ꕤ summary: dean’s been flirting with you for months, trying every trick in the book to drop hints, but figures you’re either clueless or evil. he finally snaps and confesses like a complete emotional disaster. idiot(s) in love.
♯ warnings: one-sided pining that’s actually two-sided but everyone’s stupid, sorta oblivious! reader, dean winchester in love (scary), classic motel room emotional meltdown, miscommunication but make it sexy, sam doesn’t even show up but he’s so tired of this.
♯ notes: hi again cuties!! fyi, i took a short mental health break.. i love writing fics where dean is literally going insane. now i need to go touch grass or kiss him violently. whichever comes first.
dean winchester had survived hellhounds, vampires, vengeful spirits, and two near-death burrito incidents, but nothing, and he meant nothing, could’ve prepared him for how stupidly, painfully, soul crushingly in love he was with you.
it was stupid. like, really stupid. you weren’t even trying. you’d laugh at his dumb jokes. real laughter, like you hadn’t just heard the same crap a hundred times, and you’d tilt your head and smile at him like he wasn’t forgetting how to breathe.
“morning,” you said one day, walking into the motel kitchen like you weren’t single-handedly ruining his life.
dean stared at you. big eyes. soft smile. hair messy from sleep. you had two pop-tarts in your hand and offered him one like it was no big deal. like you didn’t just rock his whole world on a tuesday morning.
“i saved the strawberry one for you,” you said, biting into the other one.
“you, uh... saved it?” he asked, heart doing parkour.
“yeah,” you said casually, like it wasn’t the most romantic gesture anyone had ever made. “i know you like the pink ones.”
he took it from you slowly, reverently, like you’d just handed him your heart or a wedding ring or the keys to your apartment in heaven.
he could hear sam snorting behind him.
“don’t,” dean muttered as he sat down, carefully unwrapping the pop-tart like it was fragile glass.
“you’re embarrassing,” sam whispered from the other side of the table.
dean kicked him under it.
you were just… nice. that’s what killed him the most. you were a hunter, sure, you’d seen the worst shit out there, but you still had this goodness to you. you said “bless you” when he sneezed. you brought him water when he had a headache. one time, you tied his hair back when he had engine grease in his eyes, and he swore he saw the gates of heaven for a second.
but the worst part? you thought he was just being friendly.
dean “i’ve been flirting with you since missouri” winchester was being interpreted as “just a pal.”
he helped you salt your room every night. gave you his shotgun when yours jammed. carried you to the car like a damn hero when you twisted your ankle. and what did you say?
“you’re such a good friend, dean.”
he was so fucking sick from it.
you never thought twice about it, you were just like that. but dean? he was one look away from falling to his knees every time you smiled at him for too long. it wasn’t cute anymore. it was actually getting kinda dangerous.
like, last night? you had the audacity to reach over during a movie and fix the collar of his flannel. just tugged on it real gently and said, “there. lookin’ good, winchester.” oh, as if you weren’t sending him into full cardiac arrest.
he blinked at you, totally dazed. “you, uh… wanna do that again?”
“what, fix your collar?”
“no. just… yeah. that.”
you giggled and went back to your popcorn like it was nothing. he genuinely had to pause the movie and walk out to the car to scream into his hands for a full thirty seconds.
dean decided right then, enough was enough.
he was gonna make a move. no more fake-flirty shit. he was gonna say something. do something. shake it up. see if maybe you felt any of this too.
so he did. he started getting bold. subtle, sure, but still. he stopped pulling away when your hands brushed, let his fingers linger. he’d bump your hip when you were standing next to him, catch your eye during long drives and hold the stare for too long.
and then one night, as you both sat outside the motel after a long-ass hunt, him with a beer and you with a root beer bottle sweating in your palm, he leaned in just a little too close. close enough that you could feel his breath on your jaw. you didn’t flinch, just smiled, eyes on the stars.
“y’know,” he said, voice low. “i like this. you and me. nights like this.”
you grinned. “yeah, me too. feels like we’re in a movie or somethin’.”
dean turned toward you, full body, arm draped across the back of the bench so it looked casual, but he was literally using it to inch closer to you.
he dropped his voice even lower. “if this was a movie, i’d probably kiss you right now.”
you snorted. snorted.
“you’re such a dork,” you laughed, sipping your soda. “you always say the corniest stuff.”
dean just blinked at you. you weren’t even joking, were you? you thought he was playing around. he wasn’t even sure what expression was on his face anymore. but he smiled through it. “yeah. guess I do.”
he wanted to crash the car into the nearest ditch. just a light crash. nothing fatal. just enough to knock some sense into you.
little did he know it would all start with a fight.
not a big one. just one of those dumb, hot motel arguments that always happened when you two were tired and hungry and road-tripping for way too long. he snapped at you over directions. of course his stupid ass decided it would be romantic to let you drive. you rolled your eyes. then he got real quiet. you knew something was bubbling under the surface.
“you gonna stay mad all night?” you asked eventually, dropping your bag on the motel bed and kicking off your boots. “it’s not like i crashed baby or something.”
dean didn’t answer. just stood there, jaw tight, hands on his hips, staring at the wall like it had personally offended him.
you huffed. “jesus, dean. chill out.”
that did it.
he turned around so fast you flinched, not because you were scared, dean didn’t scare you, but because his face looked wild. raw and flushed and just done with everything. “chill out?” he repeated, voice sharp. “chill out? you think this is me being mad about directions?”
you blinked. “uh. yeah? it kinda felt like-”
“i’m in love with you!”
the words dropped like a bomb. cut through the air so cleanly you honestly thought you misheard him.
you froze. “what?”
“i said I’m in love with you, you fucking idiot,” he snapped, and this time his voice cracked, not from anger, but from the weight of it. the years, the months, the fucking hours he’d spent holding it in. “do you even get what it’s been like for me? watching you walk around every damn day like we’re just buddies, like i don’t wanna rip my own heart out every time you look at me like that?”
you stared at him, stunned.
“like what?” you whispered.
“like you don’t know,” he growled, stepping closer. his hands were fists now, not angry ones, just ones that didn’t know what to do with themselves. “like you don’t feel it too. you laugh when I flirt with you, like it’s a joke. you wear my damn shirts, sleep on my shoulder, hold my hand when you’re tired, and I’m supposed to just… what, pretend it’s casual? just friendly?”
you opened your mouth. nothing came out.
dean shook his head, laughing bitterly. “i’ve been trying, okay? i’ve been trying to keep it cool. to let you come to me. but you’re either the most oblivious person I’ve ever met or you’re just cruel.”
“dean-”
“no,” he cut in, voice breaking again. “i can’t do it anymore. i’m in love with you. real, scary, punch-me-in-the-face love. and i swear to god if you don’t feel the same, i’m gonna lose my damn mind.”
and then you did the absolute worst thing imaginable.
you laughed.
dean’s face fell. he looked completely shattered. “are you kidding me?”
but you were already crossing the room, already putting your hand on his chest and shaking your head, grinning like an idiot.
“i know,” you said, breathless with laughter. “i know, dean. of course i know. you’re the most obvious man on planet earth.” he stared at you, completely stunned. you smiled. “i just didn’t think you meant it. i thought that was just… you. being dean.”
he blinked. “i was being me. me is fucking in love with you.”
you laughed again, soft this time, and your fingers curled into the collar of his shirt.
“im in love with you too, dumbass.”
his mouth opened like he was about to say something, probably some sarcastic little remark, but you kissed him before he could. pulled him down by the shirt and smashed your mouth against his, and it wasn’t gentle or careful or slow. It was sloppy, overdue, and desperate.
dean groaned, hands flying to your waist like instinct, pulling you in so tightly you could feel his heartbeat through his shirt. “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted to do that,” he muttered against your lips.
you kissed him again.
and again.
and again.
when you finally pulled back, dazed and smiling, his hands still on you like he was scared you’d vanish, he just stared at you. like he couldn’t believe it was real.
“so,” you said, a little breathless. “still mad about the directions?”
dean leaned in again, forehead resting on yours, his voice hoarse with relief. “you could drive us into a lake right now and i’d thank you.”
Synopsis: What happens when Dex looks at you finds a version of himself looking back at him. After feeding from blood bags to heal, Dex doesn’t think he can ever let you go.
Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x reader
Warnings: 18+ minors DNI: swearing, Dex being Dex, obsessive behaviour, mentions of stalking, two weirdos being weirdos together, mentions of blood, injuries, being stabbed, suggestive sexual content/sexual content.
Authors note: Hihi! It’s been a while since I last wrote anything, so please forgive any spelling and grammar mistakes. Heres hoping this is at least semi in character for! Hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading <3 inspired by the delena scene and songs.
The other night, Matt had come to you for help, saying he needed to infiltrate a warehouse near the docks but it was too heavily guarded for just him. To be honest you didn’t really know what it was about but you trusted him enough to believe it was important.
Perhaps you gave him too much of said trust, considering when you turned up, you were met with two men instead of one. And not just anyone, either. A certain masked man clad in dark blue. He stood alert yet relaxed, though his posture seemed too oddly controlled to be called so. He was taller than you had pictured, bigger and broader too. His tight form fitting shirt revealing a solid strength the man held coiled within his body.
You weren’t fond of Poindexter. Well, that was perhaps a bit harsh seeing as you didn’t know him or had even met him before tonight. You prided yourself on not judging people blindly, so you couldn’t exactly form your own opinion just yet. But, you heard the stories, read the articles. He was unpredictable, a live wire amongst puddles of water.
“It seems you failed to mention we would have company, devil.” Your voice carries a latent tension as you finally stand beside the two.
Matt twitches slightly at the nickname, knowing you only use it when pissed off at him.
“I told you, I needed more than just myself.”
“Still could’ve given me a heads up, and here I was thinking I was your one albeit only, favourite back up partner.”
“Oh, don’t worry sweetheart. You can be mine.” The rough and slightly muffled voice to your right chimes in.
The mutual disdain on your faces matches perfectly. Rather than entertain his comment, you and Matt cast him a final dismissive look before you turn your shoulder sealing him out of the conversation.
“It would’ve been harder to convince you if I did.” Matt relinquishes, a guilty smile spreading across his mouth.
“So, I guess we are suddenly good with killing our enemies?” You fold your arms, leveling a hard stare his way.
“Yes.” Dex answers instantly, just as Matt snaps a “No.”
His head whips round to throw, what you presume is a scowl.
“No, we are absolutely not. He has been warned already.”
Gods, a warning. Right. Because those always work so well on psychopaths. You keep the thought to yourself, head tilting down so the shadows hide the unimpressed narrow of your eyes.
All Bullseye does is hum in acknowledgment and though you can’t actually see it, you could feel the derisive smirk underneath his mask.
You can already tell both you and Matt would be on babysitting duty to make sure he sticks with this ‘warning’.
And if that wasn’t tiring enough, it had all gone to shit.
There were way more people there than expected, the building somehow seemed much bigger on the inside than it did out and Bullseye was a massive pain in the ass, occasionally testing how fast Matt and you could stop whatever from going through someone’s skull or jugular. Causing your focus to wander over him more than the actual bad guys. Which in turn left you too open for said men.
You were hurt, and badly.
They had gotten a good few slices and hits on you, though the worst one was the knife currently sitting snug in your abdomen. Every slight movement, which was not slight at all since you were fighting for your life here. Was agony. Feeling the serrated metal bury and grind further into your flesh with each dodge, parry and punch.
Shoving a very persistent oaf off of you hollows you out. The moment he crashes to the floor your legs feel like jelly, hands slapping blindingly against the wall to anchor yourself before a humiliating collapse beside him.
“Shit.” You hiss.
You inhale deeply, gripping your composure as you straighten your spine. The room spins, a sudden wave of dizziness blurring and warping the edges of your vision. You close your eyes, waiting out the vertigo. Opening them after a moment, you hope nobody saw your bout of weakness. But, your eyes stop on Matt where you can see his head tilted towards you. Of course he noticed, he always does.
“You need to get out of here!” He orders from across the room. Voice bouncing between the walls which does nothing to help your frazzled and disoriented state.
“I’m fine, I just… needed a sec!” You shout back, trying to anchor down your voice, but the deep breath you required pulls at the wound. Turning your last word into a ragged gasp. You stumble over your own foot as the sticky warmth seeping out of your body and onto the fabric of your clothing becomes harder to ignore.
You hear your name in warning.
“I’m not asking.” He barks. “You! Get her out of here!” He demands bullseye, while dodging the swing of a fist.
“The hell I am, you want me to just leave you in this clusterfuck?!”
