milked him.
The sensation ripped a loud, guttural groan from his chest, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. He closed his eyes, the world going white, and let himself go.
Deep, pulsing spurts of cum filled you, and he thrust into you with every wave, pushing himself as deep as he could go, holding himself there, making sure every drop stayed inside you.
When it was over, the room was filled with nothing but harsh, shared breaths.
He collapsed against you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. He made no move to pull out. No move to let you go. He stayed buried inside you, as close as flesh could get.
“Jesus Christ,” you murmured in a daze, the words barely a whisper.
The silence that followed was a dangerous thing. It let the thoughts back in. The insecurity. The horrible, gnawing fear that he had done too much.
He pressed his face into the curve of your neck, hiding, breathing you in until his lungs ached. His voice was rough, muffled against your skin.
“Too much?”
A beat. Then your hand, slow and heavy with exhaustion, slid into his hair. You laughed, soft and drowsy.
“No.” A pause. “By all means... keep me in your basement if you want.”
Dex’s eyes snapped open.
The joke hung in the air, clearly just a sleepy, affectionate jab. But he didn’t hear the joke.
He heard the offer.
Having you to himself. Forever. In a place where no one else could touch you, see you, take you. A place where you were his, every single moment of every single day.
And if you wanted it... if you offered it up with that same trust you gave him your body, your mouth, your cunt...
Then why the fuck wouldn’t he do it?
He lifted his head slowly, looking down at your face. You were half-asleep, lips curved in a soft sex-dazed smile. You had no idea what you had just given him.
His voice dropped, quiet and raw. Completely serious.
“Yeah?”
Your lashes fluttered. You hummed, already drifting back into sleep, but the sound was an affirmation. A yes.
His hand slid up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced your cheekbone, and when he spoke, the words were a vow pressed against your lips.
“Then I’m never letting you go.”
a/n | dex feeling absolutely blessed and a surreality of being seen and chosen by you, meanwhile reader is just a youngho and overly horny
contains ᦸ fluff and even more fluff making out jealous needy peter is a cute peter butterscotch makes his first appearance in the au short but sweet based on this req ٫٫ 3.4k
❛❛ I don’t want the worlds attention, yours is enough
At first it was okay; it was cute.
He loved seeing how quickly maternal you had gotten over your new family addition. He won't ever forget the look on your face when he stepped into the living room holding him, wrapped up in a blanket, and how you immediately dropped your book on the couch to move to his side when you heard the little meow. The way tears welled in your eyes as you whispered in shock, “Oh my god, Peter…”
The rest of the night was filled with cuddles, soft nose kisses, and getting Butterscotch used to his new home, along with quiet squeals as the two of you got cuteness aggression at the sight of him hopping around the home and tripping over his own paws. The moment Butterscotch meowed and nipped at your finger, Peter knew you were completely head over heels in love with the little kitten. Their ‘son’ you were quick to call him.
But now Peter was starting to feel an unfamiliar feeling stir in his stomach the more you gave Butterscotch your undivided attention.
In the early mornings where he had to wake up early for work, he was greeted by butterscotch who was comfortably laying on your pillow, blinking slowly at him with a look on his cute face that Peter was starting to believe was ‘cocky’, rubbing it in his face that he gets to stay in bed all warm and cozy with you, with a sassy flick of his tail.
In those late nights that happened more than he wished, where he would come home late to you already in bed asleep, he’d quietly get in bed to snuggle up close to you, missing your touch and warmth after a long, hard day. And then, of course, Butterscotch would go out of his way to get out of his comfy position next to you, slithering his way between the two of you, even having the guts to cutely nip at Peter’s jaw before he purred and fell asleep.
Movie nights where he would lay his head in your lap, lazily focusing on the movie as your fingers gently played with the strands of his hair, weren’t the same. Now Butterscotch lies curled up in your lap, your fingers in his fur. So many head pats, scratches, and kisses he wasn’t receiving; he definitely wasn’t used to sharing your love and attention.
Don’t get him started on how you refused to make out with him when Butterscotch was present, which was extremely unfair because the little kitten never seemed to leave your side. Only making his frustration worse, and it's not like he could blame the kitten; Peter didn't want to leave your side either.
It all started when the two of you were making out on the couch, you straddling his lap and the action movie playing on the TV was long forgotten as your lips moved together in tandem. Butterscotch wasn't happy with the lack of attention he was receiving, so he kept on trying to nip at Peter’s hands that were on your thighs before trying to push between the two of you.