You open your mouth to protest, but a pair of steady, firm hands settle on the small of your back and arm. You looked up into striking hazel eyes. You decide to shove down the thought of how pretty they are, as he pulls you up and shifts your weight to lean on him.
“There’s only a few more guys past the door, I can manage. We’re basically done.” Matt insists. Leaving no room to fight him on this, but you try anyway. Well, you were before the man beside you started to drag you off down the corridor.
“If anything happens to her Dex I’ll-“
“Yeah, I get it!” Bullseye throws the reply over his shoulder.
You attempt to twist out of his reach, but he merely tightens his hold. Fingers digging deeper, bruising your skin.
Asshole.
“We need to go back.”
You’re met with silence.
“Hello?! We can’t leave him.”
“If you trust him so much, then trust what he says.” He mutters, shoving the door open with a tense shoulder. The sharp edge to his words made it obvious that your seemingly blind faith in Matt rubbed him the wrong way.
That is if you were paying more attention to him.
“That’s not the point, anything could happen.” You snap at him. The night air is a refreshing but welcoming cold against your skin.
“What’s happening is you’re starting to bleed out.” He grunted, shifting his weight and readjusting his hold on you.
You barely manage to force out a scoff. “Bit dramatic.”
“Fine. Then walk.” The words are barely finished before he suddenly lets go and to your dismay, your knees buckle and your body can’t fight the gravity pulling you toward the ground. Before your face hits the concrete, an iron like arm clamped around your waist, ruthlessly hoisting you back up.
“Thought so.” You said, his gruff voice vibrating against your ear.
Opinion made, you hate him.
He stood still, looking down at you. It was only then you realised his mask was off, allowing you to study his features. They’re strong, sculpted and his expression felt incredibly sharp. Fixed. But as you continue to look, you find some kind of depth to him you weren’t expecting to. His cross feet and wrinkles along his cheeks, carve a type of charm into them. His lips, thin and straight. Though they seem to have an almost constant smirk on them.
You see his gaze flit across your own. Analysing, evaluating, assessing your next move. There’s a strange glint in those hazel depths. Making it clear he’s thoroughly enjoying wondering whether you are to resist him again.
You don’t. Feeling as though he’d take entirely too much enjoyment from toying and breaking your resistance if you tried.
There’s a dark red dripping a path down from the split in his lip and your eyes latch onto it with the desperate, starving focus of someone finding water in a desert.
You need to get home.
Before you do anything you’ll regret.
The sight of blood doesn’t usually affect you, even in cases like this where you need to heal but. For some reason his. His, is magnetising. A persistent ache settles into your gums, your pulse heavy and rhythmic as you follow the crimson descent down his throat. A single thought dominates your mind. The sensation of tasting the stray drop with your tongue.
He catches the look, head tilting inquisitively.
Closing your eyes and shaking the urge away you heave a sigh.
“Fine. Fine, just take me to my place.” You wearily order. Thankfully you don’t live far and there’s a lot of dingy alleyways to hide and travel in.
You don’t want him knowing where you stay but it’s the only reasonable option right now, so you’ll deal with whatever mess comes from it later.
~~~
After many. Many of his incessant snarky comments. You make it to your front door.
“The key.” You flick your head over to the small lone plant pot next to the entrance. Not exactly the best hiding place but you thought people would think it was too obvious to even check.
“How safe.” He coos down at you mockingly.
“Shut up and grab the damn thing.” You snap at him.
He props you against the wall, lowering you with an unexpected gentleness. His hands linger, watching to make sure you aren’t going to crumble to the grimy floor below before slipping away
Your small apartment was a welcoming sight, at least until he all but threw you down onto your couch. The plush cushions don’t do much to soften the impact.
Where the hell did his fleeting gentleness go?
Wincing, you're about to start cussing him out but he doesn’t give you the chance. He was already scanning the room, his jaw tightening as he marched into your bathroom.
“Where’s your medical kit?” He reappeared at the door, his eyes narrowed as if the disorganised placement of your things was a personal insult.
“Your belongings are chaotic, you should have a designated spot for it.”
“I didn’t ask for a lecture,” you mumble, trying to brace your hands against the cushions to stand. The movement earned you a blinding flash of agony across your ribs.
“Just get out.”
“Oh, of course. Let you bleed out on your couch and deal with Murdock’s exhausting self afterwards. Stop moving.”
You can’t help but roll your eyes.
“Leave.” The word scrapes through your teeth.
You glare up at him but he just mirrors your intensity, planting his boots as if rooting himself to the spot.
“For fucks sake.” You huff out, as now on the fourth try you finally manage to stand on two feet for a split second before you fall back on the velvet cushions. The action snatching a whimper from your chest.
Your breathing is shallow and uneven now. Finger tips feeling colder than you remember them being moments ago. Joints and muscles, stiff and sore.
You glance back towards him, an unsure urgency written across his face. Not fear or concern, just a realisation the situation is getting worse and needs fixing. Now.
You can’t continue arguing, you don’t have the energy nor the time to. So, options are you either die to conceal your secret or let this irritating, disturbed man find out.
You’re unsure if the latter even has a higher survival rate but you’ll take the chance.
“Room to the left, there’s a closet.” You get yourself into a slightly better position that doesn’t make you feel like you’re getting stabbed all over again.
“Big refrigerator, grab two bags and bring them.”
He doesn’t move right away, maybe wondering why the hell you’d rather have what you’ve asked of him than actual medical supplies.
Once he does decide to go, you grip the handle of the blade. Mentally preparing yourself to drag the thing against your insides. You breathe in and pull, a strangled groan ripping from your throat.
You hear his footsteps come closer, feel the blood bags he drops next to you. The cold of them soaks into the flesh of your thigh before you grab one and tug the top off, downing the ruby liquid. The relief is instant. Like the warmth of the sun caressing your skin, coating the inside of your body. The familiar tingling sensation spattering across your wounds letting you know it’s working.
You practically suck the bag dry for every drop before letting it fall to your lap. You lean your head back in respite. Hand already reaching for the other one.
You look up to see Dex sitting on the chair opposite. Eyes fixed on you. You can’t read his expression, not that you have the focus for it right now. You surely look a mess, hair tangled and strewn everywhere. Sweat, grime and blood clinging to your skin. Panting away like you’ve run a marathon. Eyes struggling to stay open for longer than three seconds.
Unbeknownst to you, Dex doesn’t think he’s ever seen such a beguiling sight.
You’re the perfect mix of battered normalcy and frightening, grotesque anomaly. Watching your eyes glaze over with a pained ecstasy triggers something within him. The raw hunger seeping from your person and filling the room felt like an addictive, intoxicating current. It draws him to sit at the edge of the chair, arms resting on his knees as he can’t help but want to eliminate the distance between you so he could indulge in every tiny detail.
In that single beat, he was utterly consumed by the obsession to physically mark. A visible brand to show his ownership. Refusing to let something so exquisite slip from his grasp. In the grand design, you were already his, just as he was yours. Maybe after seemingly endless years of trying to balance the scales, the world had finally corrected itself. You were his reward. The universe had engineered this moment to show him this. You.
You squeeze free the very last drop, letting out a long exhale as you toss the second pouch aside. With the back of your hand, you swipe away the stray droplets clinging to your chin.
Dex's gaze was too heavy to handle. Too searching. Too sharp. You tear your eyes from his, forcing your focus onto a mundane magazine on the coffee table just to look anywhere else. Hot, prickling shame clawed its way through your ribs, tightening around your throat. To reveal something so sick, so deeply twisted… you wanted the ground to swallow you up. Body tensing as you waited for the inevitable onslaught of disgust and ridicule.
You’re met with neither.
You steal a glance at Dex with apprehension. He remained motionless, the only sign of life the slight uneven hitch in his breath. His face tells you absolutely nothing. You can’t read him, and you aren’t sure if the mystery is worse than knowing his thoughts.
It’s quiet, suffocatingly so.
Outside the distant hum of traffic cuts through the dark, their lights sprinting over the walls, obnoxious laughter of drunken groups drifting through the open window. The silence in the room is deafening. Your own blood thumps against your eardrums, and a cold sweat slickens your palms.
Fabric groans beneath his weight as he moves. Slipping to his knees and edging closer to your own. He sits to the side of your legs, hand reaching up to your torso.
His eyes widen slightly, a sharp light catching in them as he processes the sight of your unblemished skin. The brutal stab wound is gone, replaced only by a soft flush of pink marking the place where torn flesh should have been.
The light skim of his finger tips leave a trail of goosebumps rising in their wake. He is completely entranced. You guess anyone would be, as this wasn’t just a normal Tuesday for most.
“How?”
The raw gravel of his voice tears through the silence, snapping the thread of your thoughts instantly.
“What? Oh… yeah, I’m not sure, to be honest.”
It wasn’t a lie, you really didn’t know how. All you knew was after an accident where they had pronounced you dead for a minute, you had this odd thirst you couldn’t quench until a particularly bloody brawl. The guy's blood had sprayed across your face and into your mouth. Suddenly that blooming warmth had come, breaking through the pain. You’d rather not remember the rest right now, guilt eating away at you already. Ever since, you had secretly tested the boundaries. Pushing until you mapped out what you could do.
He only hums in reply, his eyes lingering on your skin a second longer before rising to lock onto yours, he pulls back and retreats into his chair. Watching you from a distance.
“You can’t tell anyone about this!” You blurt out.
You see the corner of his lips quirk up, a breathy chuckle escaping him.
“Who would I tell?” His head tilted to the side a little.
“I don’t know who you might know! I don’t even know you!” The words stumble out of you in a panicked rush. Your mind spinning, far too fast for you to gather your thoughts into a coherent defense.
He studies you for a moment before responding.
“I will tell no one.” The sudden weight in his voice almost grounds you. The seriousness in his eyes makes it clear this isn’t just a casual promise, it’s an oath.
You give a hesitant nod of your head, unsure how else to respond.
“Does Matt know?”
“No, at least not fully.” You had told him you have your own way of healing but couldn’t bring yourself to actually say how.
His jaw tightens.
But before you can decipher that, your phone rings. Jolting you into motion to find and grab it.
“Speaking of.” You offer a strained laugh, waving the caller ID at Dex.
“Hey! Matt, did you manage to do what you needed?”
You walk through the reassurances, telling him you’re fine and you’re better now, no complications. He cuts you off.
“Wait, is Dex still there?” He asks, sounding a little nervous?” He asks, his tone turning abruptly tense.
“Uh, yeah?”
Silence stretches over the line.
“Just… don’t hang around him more than needed. Be careful, night.”
“Night…” you mumble out before the call ends.
Matt's right.
You forgot who was currently sitting across from you right now.
Clearing your throat you stand to brush off imaginary dust. The habit is laughable, given you are caked in blood and dirt.
“Well, I- thank you for… you know.” You trail off, giving Dex a sheepish smile, your eyes bouncing nervously around the room.
“I don’t wanna keep you any longer, you're probably desperate for a shower and stuff… I know I am.”
He doesn’t budge, you catch a fleeting glimpse of something like hurt across his face but you blink it away before you can start feeling bad for him. Your gaze drops, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.
Finally he stands.
“Yes, I am.” He states stiffly, pivoting toward the door. You follow behind, opening it for him.
He stops right on the threshold, crowding your space. So close that the warmth of his breath fans across your cheeks. His lips part as if he wants to say something more but thinks better of it and swallows the impulse.
“See you later.” The way he says it, strips it of any casual pleasantry and turns it into a promise.
~~~
You didn’t see Dex for a while after that night.
Yet, he still plagued your mind. He had witnessed your repulsive nature and hadn’t even flinched. In fact, he hadn’t reacted at all. He had simply asked a question. one entirely devoid of judgement, completely uncondemning.
Granted, you had practically shoved him out the door. But his expression had never soured with disgust. Despite the grotesque act you had displayed, his fingers had traced along your skin with absolute gentleness. As if he were the culprit, as if he were the one trying not to frighten you.
Comprehending your own emotions felt impossible, you couldn’t wrap your mind around the feelings he had stirred. Especially given who he was. He wasn’t a good man, or, more accurately a profoundly troubled and disturbed one. But surely that wasn’t all there was to him. That a hidden layer was beneath the malice. From what Matt had told you, he didn’t exactly care for humanity. Warned you of his lack of empathy. His moral compass driven by balancing the scales. It was a bleak world view, but one you found yourself relating to. After what happened, what you did. You tried to correct that wrong over and over again, continuing to do so to this day.
You slam your pen down with a frustrated huff. An ugly blotch of ink now stained your file, marking the moment you had zoned out.
You need to get him out of your head.