Peter had groaned and reluctantly opened his eyes when he felt you pull away from the kiss, watching as you sat back on his thighs and picked up the misbehaving kitty. You had just smiled as Peter dramatically complained about Butterscotch’s lack of space, bringing the kitten up to your face and placing soft kisses on his nose, cooing about how he just wanted some love too.
So he sat there, leaning back on the couch, watching in disbelief as Butterscotch purred happily at the kisses and attention he was receiving. And worst of all, you were calling him baby—that’s his nickname!
You could tell that something had been bothering your boyfriend; you just weren’t sure what it was. You’ve caught Peter a few times talking gently to Butterscotch with a cute pout on his face as he held him up to look into the kitten's eyes as if he was scolding him. You’ve also noticed the extra clinginess your boyfriend seemed to have; you weren’t complaining…you just didn't like that something was bothering him.
It was only when your sister Leah came to visit for your weekly sisters' night that you had the epiphany about why he had been acting like that. Well, it was thanks to Leah—you just needed a little push. You were telling her about how Peter has been acting strange lately when she joked about him being jealous about not being the only man in your life.
You immediately perked up and called her a genius, which made both of you grin, before the two of you came up with a plan…that was two nights ago.
“I’m home!” You heard Peter call out from the entrance of the front door, along with the shuffling sounds of him hanging up his jacket and taking off his boots. You smiled and continued to roll the cookie dough into perfect balls and place them on the tray, knowing that it would take a minute for him to come find you while he put away his gun and badge. It was one of those rare nights as of late when he got home before 8.
Peter’s soft footsteps behind you come to a halt as he hugs you from behind, something he’s been needing and thinking about all day. He let out a happy sigh as he melted around you, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder and then neck as he whispered with a smile, “It smells good in here.”
“I made your favorite—and I got this new candle today when I was out with Kayla and Leah; it's snickerdoodle!” Peter grinned at your happily rambling as you continued to talk about the few other things you bought. He loved this moment, coming home and hearing you talk about your day—helping him forget all about the things that happened at work.
He felt your body twist after you wiped your hands off, taking a step back and moving his hands to rest on your hips. You smiled up at him and rested your hands on his chest as you tilted your head up for a kiss. The kiss was soft but emotional, both of you showing each other how much you missed the other. You pulled away slightly to smile and lock eyes with him, whispering, “Hi.”
He smiled and pecked your lips softly before whispering it back. He leaned in closer, placing a soft kiss on your cheek and then the column of your neck as he breathed in your addictive scent. He placed another soft kiss on your warm skin before he pulled away with a confused pout when he realized the lack of meows and nips at his ankles. “Where’s Butterscotch?”
“Leah’s watching him.” You hummed softly with a smile as you moved your hands up to his shoulders, massaging his tense muscles from a long day. You had dropped off your little kitten at your mom’s and Leah’s with his bag and a bunch of snacks that Leah bargained for in exchange for watching the mischievous but cuddly kitten.
“Am I missing something?" Peter furrowed his eyebrows as he looked down at you, his confused pout still on his pretty lips. You nearly laughed softly as you recognized that familiar look in his eyes as he racked his brain, trying to remember if he had forgotten something.
“Butterscotch is fine; everything is fine.” You smiled as you spoke slowly, with a reassuring nod as your hands slowly moved back down his chest and abdomen, feeling his body through the black sweater he wore. You quickly pecked his lips, so fast that it had Peter leaning in for more with a needy whine. You smirked and softly pushed him back as you continued, “Now go shower before dinner is done.”
Peter winced dramatically, but a grin followed quickly after, at the sight of you playfully rolling your eyes at his dramatics before turning back around to finish the cookies. He quickly reached forward to pinch the plump of your ass before rushing off before you reached back to smack him with a chuckle. You rolled your eyes again and whispered fondly at the sound of him running up the stairs, “Dork.”
The two of you ate dinner at the dinner table, sharing a couple of glasses of wine as you laughed and talked about all sorts of things. As the dinner went on, you could see your boyfriend’s posture change from the tense one he always came home from work with to his relaxed, happy one. You tried to get Peter to go pick a movie while you cleaned up, but he refused, wanting to clean up with you. The two of you would have finished up faster if it weren't for all the back hugs and soft kisses.
It didn’t take long for the two of you to find a movie and get comfortable on the couch. The plate of cookies on the coffee table was forgotten after a few, along with the wine glass. Peter had picked a romcom that the two of you had seen countless times, not really wanting to focus on the movie, but on you instead. He needed this, needed you.