Standing, you decide to take your break early and head to your favourite cafe. The rich scent of roasted coffee beans and sweet pastries wrap around you. It brings a sense of peace and quiet that your mind hasn’t experienced in weeks. You pause to savour the feeling. Opening your eyes you are expected to see the barista's familiar face. You don’t. Instead, you find yourself staring at the very man you’re trying to forget.
Catching your eye as he reaches for his drink, a flash of surprise crosses his face. Yet, it feels too practised to be genuine. Perhaps lasting a second longer than it naturally should have. Your name falls from his lips.
“Imagine running into you here.” He says, his face splitting into a warm, lopsided grin.
“I should be saying that to you, I’ve never seen you here before.” You go here almost everyday, treating this routine as a sanctuary. And he had never been part of the scenery. Attempting to hide the suspicion in your tone, you could only hope he hadn’t caught onto it.
A woman taps your shoulder wanting to get past you both. As you step aside, you feel Dex’s hand rest lightly on your arm. Steering you over to a table in the corner. You glare at him in confusion, shifting yourself until he lets go. His eyes locked onto the rejection, something unreadable hardening his features in response.
“I’m guessing you come here often then?” He asks, taking a slow sip of his coffee.
The casual question feels cheap, like a cliché romance movie line. But the intensity in his stare made it entirely distinct.
“You could say that.” You mutter out. Not breaking eye contact as you study the subtle shifts in his expression, hoping they reveal something.
An awkward silence floats between the two of you before he breaks it.
“A friend recommended it to me.” He offered the explanation as if reading the suspicion on you.
“You have friends?”
The blunt words were out before you could pull them back. It was terribly rude. But the concept felt impossible. You just couldn’t picture him forming bonds with anyone.
Dex’s face steels for a fraction of a second before a sharp chuckle leaves him.
“Ouch, you don’t like me very much do you?” He shifts closer, his voice dropping.
“Well, you don’t exactly have a glowing reputation.”
“Hmm. Matt told me you weren’t the judging type. Seems he was wrong.” He prods, raising an eyebrow, dismissively turning his attention out the window.
The accusation was a fair point. He really hadn’t given you a reason to dislike him. He was a pain in the ass, undeniably ruthless. A volatile force with no regard to anyone in his way but, he had helped you. Even when you made it difficult. More than that though, he hadn’t judged you for your… peculiar appetite. Perhaps you owed it to him, or, yourself to discover who he truly was before writing him off completely.
“Fine, sit. I’m gonna grab my usual and then you can show me your sunny personality.” You give a saccharine smile and immediately walk off to the counter.
~~~
Somehow, meeting Dex at the cafe grew into a regular thing. You got along better than you’d like or care to admit. There were times you didn’t even speak, words unnecessary. Trivial. Both content with the comfortable silence, soaking in the other’s presence. It was a strange anchor you found yourself eagerly anticipating each day.
Most days now, the ritual was slipping away early to the quaint little cafe. Finding Dex already sitting at what was now your table. The usual order sat waiting for you. Perhaps you should've questioned how easily you slipped into his presence, how frightingly quick you had grown accustomed to him. You weren’t the social type, preferring the company of isolation over anyone else’s.
Which was probably due to the veiled side you carried, the lingering belief you were tainted. But, you favoured it more than puppeteering yourself to others. And part of you suspected Dex understood that exact feeling.
Maybe, that was the secret to the effortless ease between you both. The deeper, subconscious parts of your broken natures intertwining beneath the surface, completely unseen. Even to yourselves.
Settled in a deep calm, you missed the slight flick of Dex’s wrist. A brief flash of tiny, silver metal whipped through the air to slice the arm of an unsuspecting stranger. Beads of blood welled in the fresh scratch. At the man’s sharp yelp, you snapped your attention to the red droplets. Realising nothing was really wrong, you turn your gaze back forward. Dex watched it all, silently taking a mental note.
Two days later, you were caught in a similar trap.
Dex ‘accidentally’ brushed his mug off the table, watching it shatter before quickly ducking down to collect the ceramic shards. You lean down to help but a low hiss from him stops you in your tracks. He looks up, hand following suit. As he flexed his fingers, a thick, ruby liquid began pooling in the shallow valley of his palm.
Your whole body stilled cold, breath stuck painfully between your chest and throat. You feel your temperature skyrocket, the room suddenly suffocatingly warm. Mouth salivating as the irritating ache of your gums punched forward again. You grip the edge of the rickety wooden table, nails digging into it to ground yourself like a lifeline.
He called your name softly, the mere sound of his voice fuelling the instincts you were fighting to suppress. His gaze scanned your face and body before landing on your mouth. Catching the sharp peek of canines against your lower lip, his gaze fix back to your eyes. In that single frozen moment, the shared awareness became all consuming.
To watch the ghost inside of you awakening, his heart races. To see it happen, watch you crawl out of your surface shape. The heavy, dangerously alert look in your eyes triggered something raw within him. Sends waves of emotions and sensations he has never felt before, ones he could not explain or comprehend. He could scarcely breathe, it felt as though he had just tossed his heart to the flames of burning desire. And he had no intention of fetching it out.
You stand, chair screeching against the ground painfully loud against the floor.
“I’m sorry, I- I have to go.” You manage to choke out, hand clutching at your mouth in a futile attempt at holding back your hunger as you sprinted for the door.
“Wait!” You heard Dex call out. A barista steps in his path trying to stop him as she fusses over his bleeding palm, blocking his attempt to reach you.
You didn’t dare look back, needing to get as far away from him as possible. The rush of wind outside did nothing to cool your clammy skin, in fact it only made it worse as you felt the stark, sickening contrast between your feverish body and the cool air.
This couldn’t be happening.
You had never felt such hunger before, at least not since the first time. And ever since then, you had done everything in your power to leash that creature inside of you.
Eventually making it to your front door, you fumbled blindly with the keys. Your hands shaking so violently you could barely fit it in the slot. But the moment it gave way, you threw yourself inside and slammed the door shut, twisting the deadbolt and sliding the chain on.
You stripped off your coat and tossed it into the dim apartment. Scraping the tangled hair back from your face, you felt baby hairs clinging to the damp sheen of sweat on your skin. You're unsure what to do. Half your mind screamed at you to curb the urge by blood bag, while the other begged you to not give into the craving.
As your mind and body bitterly fought for control, you paced around the room. Barely catching yourself against the kitchen counter as you trip over your jacket. Clammy hands slapping on the speckled granite. You force yourself to try and level your breathing. In, out. In, out. The fragile stillness was short lived. A weighty thud of your window breaking you right out of it.
You watch Dex slip through the frame, you really needed to remember to lock that damn thing.
“The hell are you doing?!” You demanded, turning towards him, your face pale with shock.
“You should really learn to lock that.” He replies smoothly.
You don’t have the capacity to figure out how he knows it’s usually open.
“Fuck you,” you snapped. “It's not like people normally crawl through someone’s window, five stories up in broad daylight.”
“You’d be surprised.” He said, flashing an infuriating grin. The sight caused an unsettling heat to pool low in your stomach.
“Get out, Dex.”
“Is it just my blood that affects you so much?”
“What?!”
“My blood,” he clarifies. “you seem to only act like this around mine. You barely noticed someone else’s.”
Rage boiled underneath your skin. The realisation clicking into place, he must’ve cut that man on purpose. Orchestrated the injury just to test your restraint. Gods, you were an absolute fool to let your guard down. To think there was a shred of humanity to him. Has this all been a trap? Every quiet afternoon at that table, all those hours. Every moment you thought a genuine attachment was blossoming. Taking root. A bond that you had actually grown to care about.
“How dare you, what am I to you? Some kind of lab rat?”
You hurl at him, voice cracking with fury.
“To think I actually believed you didn’t judge me for it, but this whole time you’ve been playing this sick little game!”
“No, that’s not what! I wasn’t doing this to mess with you!”
He pleads, taking a desperate step forward. His usual calm demeanour shattering.
You scoff. “Get out Dex, before I force you out.”
“Wait, just let me explain!”
“I said leave!” You shouted, shoving your hands against his chest to drive the point home. He didn’t budge, instead his hands clamp around your forearms, dragging you flush against him. Pinning you, stopping your shaking frame from continuing its attack. You both stood there, chests heaving. Sending huffs of air across the narrow gap between your faces. He dipped his head lower, forcing you to look at him as you struggled to break free. The sheer desperation in his eyes caused your anger to stall and simmer, an almost scared expression, haunted by actual panic.
“That night, what I saw… It was so hypnotic,” Dex murmured. “I saw a part of myself in you.”
You froze, face twisting in confusion as your body stopped resisting his hold.
“I have waited so long. So fucking long,” he continued, his brows furrowing a look of profound, aching yearning.
“I kept trying so hard to find an anchor, to steer myself in the right direction. But I couldn’t make sense of the world. It was like I was drowning. But you? you make me feel whole. Like I can finally breathe.” He stared down at you, his eyes intensely tracing over every feature of your face.
“I know how that sounds, how it looks. But I didn’t do this for nothing, I thought surely you felt that same pull.”
Silence dug its claws into you, there was nothing you could say. A rational part of your mind wants you to reject this, to label him as a lunatic, because you had barely scratched the surface of who he was. But you couldn’t pull away, the truth was paralysing. You couldn’t erase how effortlessly you had existed in his space, those quiet afternoons sitting together in a peace that required no words. Just the steady rhythm of his breath. You thought of the books you shared, his clumsy, awkward and endearing jokes. He had altered his very routine for those meetings. It was scary and dizzying how he had woven himself into your days.
“You deny that part of yourself, why?” His voice snapped you right back to the present.
“For a while, I’ve watched you. Seen how you have coiled up like a venomous serpent, completely tangled in yourself. Why do you do that? Why hide and deny something so beautiful?”
You couldn’t possibly speak the truth. Couldn’t confess how you had brutally murdered a man in such a violent, bloody way and took sick pleasure in doing so. When Dex had dragged you out of that warehouse and your eyes had latched onto the blood dripping from him. How a severe pulse of desire coursed through you. The disgusting urge to creep into his mind, push down into the membrane and layers and burn yourself in the very structure of his being. How the thought of tasting, drinking him would dissolve the shadow that loomed over you. In you. Cleanse the parts you despised of yourself with pleasure and find someone to meld perfectly with their own broken parts.
Lost in your thoughts again, Dex seemed to intuitively understand your silence. How overwhelming your realisation was. He saw how you struggled to form words, so instead, he brought his cut hand to rest against your cheek. Tilting your head a little higher to meet his gaze, his thumb lightly smeared his slick crimson blood over your lips. Your eyes flew open in fear. You didn’t want to hurt him, if you tasted him now what if you couldn’t stop? This act would open a door you could never hope or be able to close.
“Just drink.” The soft command has your breath hitching. His chest grazing yours as he leans a fraction closer, mouth twitching forward as if he subconsciously hunts your own.
Your tongue darted out, dragging your lower lip into your mouth. Tasting the metallic ghost of what was to come. A fading instinct screamed at you to stop, but the warning died the second his warmth brushed your skin. You were too far gone to say no.
Dex heals his hand steady, his eyes wide and unblinking, tracking your hesitation like a predator waiting for the trap to spring. When your teeth finally sank into the sensitive flesh of his palm, the world split open.
It hit you like a physical shock wave. A rush of dizzying, white hot pleasure swelled through your veins, lulling your resistance into a state of total surrender. Your body felt alight, burning from the inside out, yet simultaneously fastened by a bone deep relaxation. It was unlike any blood you had stolen before. It was sweet, heavy and fragrantly complex. A taste you knew you would never be able to unlearn.
A weak, breathless mewl escapes your throat. Your knees completely give out, your body involuntarily melting against his frame. The sudden weight shoved him back, his spine hitting the wall next to the window with a dull heavy thud. He lets out a low, ragged groan. A fractured sound torn between the sharp sting of the wound and a surge of submission.
He didn’t push you away. Instead, his free hand came up, his long fingers tangling into your hair to lock you against him. He rested his chin on the crown of your head, his entire body shuddering as he released a long, shaky sigh. He was breathing you in, letting you take whatever it was you needed or wanted. Drunk on how right it felt.
Driven by the hypnotising rush, your hips press flush against his, the friction sending a mind numbing wave of pleasure straight down between your thighs. Your mouth unlatches from his hand, drawing in gasping breaths of air you had deprived yourself of. You looked up to meet his stare, Dex’s eyes devoured the sight of his ruby essence dripping and trailing multiple paths from your lips. With excruciating slowness he swiped a thumb affectionately over your skin, playing with his own blood. He looked ruined in the best possible way, gazing at you like a man who had just looked into the face of a god. Yet, beneath the worship, his mouth twisted into an arrogantly sinister grin.