You were lying comfortably on your back, a throw pillow under your head that was tilted towards the TV as you watched the cheesy scene. Peter was lying on his side between your body and the couch, most of his body on top of yours, legs tangled together while his head rested on your chest. Your fingers were playing with the soft strands of his hair, his eyes nearly closed at the feeling.
The scene turned from cheesy to sickly sweet. No matter how many times you watched it, the love confession always had your heart fluttering as you awed at the pure love and devotion they had for each other. You always wondered if you would feel a love like that, and then Peter came into your life; your question was answered. You would feel a stronger love.
You look away from the TV and down at Peter, who went still on top of you, his eyes closed and small breaths leaving his parted lips. The only reason you knew he wasn’t sleeping was the feeling of his cold fingertips caressing your side underneath your shirt. A pleased hum left his lips at the feeling of one of your hands leaving his hair to cup the side of his face.
Your thumb softly caressed his cheek, making his breath hitch as he leaned into your warm touch. If he could relax even more into your touch, he would have, but it was impossible; he was practically mush in your arms. You softly caressed his nose as you spoke softly, “You know you could have told me.”
“Hmm?” Peter fought back a yawn as he tilted his head to look up at you.
“About you being jealous of butterscotch.” Your voice—so soft, so knowing—landed like a punch to his chest, bashfulness and embarrassment lingering strongly at the fact that you caught on so quickly. He never intended for you to figure it out, but now you were looking at him with eyes full of warmth and quiet understanding.
He swallowed hard, nearly choking on his spit as he quickly shook his head no, his voice cracking as he did his best to lie, “W-what?—I don't get jealous.”
You bit your bottom lip to stop yourself from laughing at his poor excuse of a lie. His cheeks were already flushed from embarrassment, and he’d licked his lips 3 times since he locked eyes with you, one of his tells. You hummed dramatically with your own small nod as you played along, “Oh, you don't?"
“I’ve never been jealous in my life.” He spoke quickly with a slightly sassy tone as he quickly shook his head dramatically, as if you had insulted him for even thinking he would be jealous over something so ridiculous. God, I really am ridiculous, he thought to himself with a scrunch of the nose.
“You’re such a bad liar.” You teased him with a big grin. You tilted your head to the side as you admired him, the pad of your thumb softly brushing against his bottom lip. Peter’s breath hitched again, sharper this time at your soft touch, the sass melting instantly into something soft and vulnerable.
He wanted to keep up the act; he really did. Play it cool, be all mature about it, but you were smiling at him like that. The warm, patient smile reserved just for him, and suddenly he didn't care about being mature anymore. His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned up and forward on instinct, chasing your touch. And then finally, you pulled him closer and closed the gap.
He made a tiny noise against your mouth, a quiet hum of pure relief, and immediately leaned into it. The kiss was sweet and slow, tender in a way only two people who truly loved each other could manage. No rush, just quiet affection; lips moving gently together like they had all the time in the world now that butterscotch wasn't trying to wedge himself between them, or interrupting them with an offended meow from across the room because they weren’t paying attention to him.
The kiss deepened slightly, still slow and loving, and Peter melted completely on top of you. His arms wrapped around your waist tighter, pulling what little space remained between the two of you away until there was nothing left but warmth, closeness, and you. No distractions, no competition for your affection with a mischievous feline.
When he pulled back an inch—just enough to breathe but not enough to break contact entirely—he kept your foreheads pressed together. His cheeks were still pink, those long lashes fanned out over his pretty face as he looked at you like you were the only reason he kept breathing. Like a man who didn't care about hiding his petty jealousy anymore.
“Go on then, tease me all you want.” He whispered with a dramatic sigh as he caved under your soft, knowing stare, the one that always melted his resolve. Peter’s lower lip jutted out into a pout, his big, guilty eyes blinking up at you like he was too embarrassed to talk about it.
“Why would I?” You whispered, brushing your nose against his temple before kissing it softly.
“Because it’s stupid.” He mumbled, voice suddenly small. He turned his face into your palm like hiding would save him from any humiliation. Your chest tightens. Peter, your strong, loyal Peter, embarrassed over something as sweetly ridiculous as feeling left out because of a kitten.
You shifted slightly beneath him, careful not to break the closeness both of your bodies have been craving, as you cupped both sides of his face gently so he had no choice but to look at you. His cheeks were warm and still flushed under your soft hands.