He grips the back of your neck and pulls you to his lips as he greedily swallows your gasping breaths. His Tongue your mouth as he claimed you, taste the silky, metallic tang of his own blood. The sheer maddening intimacy of it shattered his composure. The friction between you sparked an electric, dangerous heat. His large hand slid from your cheek to clamp around the back of your neck, his fingers digging into your hairline to anchor you flush against him. He wasn’t just kissing you, he was taking you.
Your hands scramble to feel him, trailing over his shoulders and back, while his other hand dragged a rough path down your spine, locking your grinding hips desperately between his. Dex lets out another broken and muffled moan against your lips. One of your fangs nick his lip and he responds by flipping and pinning you to the wall instead. His touch roams wildly over you, gripping your waist, tearing you closer until there was no air between the two of you.
It was clear the threshold was gone, and the universe had locked the door behind you.
He begins to trail wet open mouthed kisses from the corner of your lips to your jaw, lazily lapping up some of the remaining blood from your skin. As he drops lower, sinking his teeth lightly into your neck, nibbling a bruise to mark you, the spell cracks. A gruesome, haunting image of the man you had drained dry floods your mind. The absolute shame and utter self disgust hit you like a physical blow. You were suddenly staring at the man’s corpse and reacting in pure panic, has you pushing against Dex’s chest, forcing separation, the sudden shove in rejection breaks him free of his haze, face falling into an uncharacteristically wounded and bewildered expression.
What the fuck just happened?! What are you doing?
He sees your face splinter into fear and shame. Automatically steps forward to try and stop your spiralling mind but his proximity only makes you panic more, as you pleaded him to stop.
“I’m sorry! I can’t, we can’t do this. Shouldn’t.” You shake your head, trying to rattle your thoughts back into place and make sense of everything.
He breathes your name in a quiet plea. and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to not fall right back into him.
“Leave, please, Dex.” You whimpered. Remaining frozen, arms wrapped around yourself. Too scared to open your eyes until you hear the window click, announcing he was gone.
Authors note: I have a little more planned out for his and I actually had fun writing these two, so if you’d like the next part please let me know! <3 I’m not the happiest with this but hey ho.
𖦹｡⋆ Summary: You wake up to expect it to be a normal day, but something is missing from your TV stand. From the other room, Dex is watching. Your mind breaks as you lost the one thing to keep you sane, but good thing Dex is there to replace that.
𖦹 WC: 4.4k
𖦹｡⋆Tags/Warnings: canon inaccuracies/divergence. Bad self-talk. Medication/Pills. POV switch. Mentions of surgery. DDBA S2! Dex. Blooming romance. Manipulation (?).
𖦹A/N: This one is a little bit longer, so I hope you enjoy. Plus, a lot more dialouge.
preqvious part 𖦏 next part
Bzzzt! Bzzt!
You wake up to the sounds of your phone alarm ringing right next to your ear. You groggily pull yourself out of your bed and grabbed your phone to shut your alarm off. You were still half asleep and trying to get your brain functioning once again.
You looked at the lock screen. 4:00 AM.
This was a little earlier than she would usually wake up, but Pris often had to open up the shop and get everything ready for when they opened up. You knew how she was and that waking up early after a night out was not going to happen for Pris.
You pushed yourself off your bed with as much energy you could before starting off your morning routine. For you, everything felt like another normal day. You would walk to the bathroom, walk back to your room, grab your medication and head towards the kitchen.
Your mind was on auto pilot.
As you began to walk towards the kitchen, your eyes glanced towards your living room and towards the TV stand.
You knew your living room like the back of your hand. You stared at your TV screen more times than you slept in your bed, so you knew the space more than yourself.
You stand there, stopping what you're doing to just look. On the dinner table, you place your medication and phone down while your eyes travel the living room. It was like playing one of those games where you look for the difference between the pictures.
Your mind is scanning through past moments where you had been staring at the screen and the area around it. You knew something was off, but you couldn't figure out what.
Walking towards the space, you began to look around as if something might have fallen. Everything just looked how it did before, nothing seemed out of place. You held your hands out from your side, confused on what you could be searching for, until you turned towards the TV stand.
Scanning your eyes at it, your eyes fell towards your CD pile. You read each label one by one, recalling all of them by name. You counted each one of them on your fingers, but then you found one short.
Shaking your mind, thinking you might be still half awake, you recounted the CDs again. One, two, three . . . six, seven...?
Where was the eighth?
Scanning the names of each of the movies, you searched for which one could have been missing. Then, it clicked. Your surgery video had been missing.
You could feel your blood run cold and your heart sink in your chest. Grabbing the pile from the stand, you dropped yourself onto your knees and began to look at each one of the CDs. You couldn't believe that you had lost that CD. Where could you have placed it?
You began to crouch down, looking under your couches as if it could have fallen. When you find nothing, you let out a groan of annoyance before picking yourself up and looking around again. You looked behind the TV, under the dining table, on your fire escape, but nothing.
You grabbed your head, feeling yourself beginning to spiral at how you could lose something like that.
Your mind spinning with thoughts and doubt for yourself for letting yourself slip for just a moment. You didn't understand how could this have happened to you?
You were trying to do everything right, but you still managed to screw it up.
As you were gripping onto your hair, a sudden ring from your phone broke the silence. Dropping your hands, you looked over to the dining table and saw an alarm blaring on the lock screen. It was your alarm to alert you to start heading to work.
You couldn't do anything now in the search, you needed to go to work. You couldn't risk your boss getting mad at you being late to a cover. Walking over towards your phone, you placed it in your pocket in a hurry and headed over towards your door.
Leaving your medication untouched on your dining table.
You rush out of your apartment, but not without looking at Tony's apartment door. You think he must be still sleeping or getting ready for the day, but you had no time to stop for him, you needed to get to work. However, you were left wondering what he was doing.
Just beyond the door, Dex was sitting on his couch with the CD resting in his lap.
He could hear you shuffling out of your apartment and rushing out the building to get to work on time. He had been awake this entire time after entering your apartment, feeling himself just so ever curious about the CD in his lap.
He had a similar misfortune happen to himself. Spinal surgery. But not once did the idea of capturing the whole thing on tape crossed his mind. He questioned you on that.
His hand was grazing the clear plastic, just above where your name was, and just stared down at it. His mind looked at every angle as to wrap his mind around the bizarre tape.
But what did surprise him the most was his urge to watch the film. It wasn't like he enjoyed watching that type of stuff, but he got to see inside you. See who you were inside out. Not like anyone has ever had.
He had Pandora's box right in his lap.
Taking in a deep breath while deciding on what to do, he managed to pick himself off of the couch and make his way towards the TV. Slowly walking over, he fanned the CD in his right hand, smacking it into his left hand, just debating on whether to play it.
His mind began to warp the idea of how this wasn't a violation of your privacy, which definitely was, but a curious neighborly wonder of who lives next door. If he did want to learn more about you, he needed to learn if you were going to be a danger to him or others.
That wasn't strange, it was normal!
Standing in front of his TV, he pressed onto the DVD player and outshot the compartment for the CD to go into.
With one last chance to back out of this, he just stared down at the compartment. There was no one else stopping him from doing this. He had gone into your apartment and taken it out without a second thought. He knew his mind would kill him for not looking at it.
So, he opened up the container that held your CD and popped it out of its container. Holding it in his hands, he began to examine it, knowing that your own fingers had grazed the same CD and placed it inside to watch it.
In his own mind, he believes it to be a like watching a movie at the cinema. Just the two of them, together. You know that was sweet to think about. Just the thought of it almost made him smile to himself.
He took in a deep breath while looking around his room for a second. He needed to calm himself down from his thoughts, just for the time being. Looking back down at the compartment, he placed the CD onto it, carefully.
Once it was on it, he pushed it back with his index finger and looked up towards the TV. He placed his hands onto the TV and looked for the on switch. Right on the side, he pressed onto it. There, he could hear static hissing through the room, causing him to quickly lower the volume.
In those few seconds, the TV was processing the CD before the screen had flashed a couple of times. In those flashes, it settled to show a surgeon staring at the screen.
Leaning away from the screen to fully look at it, he took in the quality of the film. This was very much an old tape of hers, but somehow well preserved.
He leaned back towards the buttons of the TV and his finger landed on the "press play" button. Pressing onto it, he heard the sounds of the video playing.
He sat himself back onto the couch, watching.
"Dr. Sterling, I've got it on," The nurse behind the camera spoke.
The doctor, named Dr. Sterling, clasped his hands together and looked directly into the camera. "Great. Let's get started then."
He looked down at his watch. "Today is April 23rd, 1996, and we are performing a surgery on the upper right shoulder for a bullet wound on a 12 year old girl. We will be performing a procedure to remove the bullet that is still lodged within her shoulder. We have been given special instructions from the parents to have this filmed for their daughter."
So, your parents filmed this for you...interesting, he thought. He watched as the nurse walked towards the operating table. She angled the camera down towards where you laid. Your face wasn't visible, but you were smaller than you are now.
From the sheet that laid on top of you, a hole had been cut from it to show your large bullet wound on the back of your shoulder. Dex just looked on, squinting at the clear shot taken. By the looks of where she was shot, it was a clean shot to apprehend and stop her from something.
If the officer wanted to kill her, there would be a bullet lodged in her head instead.
The surgeon's hands walked into the frame and laid them right in front of the wound. He waved his hand towards it and saying towards the camera, "This would be your wound and if you can notice, there's not a blood escaping. I believe the bullet had stopped you from bleeding out."
One of his hands left frame for a second before coming back with a scalpel. He then placed it onto the wound and started to slice away at the skin to get a view of the bullet.
"I'm going to ask you to zoom into it for her, please?" The doctor spoke before the camera slowly zoomed into the wound.
The video started to fall silent as he began to work on you. With small talks about the cutting more and more to get closer towards the bullet hole.
However, Dex could see that the nurse behind the camera was getting antsy and seemed to want to ask a question. She was moving the camera from one arm to the other constantly. She became more shifting and letting out sighs of soft frustration into the mic.
It wasn't just Dex that had noticed, but, also, the doctor working on her.
"What is it, Jess?" He questioned her without looking up from working on her.
"I just...why would the parents want this recorded...?" The nurse whispered toward the doctor, hoping the mic wouldn't have picked it up.
"Well, if you just look down at the wound. Your explanation is right there," He explained back, catching the attention of the nurse and Dex.
From the camera, it was able to pick up the sounds of sloshing and tightening of muscles in her shoulder. Looking at the wound, the muscle was stretching out on both sides to create a barrier, disrupting his progress.
Dex leaned forward to look at the screen, his eyes squinting in confusion. He had never seen anything like this before. Could this actually be you?
"Her muscles...they're rebuilding themselves," The nurse softly gasped.
Dr. Sterling only hummed at her response, cutting into the muscle again.
The nurse couldn't believe it. "H...How is that even possible?"
"It shouldn't be possible...but I think we have a mutant in our hands," Dr. Sterling replied back.
"You mean...?"
"Yes. I mean exactly that."
"Scientist believed that they were myths! Fairytales. How could this be possible?"
"Don't believe me? Look at her teeth," Dr. Sterling explained before placing his scalpel down and turning to grab her face.
In such a harsh way, he turned your head to the side.
Dex was able to get a good look at you and you looked so young. You looked so full of hope, but were being stripped of it right on video. You were being treated like some animal.
Dr. Sterling forced the corner of your mouth open and out popped a sharp and larger canine. The nurse let out an audible gasp before zooming out for the camera to see it all.
"Her genetic makeup is making her like this. This is a start of a new world. Bigger than Captain America would ever be!" Dr. Sterling explained as he moved her head back to lay face down again.
"Why the canines...?" The nurse questioned.
Dr. Sterling only laughed. "Government forbids me to say anymore. You'll figure it out."
That's what stood out to Dex. Why were there so many layers to you that it now involved the government? What could have happened to you.
What do you mean that you're a mutant?
Dex continued to watch on as Dr. Sterling explained to the camera every step. Showing and explaining to you what he was doing. He even told you which vein was which.
However, as he did, he said to the camera, "Don't get too hungry now."
That was such an odd thing to say, something that stuck in his mind from this whole experience. With a few more minutes left in the video, Dr. Sterling finally pulled out the bullet from your shoulder, letting out a sigh of relief.
He showed it off to the camera, showing your blood covering it completely. "Fully intact as well. Muscle must have cushioned the blow to her back."
With that they stitched you up and closed with the phrase, "Hope you enjoyed your movie night."
The video stopped there and the whirl of the CD stopped from inside the player. The DVD player shot the CD compartment out, daring him to grab it from the TV.
He stared at the static at his TV, just processing everything. His apartment was quiet, not a sound being uttered in the room.
Dex raised his hand towards his mouth, rubbing his lips in thought. For once, Dex did not know what to say or think. He had some questions answered, but more questioned filled in its place.
He understood one thing, however. He understood that you were special. More than what the word could even mean to the human aspect.
Somehow, in this fucked-up world, he was in the right place and the right time to meet you...to save you. Someone with the genetic ability to increase and rebuild their muscles in an instant.
He couldn't believe it.
The Universe had sent him someone better than a North Star. They had sent him an equal. Someone just has powerful and strong like he was.
What happened for you to hide this from the rest of the world? Maybe it would have been best, as if to keep you hidden from the rest of the world from abusing your power like he experienced.
Together, you could share your experiences together! Be great together in this messed up world! He knew your worth more than anyone could ever know about you.
Now, it was his job to help you know he's the one for you.
From that, he could answer one last question: How were you able to do this?
They kept it from the tape, saying the government had stopped him from saying it. However, there must have been some medical record saying what you were in full detail. He just needed to do more investigation to find out.
5:33 PM
You were finally reaching back to your apartment building, but one thing was still stuck on your mind, your CD. From the 12 hours you were working, it never left your mind. That's all you could focus on as you were pouring one drink after another.
Your mind was spiraling out of control more than it had in the past. You would find yourself taking more breaks than you ever did in your many years of working here. You couldn't get it out of your mind.
At one point during your shift, you couldn't focus on anything else. Your mind had created a mental picture of your entire layout of your apartment, looking through each space and wondering where it could have been misplaced.
No one could find this time. No one. If someone did, she would be ruined. If it got into the wrong hands, it would only be a matter of time before they take her away into God knows where. She wouldn't be able to live like that!
With your mind so wrapped around itself, you didn't catch your knife slipping from the fruit and slicing your finger. You hissed out in pain and immediately backed away once hot pain seared through your thumb.
If your day couldn't have gotten worse, the smell of iron immediately hit the back of your throat, making you sigh in relief. You shot your boss another look while telling him that you were going on another break to get cleaned up.
When you made it to the bathroom, you didn't get the wound wrapped up but just stared at it. You could feel a pit in your stomach as your mouth began to water at the sight. You tried to look away from the sight, but your mind began to wander.
It began to remember its fascination with blood and its love to know how it kept a person alive. Your hunger began to grow more and more, causing you to realize something. You had forgotten to take any of your medication, which was the reason you were feeling like this.
Just that thought alone scared you enough to quickly clean yourself up and leave the bathroom.
You thought those thoughts would leave you, but they would torment you until you were allowed to head on home for the night. It was truly hell on Earth.
And walking home? Yeah, that was even worse for you. The smell of other people and seeing how they interacted with other people just made you so hungry. It made you wonder how much blood was rushing through their bodies without them even realizing it.
You were forced to keep your head down until you made it to your apartment building. However, instead of making your way inside, you forced yourself towards the dumpster.
Rushing over, you grabbed a crate beside the trash bin to help you peer inside the dumpster. Without caring anymore, you began to scourer through the dumpster with your bare hands. The smell was just unbearable, but you continued to push your hands through the plastic bags.
You became more and more frantic with your hands ripping through the plastic and searching through the trash. It had to be somewhere in here! There was no other place that you could have put it.
You had no other choice but to search in here. You couldn't stop your search until you knew that it was safe in your apartment. You didn't want to stop! There was no other option but this!
In some grace, you could hear someone calling your name. Immediately stopping, you shoot your head over towards the voice to find that it was Tony staring back at you with his own trash in his hands.
Your eyes widened at the realization at what you were doing. Your blood rushing to your face and becoming cold. For once in your life, embarrassment sunk to your core.
"Tony...hi," You sigh out his name while dragging your hands out of the trash.
"Hi," Tony responded back, leaning his head to get a good look at you. His eyes scanned you up and down. "You alright there?"
You stand there on the crate, hands slowly retracting to your back. "Yes! Uh--um, yes...I'm okay. I lost something."
Dex could feel himself smile at the sight in front of him. He started to approach you with his own bag that he had purposely filled not too long ago. "Lost something? Something like what?"
Inside, you were screaming at how he was trying to make conversation on the one topic you couldn't talk to anyone about. Why must it be the absolute worst times that a very attractive guy tries talking to you?
With no filter that could block your mind, you came up with the only lie you could on the spot. "Something that is...very important. That very important thing is...my earring."
All you could do was just awkwardly stand there and avoid eye contact with him. You waited there, hoping he would take the bait. Dex just stared back, amused at what a pathetic of an excuse of a lie that was, before just softly chuckling at you.
Placing his trash beside the dumpster, he said, "Your earring huh? How could have that happened?"
You rubbed the back of your hand against your forehead, sighing and laughing at the same time. "I just...honestly, I have no idea how. I must've swung it into the trash by accident."
Looking up at you, the crate and then the dumpster, he said, "You need help."
"No!" You shouted at him with your eyes widened and holding out a hand towards him. Immediately realizing your outburst, you retracted your hand back and just blinked at him.
You suddenly realized how complicated emotions truly were and maybe the medication was truly helping, especially in movements like these.
"I mean, no," You shook your head. "I...I got it but thank you for offering."
Dex just stared at you, just very amused at your reaction, before nodding his head at you. "Well, if you need anything, I'm just a door away."
"Right, yes, thank you, Tony," You softly smiled back to him, hoping that it could show you were genuine.
Dex nodded, feeling satisfied by your response, and then backed away from the trash. "Have fun searching."
"Yep. Yeah. Wiilllll do..." You dragged out as you watched him leave the alleyway until he turned the corner out of your sight.
You stood there on the crate with your mouth slightly agape at the conversation you just had. You couldn't believe you spoke to him like that. You, without your meds, were looked up at and not being weirded out by.
He wanted to help you look, even if it was a lie. He wanted to be of service...to you.
Maybe this was withdrawal systems, or something, but you could feel your own heart flutter. Okay, maybe the CD didn't matter much to you anymore right now.
Slowly, you stepped off the crate and began your journey back inside. Your mind was now more in a haze about Tony than anything else. Your returning feeling of a crush appeared more than ever before. That stumbling of your heart while you climbed up the steps just made you cling onto your heart.
You could feel your own blood rushing inside you as the interaction crawled within your mind. You felt alive for once. Your eyes scanned the hallway slowly as if you were trying to keep yourself from acting out and paying attention from bumping into the walls.
Approaching your door, your eyes trailed towards the door beside yours.
His door.
You could barely hold yourself back as you tried to walk to his door. So badly you wanted to knock on the door and continue your conversation. You wanted to let him in to let him understand you fully. He was so close to liking all apart of you, you just had one more secret to go.
It just your own mind stopping you from even telling him. That routine that was instilled and pushed into you and forcing you to say no. Your mind was the one to push through your own door and lock it behind you.
Pushing yourself from the door, you were managing to walk towards your living room. You were stumbling your way towards your couch when you find yourself glancing towards the dining table.
You find yourself looking at the multiple pill bottles still laid out from this morning and finding yourself filled with dread. A whole day had gone by since you had last taken your medication, and you weren't missing it for the world.
You didn't want to swallow down multiple pills down your throat, just to force yourself to act a certain way. Not when you found yourself in front of someone you cared about was acting like you were like everyone else.
Why would you push down the feeling of being loved? Something you have been searching for, for years.
You couldn't push it away any longer. Not anymore.
Rushing towards the bottles, you gathered them all into your hands before making your way to the kitchen. In front of the large trash bin, you launched all of the bottles into the bin.
You turned away from the bin and quickly reached towards the paper towels that sat on the counter. You ripped multiple sheets from the roll before crumpling each one of them into your hand. You began to throw each one into the bin, one right after another in a frantic hurry.
As your ammunition ran low, you began to slow down your movements until you were left stand there all alone. You stood there looking at the bin in a blank daze. Your mind was swirling in itself from what you were looking at.
Slowly, your body walked away from the scene, not wanting to deal with the sight of it anymore. You turned away with your hands stiff at your sides and your mind somewhere else.
You plopped yourself down onto your couch, staring at the black screen of your TV. Your hands were plopped down at your side with your mind began to imagine the TV collapsing in onto itself like a swirl.
Squinting your eyes, you tilted your head and looked at it curiously. You were really in a place now.
A place where your mind and your body couldn't keep up with itself any longer. You were whirling yourself back into that place.
Back to yourself.
And just from across the wall, you could hear the creaking sound of your neighbor existing. He was existing knowing that you were a person too. A person with thoughts and feelings just like his. You were being seen.
You found your purpose again and now you weren't going to lose it anytime soon. You were going to find out more about your neighbor more than he could ever learn about yourself.
Wherever he was headed, you were going to follow him too.
A/N: Wrote all of this while watching Venom for the first time LMAO. We're acting getting more into the story, which finallyyyy. Anyways, see you guys soon.
𖦹｡⋆ Summary: Instead of finding himself lurking for Task Force agents, he's instead drawn into your house. One problem, however, you're home.
𖦹 WC: 3.5k
𖦹｡⋆ Tags/Warnings: canon inaccuracies. DDBA S2! Dex. Stalking. Breaking and entering. Taking medication. Mention of surgery.
𖦹｡⋆ A/N: I just want to thank all of y’all for the support for these two past parts. You guys keep me motivated to write for sure 😪😪. This one took a little bit longer to get out since I've been busy. (It's EXTREMELY hot in the East Coast y'all...). Anyways, hope you enjoy!!
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Dex really did plan to go after Task Force agents.
He was honestly heading towards the sound of sirens that weren't too far from the neighborhood. Dex knew that he needed to push them back before they got too close to this area. He really didn't want to make a mess of his new apartment so soon. I mean, he just moved in.
Yet, when his eyes caught a glimpse towards a light shining from a window, he found interest in something else. He wasn't able to see you clearly through the window, but he noticed your shadow walking along your apartment.
His curiosity started to grow as he wondered what you were doing. His mind began to wonder once more on you. He wanted to learn more about you and why you were...you.
He knew you must have some routine, a schedule, that you stick by, but he wanted to learn more. How is that routine built when no one else is around? Do you keep on performing for others when no one else is there? Were you scared of someone knowing your true nature?
If you did have a true nature...why did you want to hide it? Hide it from him.
He wanted you to trust him. To let him into a world where no other person has dared to step in.
But, you might need to be given a little push before letting him in...
Dex looked around him, watching if there were anybody nearby. There wasn't a person in sight.
He stood there, contemplating on what to do. His mind was split apart on what was the right thing to do or the best thing he could do.
Task Force will still be there tomorrow.
He couldn't guarantee if you would be there.
His legs moved before his mind could fully catch up. The alleyway to the fire escape was dark and quiet. It was perfect to not be seen, other than the fact that at any moment this fire escape could collapse and potentially alert Task Force.
Oh, and the fact it might kill him for a second, but when hasn't anything he's done ever not tried to kill him though?
He reached his right hand out towards the metal ladder and pulled himself onto the fire escape. When he landed onto the fire escape, he felt the metal shift below his feet and drop slightly.
Gripping onto the railing tighter, his heart was racing in his ears while his mind raced on what to do next. It's not like he was going to quit now; he was already far into it now. So, slowly, Dex began to walk towards the second flight of stairs to make his way up.
You know, for something that was supposed to free you from danger, this seemed more dangerous than just burning to death.
Whatever, though. He didn't want to question his old, grumpy landlord.
He began his assent upwards with his hands white knuckling the railing. His eyes began to shift between the windows beside the fire escapes. One of the last things he wanted to do was get caught by the other neighbors and have Task Force come strolling in and wondering where the "intruder" was.
As he grew closer to your window, his mind began to wonder on what he would do next. Would he just make sure you made it to bed safe? Would he explore more into your apartment? Find out more about who you are like neighbors would?
From a mere few inches, Dex could see the wooden floor of your apartment from your window. In his mind, he immediately began to list the dangers of why she shouldn't leave her window wide open for the world to potentially see. Who knows what dangerous people lurk by.
Good thing he was there, next door, to protect you.
He leaned himself on the metal stairs leading up to the next level and sat himself there. He knew you were still awake from your lights still being on. He could hear your floorboards creak as you began to settle in for the night.