Then slowly, you leaned back in and kissed him again. Not dramatic or deep this time; just small pecks on the corner of his mouth, then one on each eyelid, then another soft press to the center of his forehead. Each kiss said I love you, I see you, you're my person and I’m yours. Peter exhaled shakily after every single one.
“It’s not stupid; if anything, it’s cute.” You smiled—soft, fond, so full of love—and pressed another kiss to his forehead. You brushed a strand of hair from his temple and traced the curve of his cheekbone with the pad of your thumb.
“You’re allowed to miss me…because I miss you, all the time.” You smiled fondly; your voice was so tender it made him feel all warm inside. You found yourself having to talk yourself out of visiting him at work nearly every other day. Your thumb continued to softly caress his cheekbone as you added gently, “And it makes sense, you know, you're used to having me all to yourself—now you have to share me with a needy kitty.”
One of his hands moved up; his thumb crept up under your chin, tilting it gently so he could kiss the corner of your lips. A small sweet peck, an apology for feeling jealous over something so silly. Then came another soft peck to each of your cheekbones, then one lingering kiss right between your eyebrows; tender and reverent all at once. You softly tugged on his hair impatiently to pull him back to your lips.
“Look at me, stuck with two needy boys.” You purred teasingly against his lips as you softly brushed your nose against his. Your boyfriend grinned and teasingly nipped at your bottom lip before he dipped his head and pressed a long kiss to your jaw. Your soft laughter filled the room as he dramatically rolled his eyes, muttering in faux annoyance at your teasing, “Yeah, yeah.”
You crashed your lips into his again; this time it was less sweet and more needy. The kind of kiss that came from the desperate need of missing each other, even when you were right next to each other. He kissed you back like he was making up for lost time. His mouth moved hungrily with yours, just enough passion and pressure that could make your toes curl. One of his hands slid back into your hair while the other stayed anchored on your waist, holding you close like he was afraid you’d vanish into thin air.
You could feel his smile between kisses—playful at first—but then it deepened into something hotter as the kiss turned out longer than planned; there was no rush. No tiny kitty jumping onto the couch demanding attention. Just Peter: breathless little sighs against your lips when he pulled back for air before locking his lips back with yours. The movie played forgotten in the background; neither of you cared—too caught up in the messy kisses full of pent-up affection.
His fingers tightened in your hair as he tilted your head slightly to deepen it further—soft means slipping out between kisses. His other hand lazily slipped under your sweater and traced slow circles over warm skin while placing a sloppy kiss to the corner of your mouth before finding his way back to the center of your lips. Placing a soft kiss on your lips, almost reverently.
A surprised whine left your parted lips when Peter pulled away from the kiss, your eyes quickly fluttering open to watch him lick his lips. Your pants synced together as you tried to catch your breath from the impromptu make-out session. Peter copied your earlier gesture and softly brushed his nose against yours; his hand under your sweater moved down to rub up and down your side as the two of you shifted to get more comfortable.
The silence went on for a few moments before Peter broke it with a shy whisper, a bashful smile on his face as he looked into your eyes, “I miss buttscotch.”
You couldn’t stop the giggle from leaving your lips, tilting your head to hide it in his neck, breathing in his scent as your nose brushed against his skin. You pulled away once you placed a soft kiss on his pulse point, scrunching your nose dramatically as you looked up at him. “Would it be crazy to go pick him up?”
”Maybe…but I love it.” Peter grinned before laughing softly, lifting a little as his mind raked with thoughts. It was nice to have you all to himself, your attention fully on him, but Butterscotch was family. He was their son—he could hear your voice in his head, all lovesick and cooing if you heard him call Butterscotch that—and it felt off not having him here.
Peter missed the little nips at his ankles and at the tips of his fingers when he pet him, or how Butterscotch loved to curl up on his chest after Peter’s shower, loving how warm he was. That little mischievous kitty carved a spot out in both of their hearts and was comfortably curled up in it. The house didn't feel the same without him.
Your heart warmed at your boyfriend's words and the sweet, soft look in his pretty eyes. You wanted to spend the rest of the night in his arms with Butterscotch cuddled up with you, your little family. You move your hands to grip the front of Peter’s sweater, pulling him flush against you as you whisper with a flirty smile, not ready to let him go.
“Mmkay, one more kiss though.”
┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙖𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 & 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜
Იᰍ sighhh I love them so bad guys :( I just love writing for peter prior so much , he really is one of my all time favorite characters and I love seeing true detective get its flowers lately as it’s gotten more popular !! please tell me your thoughts , this is a interactive au so your guy’s thoughts, ideas, and opinions are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !! 🐇
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