He could hear the sigh of relief coming from you as you made your way to the kitchen. From his angle, he could peer into the kitchen slightly. It allowed him to see you walking to your fridge and pulling it open. Instantly, he noticed how empty your fridge was.
Squinting his eyes, you just mindlessly ignored it and grabbed a jug filled with, what he could assume, was hibiscus tea. You placed it onto the kitchen counter with your back facing him. Dex leaned over to look at what you were doing on the counter to see that you were grabbing.
No, wait. You weren't grabbing something; you were placing down something. Dex looked closer to see that you were dropping down multiple pill bottles. One almost rolling off the counter before you caught it.
Dex's hand tightened on his railing as he looked at the sight in front of him. You were forced to take all these in order to hide yourself. How could someone live like this? Why must you?
He watched as you pulled open a cabinet to grab a cup and poured yourself the tea. Then, you grabbed a single pill from each one of the containers placed it into your hand. Something like this was like staring into a mirror.
Back when he was at that place. Forced to take so many medications just to feel "normal". He wanted to get better because that's what people pushed onto him. That he needed to get better for the "betterment of society".
He didn't want to get out the way he did. Kill the people he did, but he needed out. It wasn't a good way to live.
Now, he was watching the same thing unfold right in front of him once again. This time, with you. By this point, it looked like this was your normal routine. Throwing the pills back and forcing yourself to swallow them all in one go.
He couldn't believe it.
There was so much about you that was so similar to him. It’s if written in the stars that you two met. Why else would you have bumped into him? Why else would he have chosen to move in here?
He knew now that there was someone out there just like him. That he wasn’t this…freak.
But now he wondered. Why did you have to take this medication? What happened?
Through your window, he continued to watch you. He watched as you meticulously cleaned up the area and placed everything back into its place. He watched as you grabbed all your medication in your arm and walked until he could not see you through the window anymore.
It was purely a step by step process that you were following, even with the steps that you were taking. It was like watching a robot. As he was just staring into your kitchen, suddenly the room went pitch black. You finally had decided to settle in for the night.
Dex pushed himself off the stairs and started to inch himself closer towards your window. He grabbed onto the frame, pulling him towards the window to peep inside.
You were nowhere in sight. From the looks of it, your room was the far corner to the left of him with the door fully shut. Your apartment was basically shaped like his.
To the nearest left of him was your living room with a small couch, TV stand and the TV. To the right of him was the kitchen and a small dining table. To the back right of the apartment was the bathroom. It was a small apartment, but the way you decorated it made it feel more like a home-y, cozy interior to be happy in.
It was a sight that could have warmed even his heart.
Inching closer to the window, he pressed his hands onto the window screen and slowly began to push it up. He made sure to go slow enough to make sure that it wouldn't make a single sound. Slowly, but surely, he manages to pry the window screen open enough to let himself inside.
Before entering, he listened in the apartment one last time. He listened for the sound of movement within your bedroom. He wanted to make sure you were staying in the room for the rest of the night. He didn't want any distractions as he looked through your apartment.
When he didn't hear anything, his legs entered your apartment first, making sure that the wood floor wouldn't creak underneath him. Bending himself through the window, he pushed himself through easily, gripping onto the window for support. Once he fully got through, he stood in your apartment for a few seconds, waiting again.
He was listening for the sounds of shifting or movement from your bedroom. However, when no noise emerged, he knew it was time to start looking around. His head slowly turned to look at the apartment, thinking where he should search first.
His eyes adjusted to the room around him and focused on a specific pile on your TV stand. His legs dragged him closer to the living room, making sure to watch his step on specific wood panels. His eyes would occasionally glance towards your bedroom. He wanted to make sure you were sound asleep every time before taking another step.
The last thing that he would want is for you to find him here and think he was being...weird. The last thing he was being was weird. He just wanted to get to know you more so that he can figure out a way to get you out of your shell. He wanted to meet you halfway so that you could fully realize that he was there for you.
Looking down at the TV stand, his eyes focused on the pile on the right corner. From the top of the pile, he grabbed it to realize that it was a CD player in a case. He flipped it so that he could look at the front of it.
Immediately, realizing it was too dark, he turned his body towards the window so that the moonlight could shine onto it. On it, the title of the movie read "Inside the Human Mind: A Documentary on Human Psychology".
Dex shrugged at first as he read it. You just might like documentaries. When he went back to place it onto the pile, his eyes shifted to read the second one in the pile: "The Emotions that Control Us".
Another movie on human psychology.
Squinting his eyes at it, he grabbed the second one from the pile and into his hands. With the two CDs in his hands, he quickly placed down the two CDs onto the stand before reading the next one.
"How We Socialize: An Introduction to Sociology"
Three was more than enough to be watching these documentaries and buying them to be watching them on repeat. However, as he placed that one down, there was another documentary with a similar title. Then, another and another and another.
All of these had to do with human interaction or human emotions. All these CDs looked to be used frequently too. The paper holding the title and summary of the movie in place were starting to disintagrate and loose its color.
He counted eight movies about humans, and they weren't short documentaries too. They all had about the same runtime which was about two hours. He couldn't believe his eyes. This was your own way to hold yourself together like with his own CDs.
Then, when he got to the last one, it was much different from the rest of the pile. This wasn't one that was made by a company, no. This one looked like it was made by someone. On the CD itself, there was something written on it with sharpie.
It was your name, a date titled April 23rd, 1996.
However, just below that was titled:
Bullet Removal Surgery
In this pile, you had your own surgery like it was one of your favorite movies on display. None of these documentaries would have been for view for other people. Others would have viewed it as boring, but not if it was for you. For you to study and learn.
Yet, he wondered why you had your own surgery just tucked away in this pile. Some of the marker had been scratched off from age, so it had been watched at least a couple of times through the years. But, no "normal" person would just watch their own surgery on repeat. No.
There was something else going on and he had just scratched the surface of it.
He looked up from the pile of CDs and looked towards your bedroom again. He contemplated something in his mind, waiting for you to make a sound/sign to make him stop. However, when no noise emerged, he quickly grabbed your CD and stored it into his jacket.
And as if nothing happened, he placed each CD in its proper place until the pile was back to how it was before.
He would return it eventually, but he just wanted to see what was so interesting about this CD. Why would you keep this here with the pile of movies about being human?
Once done, he walked away from your TV stand and began to scan your apartment again. His eyes scanned towards your kitchen and your bathroom. He already knew about your kitchen and how you barely had anything in that fridge, just things to get you through the next day.
So, his mind believed the best place to go next was your bathroom. He wasn't going to do anything weird.
He was just going to scan the area and maybe see if your medication was lying around. He wanted to know what exactly you were taking. What were you trying to treat?
Dex creeped his way towards your bathroom as slowly as possible. Each step he took was making sure he didn't step on the wrong panel and caused it to creak too loud to wake you up. The closer he got towards you and your room, the slower he became.
As slowly as he was walking, his eyes decided to peer into your room. Your door was perfectly creaked open to allow himself to peer inside. Even though the room was extremely dark, he could make out the silhouette of you.
You were facing the wall with your back turned towards him. He could see the rise and fall of your chest as you were peacefully sleeping. Dex could almost smile at the sight in front of him.
It was the one time that he could see you be you. No eyes watching you and letting yourself rest from that expectation. Dex made a promise within his own mind that you wouldn't just find sleep the only place to feel safe, but in him too.
You'll just have to trust him.
Turning his head towards the bathroom door, he creeped his way towards it until his arm was able to reach the door. Pushing the door with just a finger, he slipped himself through the gap.
Inside, he looked towards the sink where he found a mirror resting right above it. Staring right back at him was himself. He was trying his best to ignore his own reflection as he walked towards the mirror.
He was still trying to wrap his mind around the reason why he was here, but seeing his own reflection was a bit...awkward.
Still, he had a job to do, and he wasn't going to back out of it.
Reaching his hand out, he grabbed the mirror. In a single second, his mind lost its focus and the mirror let out a loud creaaakkk! as it was pried open.
Dex widened his eyes and snapped his head towards the bathroom door, listening for you. Immediately, he could hear the sound of shuffling from the next room and the loud creaking of the wood panels.
Dex's blood ran cold as he tried to figure out what to do next. He couldn't knock you out, you would know there had been an intruder in your home. You would have the police called and they would immediately recognize him if they tried to question him.
His eyes shuffled across the bathroom before looking at the only thing where he could hide. Behind the shower curtains.
In a split second, he rushed over to the bathtub and crawled inside. He fixed the curtains slightly before standing there, very still.
Immediately after, he could hear you pushing the bathroom door open and turning on the lights. He squinted as his eyes tried to adjust to the new light and finding himself very aware he was in your shower. His head laid back on your tiles while he listened in.
He could hear you let out a deep sigh. Both from annoyance and sleep deprived. "How did this open..."
You pushed closed the mirror.
But you didn't leave. Instead, you stayed there as if you knew you weren't alone in here. He could hear your clothes turning as you turned to look at the shower.
Your own mind began to picture something beyond the curtain. Sure, it could have been you downed your pills all in one go and you were high off your mind, but...something was telling you to look more closely. It was your gut just telling you to trust it.
You slowly inched your way closer towards the shower curtain. You raised your hand to grab the curtain and slowly began to pull it open. Your heart beginning to race in your chest.
Dex, knowing he was going to get caught, began to think about ways on how he could knock her out and escape without a trace. He knew he would need to start packing his bags the moment he left the apartment. He would need to leave no trace that could lead them to believe that it was him.
He could just need to make it look like it was just an intruder had tried to break into her apartment.
He just needed to make it quick and as painless as possible for her. Just quick and easy and he would be forced to leave her alone. Leave her alone before even getting to know her.
His mind began to just curse at himself for doing this. Why could he just mind his own business? He could have just killed some agents and called it a night! But no. He wanted to get to know you more.
And now it was all ruined . . .
The curtain was almost pulled to see him before . . .
Bzzzt! Bzzt! Ringgggg!
You felt your heart jump as the sound echoed throughout the bathroom. You had taken your phone to the bathroom and had placed it onto the sink. Losing your focus on the curtains, you grabbed your phone and looked at the caller ID. It was Pris.
Quickly answering the call, you first speak up saying, "Pris, I almost had a heart attack. Why are you calling me at this hour?"
You began to shuffle out of the bathroom. You turned off the lights and closed the door behind you, letting Dex let out a soft sigh of relief.
From the other room, he can hear you say, "You're at a what? Pris, where did you find a club that opens on a Wednesday? Nev--Nevermind."
"You want me to what? Pris--ugh--you're cutting up," You answered back to her.
"Oh...yes. I can cover." You sounded more assured that she wasn't harmed.
He could hear a soft sigh coming from your lips before saying, "I'll see you soon. Drink water, please."
Dex could hear you shuffle into your room and shut the door. Dex bowed his head to look into the tub while trying to calm down his nervous system. Just the fact he needed to think about harming her to get away hurt his soul. He gripped onto his heart while taking in the slowest, controlled breath that he could.
Once he was able to get his mind straight, he manages to pull himself out of the tub from the little opening you left. He stands in your bathroom and looks back at the mirror he tried to open. He contemplates whether or not to try again.
The whole reason why he was here in the first place was to try and search for your medication. However, he knew that if he were to try again, you would surely know that there was someone in your apartment.
So, instead of going towards the mirror, he walks towards the door. Dex manages to pull open the door without a sound and makes his way back towards the window. Looking up towards the window, he noticed that, somehow, the window was still pried open.
He walks towards it, but not without looking inside the apartment one more time. There was still much to learn about you, but this was a start to learning to who you were.
With the CD tucked within his jacket, he snuck back out of your window and closed the screen behind him.
A/N: Not much dialogue in this one, but you know lolz. Sorry this one took a bit to make!!
𖦹｡⋆ Summary: Dex finds himself in your coffee shop and expects to be in and out. Instead, you awkwardly try to make convo. Your friend, Priscella, definitely sees something going on.
𖦹 WC: 2.3k
𖦹｡⋆ Tags: Fluff. Neighborly talks. Coffee shop. Awkward interactions. Priscella trying to be your wingman. DDBA S2! Dex.
𖦹 Warnings: none!
A/N: I feel like Iron Man with all that technology in front of him right now ngl. I hate writing filler plot for the life of me. This took like 20,000 rough drafts before I can get this one out straight. I want to pace this as nice as possible because I don't want to rush this. SOON, we'll get to the nitty gritty of her desires. lol
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You could say routine was one of the last things Dex had that was true to himself. Everything else had been torn and taken from him until there was nothing left. All he could be grateful for was the fact he got out of that...place.
This apartment building was a new life. A beginning towards that balanced that he craved. To balance the scales. Why else would he have survived from falling four stories? Something else is keeping here for one specific reason.
Now, he was sitting in a coffee shop, in a back corner watching you serve customers with a smile just a little too wide for it to be comfortable. At first, it really was to stay for a half an hour, move on with the rest of his day, but it was like watching you put on a show for everyone. The way everything was so calculated, a steady rhythm to be seen normally.
Dex reached for the toothpicks placed in the middle of the table, shaking one out of its container. He placed the toothpick in his mouth before raising his head up towards the TV that was planted into the corner of the cafe.
"Police still are on the lookout for the vigilante, Bullseye, who had escaped prison a few months ago. Task Force claims that this individual still wreak havoc across New York, killing individuals with bizarre makeshift weapons," Dex could only smile at that. "If you see this individual, please call Task Force immediately and do not engage with him."
He dropped his head down from the TV with a smirk still present on his lips. He decided to take that as his sign to leave the cafe and start looking around for Task Force.
However, as he was about to push his chair out, a voice called out to him. Your voice. "Uh--Tony, right?"
Looking over to where your voice called out. Your face shifted into something more genuine. A genuine, amused face scattered across your face.
That was what made Dex stay.
He quickly pushed himself back into his seat, taking out the toothpick from his mouth.
He raised an eyebrow to act confused before calling out your name, "Hey, yeah that's me. What are you doing here?"
"I work here," You pointed to your clothes. "It's nice seeing you exploring what's around here."
Dex placed both of his hands onto his lap, taking in a deep breath, "Yeah, it seems quiet around here. Not much issue."
You nodded you head at him, letting out a soft chuckle. You felt that you could relate to him more as you continued to talk to him. He seemed to just fit into the middle of your puzzle piece after decades for trying to find someone who would.
"Yes. That's why I like this area. You know...quiet and peaceful, but still in the city around other people," You say as the words you've been trained to say spilled out.
Dex leaned into more towards you. His eyebrow flicking slightly at the wording of your statement. He nodded his head towards at you before asking, "Yes, well...now Task Force is on every corner. Soon this one."
You raised your hand from your sides to say, 'that's how it is'. "I don't approve of it as the next person. It's just...unnecessary."
Dex hummed at your answer, placing his hand on the bottom of his chin. Then you just sighed, shrugging your shoulders, "I just hope it all works out in the end."
"Of course..." Dex nodded his head, making a promise to you that you didn't even realize.
Taking in a deep breath, you placed your hands back at your side and then looked behind you. You could see Pris looking back at you with this all-knowing look. You quickly snapped out of your trance with him and opened your mouth to speak, stuttering as you try to form the words.
"I should...get back to work before I get a write up or fired," You pointed you thumb back towards the kitchen.
Dex immediately stood up from the table. "Oh, right. Your duty calls."
You nervously laughed, starstruck at how tall he really was in front of you. Not to mention how extremely buff he was. Jesus. "Yeah...uh. See you soon? Or, whenever we bump into each other again."
Dex placed his hands in front of him with a smirk, nodding down at you. "I'll see you soon."
"Yes, great," You answered back in a bad attempt to act normal. "Bye."
Then, as quick as you were there, you immediately walked away from him. From behind you, Dex placed the toothpick back into his mouth with an amused glint littered across his face. You were just so...abnormally normal. Just moments when your true emotions would come out, you snapped back into this routine.
That's what he was so interested in. What was wrong with your neighbor that you needed to behave a certain way in front of people? To perform for them to please society. What were you hiding under that personality?
Dex pushed open the cafe door to enter back into the street with that question filling his mind. However, he did know one thing about you. Task Force was much of a thorn at her side as it was for him. Of course, for different reasons.
In Dex's mind, it was the fact he was Bullseye. Wanted for multiple counts of murder and attempted assassinations. Not to mention his recent prison escape.
But for you...it was because they were disrupting the peace in your neighborhood. The peace that seemed to be routine for you to surround yourself with for years.
But Dex couldn't be more wrong than that.
For in your own mind, Task Force was two steps closer to finding out about you through a background check. You heard from pass of word about the conditions they were holding individuals with the status as "vigilantes". The idea being thrown into a cage, treated as something less than a human just broke you internally.
You started to make sure you were taking your medication more regularly with timers at the very second you needed to take it again. You couldn't be seen as yourself in public anymore. Not with Fisk as the mayor of New York.
"Who was that man you were talking to earlier?" Pris questioned with a teasing glint in her eyes.
You were sitting at an empty table with most of the cafe now being empty during your slow hours. You raised your head that was resting on your fist to look at her.
You blinked as you were trying to register what she was saying to you. "Hm?"
"That guy that came in during the rush in the morning. He was really tall with scruffy, blonde hair," Pris explained while placing her hand above her hair to mimic messy hair.
"Oh, you mean Tony," You responded back, your posture immediately straightened and turned to fully look at her.
Pris immediately noticed your behavior and smiled, "Oh, yes 'I mean Tony'. Who is he?"
"My neighbor. He just moved in next door," You explained.
She let out a little coo at your words. "And you find him attractive too, huh?"
"What? Pris, I just met the man yesterday," You shook your head, immediately denying it.
"And now he was here in the coffee shop! That's your literal sign it's meant to be!" Pris responded back to you with a bright smile.
Your eyes slightly dropped at her words, your shoulders dropping down and heart settling in your chest. Meant to be. It was fate he came in here. There are millions of other places that he could have chosen to enjoy coffee, and yet, he chose here.
Your eyes squinted with your mouth mimicking a smile. "Maybe it is."
Pris pointed at you. "Now that's the attitude we need! You should get to know this guy more. You know, more than his name is Tony and lives next door."
You raised an eyebrow at her in confusion. "Isn't that enough?"
"You need to get out of your shell," Pris sighed out your name. "He looks totally into you."
"Into me?" You questioned.
"Attracted to you." Pris elaborated.
You blinked at her, thinking you heard her wrong. "Attracted? From one interaction."
"Call it a blooming love," Pris giggled while wiggling her fingers for the added effect.
She started to go off more on a tangent about how you were looking at him and how he was looking at you. However, your mind was just hooked on the idea that it wasn't just all in your mind. That someone, you believed to be a close friend, was saying something was there.
An alignment of the cosmos to bring you together.
Another chance to be able to be yourself with someone you wanted to cherish.
You placed a hand on your heart. Feeling something wrapping in your mind. Something twisting reason into pure logic. Something set in stone on what you had to do.
What was destined for you.
When you did get off your shift, you were traveling up the flight of stairs, paying no mind to your surroundings. Somehow, even with the bare minimum of social skills, you were still mentally drained from having to deal with customers all day.
And yet, you still need a way to make a steady living in order to keep your apartment.
You got to do what you've got to do.
Climbing up the last steps, you walked out into the hallway leading towards your apartment. This time, you were actually paying attention to where you were walking, but he wasn't out in the hall as you expected.
You were a little disappointed at the idea of him not being there, but it was five o'clock. He must be working or something about this hour. Letting out a sigh, you grab your keys from your back pocket as you approach your door.
Just as you slotting your key in the keyhole, you heard someone turning the locks on their door. Your heart skipped a beat at the sound before seeing Tony walking out of his apartment. He looked like he was in a rush to leave, mindlessly walking out to wherever he was going, but when he caught your eyes, he stopped.
He called out your name, causing you to smile, before he said, "I'm starting to think you're stalking me with how many times we run into each other."
For a second, you were trying to stutter out how you were just coming back from work and you weren't, but he just stared back at you with a teasing smile.
Seeing that teasing looks on his face, it registered to you that he was just joking. You snapped your lips shut at the realization before a small chuckle escaped from your mouth.
You shook your head and shrugged your shoulders to play along with him, answering back with, "It might just be fate."
He stared at you for a few seconds, observing your words as they were uttered out. He squinted his eyes and nodded before saying in a scruffy voice, "Yeah...it might be."
You placed your hands in your back pocket, feeling your keys there, and crossed your legs. "Ah, so are you heading out for tonight?"
"Yeah, just on my way to work actually," Dex responded back, making you widen your eyes.
"I must be making you late. I'm sorry," You immediately placed a hand on your chest and began to walk away, so he wasn't obligated to stay.
He placed his hand out to make you stop and said, "Oh, don't worry. My boss is very lenient."
In actuality, his boss was just himself. Under his coat was his Bullseye costume as he was just about to head out to scout out Task Force agents that were close by. However, he spotted you before even making out the door. It didn't matter to him, anyways, he had all night to look for agents.
"Still, you don't have to listen to me rant for hours," You answered back.
"I don't mind your talking. Haven't had a lot of people to talk to in my last building," Dex explained, knowing the real reason was because he was in a prison cell.
You smiled at his words, feeling something fluttering in your chest. You couldn't believe that someone like him wanted to listen to you. You looked down to avoid eye contact with him, causing your hair to come in front of your face.
You looked back at him while flipping your hair back to say, "Well, I guess that makes two of us. Not many friendly faces around this building either."
"Glad we share a wall together then," Dex answered back with a smile appearing softly on his lips.
"Yes, it's very good," You answered back to him. "You make good conversation."
He dipped his own head down to avoid eye contact with a soft chuckle. He brought his hands together while you waited for him to reply.
"You do too," Dex answered back with a huff coming out as a soft chuckle. "But, as much as I hate saying it, I should probably head to work."
Your eyes widened at his words and took a step back again. "Right. Work. Important."
Dex just listened as you spoke like what you said was the most complex and fascinating thing to ever grace his ears.
He nodded, echoing you, "Important."
"I'll see you soon, then?" You pointed a finger at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Soon," Dex nodded his head before backing away from you. "Enjoy your evening."
"You too, Tony," You replied back before he turned around to head out.
For Dex, it hurt for him to hear you utter a fake name that didn't belong to him. He knew what he was doing was just for now. He still needed to make sure you couldn't be a loose end. He needed to make sure you weren't to have the same path of Julie.
{miranda priestly x reader - older woman x younger woman}
BACK IN THE DAYS
chapter one - the tears
chapter two - the letters
chapter three - the sit down
chapter four - the kisses
chapter five - the divorce
chapter six - the paris apartment
chapter seven - the breakup
chapter eight - the mommy
warnings - eighteen & over mdni, grief, anxiety, angst, fluff, flashback, age gap relationship, slow-burn, old school romance, wholesome, wlw breakup, mommy priestly smut!
author’s note - it’s inspired by the first dwp, reader will have a name, hopefully more chapters to come, oh and happy pride!
Her hand moves from behind your neck, trailing your jawline, until she rests it cupping your cheek.
The older woman’s thumb gently and slowly grazes your bottom lip, making you shiver.
She notices and a small smile creeps on hers.
This brief touch causes such an ache in your core.
You can tell her gaze is searching your face in the dark, until finally landing on your eyes.
“Still want that kiss?”, her voice is soft, with a hint of mischief.
It couldn’t have been a worse time to lose yours, all you can do is quickly nod.
Her smile grows.
“A hypothetical one or an actual kiss?”, there’s a tease in her tone, poking at something.
Your brows furrow for a second.
Then you remember the sink.
The dinner from three years ago, here in Paris, except she was in your apartment.
You had asked her for a ‘hypothetical kiss’.
Miranda Priestly’s thumb firmly runs across your lips a few times, as if she’s enjoying the sensation. You’re tempted to part your mouth and latch onto her with your tongue, but you feel paralysed.
“Use your words. Tell me what you want”, she coos, her own mouth stretching into a grin.
‘Not fair. Not fair. Not fair’.
It’s useless to even attempt it, you’ll feel silly.
“Mm, I don’t hear anything…”
“Guess I’m mistaken”, she retrieves her hand.
You turn around to face away from the older woman in a huff, in protest and hear a soft peal of laughter coming from behind.
Miranda scoots closer to you until she fits her front snuggly with your back. Her fingers slowly trail your arm, teasing you. She leans over you slightly, until she has view of your sulking face.
“You’re so used to getting everything you want, aren’t you princess?”, her breath hits your ear, making you throb.
“That little humble act you put on may fool everyone else, but deep down I know what you are Rayna Ravitz”.
“I know what you desire most”.
The fingers on your arm move down to grip your waist, no longer on your borrowed silk pyjamas, but directly on your skin.
You feel yourself pool instantly in your panties.
“And I’m not Andrea Sachs”, her lips linger on your earlobe, hand moving higher up inside your shirt, towards your breasts, resting just below.
“I won’t give it up to you that easily”, she presses her mouth lightly on your jawline, trailing down your neck. As if about to take her first bite of you.
It’s heaven and it’s torture, doing unspeakable things inside you and all over your body.
“I’ll make you work for it”, she slides back up so her lips are by your ear again.
“You spoilt girl”, her voice whispers right inside.
“Don’t you think I’ve imagined what you might sound like underneath me?”.
“If it wasn’t for your voice being gone and this mess you’re in with Andrea. I would have you this very moment”.
“I want to hear your every squirm and whimper when I finally take this needy little cunt”, her hand moves from below your breasts down to the waistband of your borrowed pyjamas.
‘Please go inside’.
“Did you touch yourself? After ogling me in my study everyday. Instead of focusing on your homework”, there’s a deep lust in her delivery.
You nod desperately.
“Did you imagine my hands all over you?”, her fingers dip into the pyjamas, as if about to rub.
God, yes.
Sometimes even in Cassie’s room, when they were at their dad’s and it was just you and her.
Though you could never admit it to yourself back in high school, that it was Miranda Priestly directly making you feel this way.
It always was, obviously.
You nod again, feeling your face heat up.
“There was never a crush on a boy at school was there? You lied to me”, her voice is low.
‘Of course, I lied’, you wish you can say.
“It was me, wasn’t it? Your silly little crush”.
‘Yes, always you’.
“I saw it miles away, before you uttered a word”.
‘I wish I’d been bolder’.
“Do you know how much that frightened me?”, her voice turns a bit breathy.
“My daughters’ teen best friend lusting over me”.
The older woman swallows thickly.
She pauses.
“You wanted to get me in trouble, didn’t you?”.
You shake your head.
“What would your father have said?”.
‘I don’t care’.
“Why do you think I never looked your way.”
“If I hadn’t been as careful, disciplined as I was…I would have lost everything because of you”.
‘I wouldn’t have told anyone’, you want to say.
“You, however, have zero discipline”.
“We’ll soon straighten that out”, her voice is firm.
‘Please, do it now’.
“I can already smell how soaked you are”, she hovers directly onto your panties without touching.
‘Please, let her have me’, you pray to Aphrodite.
“It doesn’t take much, does it?”.
“Are you always this needy?”, she taunts.
Yes, and you need her more than ever.
Your hand covers hers, pressing it down. She releases a small sound, like a moan, feeling you so wet, but slips her hand away, back to your waist.
Miranda tuts disapprovingly.
All she needs to do is rub once or twice, over your panties and you think you’ll come hard.
That’s how close you feel.
“I need you to finish whatever you have left with my former assistant”.
“I will not be sharing you”.
You tilt your face more towards her as if to express that it’s already done.
The older woman laughs.
“Don’t be naive”.
“It’s never as simple as her getting with Emily Charlton. She’s clearly still in love with you”.
Why is this turning you on so much?
“Andrea will come begging for you, disguised as closure. She’ll seduce you with those innocent eyes and next thing you’ll be in bed with her”.
Okay, well, that’s kind of how it happened to begin with and then all the final, final, final times that followed. You couldn’t resist her doe eyes.
“I saw the challenge in her tonight”.
“She’ll be coming for you, mark my words”.
Well, she cheated. There’s no unseeing her kissing Emily, so there’s no way you’d just sleep with her again, after all that.
You’re done.
Right?
“I am a very jealous woman, Rayna”, her fingers move from under your shirt to caress your cheek.
This causes you to shiver.
You remember the story of a young Jacqueline Follet and a vengeful Miranda Priestly.
“Do you know how much I had to hold myself, watching that brunette all over you these past months?”, her hand moves to rest on your neck.
You shake your head.
“Finish this thing with her”, she leans in more.
You nod, feeling exhilarated by her demand.
“Then, you’ll plan that date you begged me for”, you can hear the smugness in her tone.
Miranda suddenly departs from your body and you immediately want to cry from the empty space now beside you instead.
She turns and faces the other way.
‘Please don’t leave me like this’.
All you can think of is if you can die from arousal.
Your body mimics hers, this time being the one who scoots closer, until you’re a perfect fit again.
Not wanting to push her boundaries, you simply hook your arm around her waist and press your face against the back of her neck.
She allows it.
Without further words exchanged.
You ache so badly, you consider slipping back to the guest bedroom to take care of yourself.
You can be quick.
But what did she say again?
‘Zero discipline’.
She’ll know.
‘I’m so fucked’.
Your hand holds her tighter as an anchor to your impulsive thoughts.
And as the night continues, her hand slowly finds itself on top of the one on her waist, leaving it to rest there, like a safety blanket.
You decide before falling asleep that you’ll do anything and absolutely everything to keep her.
Miranda won’t fall through your grasp again.
You’ll no longer be another sad ‘bachelor’ waiting for her turn. You plan to marry her and stay married to her, for the rest of your lives.
Although the steps towards this are a bit unclear.
But if you’re here, snuggled in bed with said woman, after everything, after years of yearning, then anything is possible. Surely?
The last thought in you is the ending scene of the 1952 novel, ‘The Price of Salt’, for some reason.
When the first light of the morning sun streams through her windows, you’ve already been in the kitchen for at least an hour, figuring out how to work the stove and deciding which ingredients would be contributing to your breakfast.
Oeufs en Cocotte is what comes to mind, your mother made it all the time. You watched her and sometimes she’d let you ‘help’.
It can’t be hard, can it?
Okay, eggs, some cream, unsalted butter? You might have to run out for that specifically. No Zucchini, no Parmesan, but she has Gruyère, perfect. Ham, garlic, black pepper, yup, chives? Might have to add them to the shopping list, oh and a probably a baguette. That should be it.
Easy peasy.
A little taste of the South of France once again.
You shower, the steam is wonderful but your voice still isn’t back. You leave a note in case the older woman wakes up, happy to be wearing your own clothes from the suitcase Andy dropped off.
{Just gone to pick up more ingredients for our breakfast and some coffee! Bisous x}
Miranda’s apartment is in one of the prettiest buildings you’ve seen in Paris. It’s ancient, in that romantic way, compared to your modern one.
Roy offers to drive you to the nearest bakery and market to find the items on your list.
It takes you much longer than you anticipated, feeling a little out of your comfort zone.
No one recognises you with the dark shades, although you still feel exhausted by the time you return. Your hands balancing too many items.
Thankfully, Miranda is still asleep.
You rummage quietly through the kitchen, looking for a cast-iron pot before grabbing your phone upstairs to search up the recipe.
The second you turn it on, you’re bombarded by so many messages and missed calls, from people you haven’t even heard from in years.
All of them discussing the Matthieu Delacroix collection and the live streamed fashion show, especially your proposal to Andy.
‘Fuck me’.
Speaking of which, you decide to check her reply to you from last night. Your heart rate already increasing at the thought alone.
‘I won’t ever stop being sorry for hurting you. I really wish I could erase that moment, with all my heart. And you have to know that I did feel secure with you, until phase four was getting closer to the end and we finally talked about it.
I didn’t mention the other job offer I have in NY because I still hoped we could somehow make it work, you and me. But with everything now, I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable seeing me around, so I decided to resign and start fresh somewhere else.
Honestly, I agree with you. It might be for the best that we do have some space. But I think we should also talk beforehand? Like, have some kind of closure about all this?
When do you fly back?
I’m taking an earlier flight.
Can we just talk about this face to face when your voice comes back, please? Then we can move on.
I’ll miss you too, a lot.
You know this.
You’re my best friend.
I still love and care for you.
I’m just sorry I fucked things for us to even be friends right now. I think that’s what hurts most because you told me at the start it could end this way and I was so sure it wouldn’t.’
Voicenote 00:32
“hey…it’s me. i’m just kinda freaking out over everything…and i don’t know what to do……………. i know i’ve texted you lot, ray…and i’m really sorry to ask again, but please can i see you?…please let’s not do this over text…not just for closure alone, but so we can figure out how to best navigate the media…[sighs]…i don’t know if you’ve seen by now, the proposal has been printed pretty much everywhere…and i don’t know what to do from here, without speaking to you properly”, her voice has a particular tone that eats at you a little, because you can’t stand to see her sad or crying.
The heaviness in your heart returns after reading through all of this and hearing her for the first time since the Palace of Versailles.
She sounds low and heartbroken.
‘I don’t know if I can see you right now.’
With the oven now pre-heating and the casserole dish greased with olive oil, you move with your phone to the sink to fill up the kettle with water.
‘How come?’
‘Do you hate me?’
You sigh deeply and lock your phone, re-focusing on arranging the ham at the bottom of the dish.
‘I hate the situation I’m in with you.’
The recipe suggests to sprinkle a tablespoon of Gruyère cheese, pour in cream, then season it with garlic and black pepper.
This is the part you loved ‘helping’ your mother with most as a child. You can almost hear her.
‘Mate la neige noire tomber sur le sol blanc!’, she’d shout with excitement, back in the days.
Now you wonder what she would think of this scene of you, making breakfast for Miranda. The same woman she advised to marry rich, or at least be with some who respected and loved her.
‘Moi, c'est le mec blindé maman et je suis aussi à fond sur elle. T'es toujours OK?’.
Would she be understanding? Considering your father and her had a ten year age gap.
You’d like to think she’d be on your side.
No matter what.
Thankfully the yolks remain intact when you crack the eggs on top. This has to be perfect.
You sprinkle another tablespoon of the cheese, along with chives, the final little touch and voilà!
Your gaze slowly finds your phone and you pick it up, wanting the feelings inside you to disappear.
‘I hate me too.’
‘No Andy, obviously I don’t hate you.’
‘I just don’t know if it’s a good idea emotionally.’
‘Don’t you think we should have some kind of closure before we don’t speak, please?’
‘Yes, obviously it’s important that we talk about this.’
‘So, can I come see you when you’re back? I’ll get all of my things out before you do.’
‘I’m scared of seeing your face & falling into your eyes again’.
‘Fine. I’ll reach out’.
Miranda has a roasting pan which you use to place the casserole dish and finally pour the water you boiled earlier, so it reaches halfway in the pan? The recipe is pretty straightforward, so why do you feel so anxious?
At this point the stove has been pre-heated well enough to now bake your breakfast for about fifteen minutes, with regular checks in between.
‘Okay. Thank you.’
‘I don’t want to keep anything else from you right now, so I want to disclose that I slept with Em.’
Well, obviously.
You almost just slept with Miranda and would have if she let you. This isn’t news, you already imagined it, as much as you disliked it.
‘Before Paris’.
Your hands unintentionally slam the door of the oven and start the timer.
‘What the fuck?’.
A new wave of heartache hits you, staring at those two little words flashing on your screen.
You reply quickly, pulling out a bar stool by the kitchen counter to sit and focus on texting her.
‘What do you mean before Paris? When?’
‘When our fake dating started getting headlines and the media was still trying to uncover the brunette mystery’.
‘Then it stopped for some time, after the day you told me you felt attached to me, because I felt it back’.
‘But after we finally talked about phase four, it happened with her again’.
‘Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me this?’
‘I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, at the time’.
‘As opposed to now then is it?’
‘Ray, it was confusing, we were still fake dating through most of it and with Em I thought she was the only real chance I had, until I found out about your feelings for me’.
‘So the day you came to my apt crying saying she slept with someone else, you’d been fucking her regularly?’
Your halfway point timer on the stove is going off, warning you to check, but you miss it.
‘Yeah, I’m sorry’.
‘And the day she asked you to go to the show, that wasn’t her reaching out to you for the first time, like I thought. You two were talking all the time then?
‘Well no, I wasn’t talking to her all the time’.
‘How?’
‘You’ve just said you were fucking for pretty much the whole time we were too?’
Your timer keeps going off, now over halfway.
‘We never talked, we just slept together, not like you and me were talking at the time. It was just sex with her, until Paris’.
‘Did you ever fuck her then fuck me on the same day?’.
Those three dots appear and disappear. You feel as though you’re going to explode waiting.
‘Yeah, a few times’.
‘How many?’.
‘I don’t remember’.
‘Yes, you do! You’re lying to me again.
‘Ray, I’m not lying! I didn’t keep count’.
‘So all those times you’d come home pent up, it’s because you spent all day around her, then she’d be unavailable?’
‘No, I was pent up because of you, I obviously wanted you, but you wanted Miranda. And if she’d offered to have sex with you then you would’ve dropped me in a heartbeat’.
‘That’s not true’.
It’s definitely true.
‘It’s true and you know it’.
‘Oh so, kinda like you dropped me for Emily immediately after I proposed to you in front of the entire world?’.
‘It wasn’t real! You said yourself that phase four shouldn’t end with us being together, remember?!’
‘Obviously I remember Andy! I just don’t recall the part where I asked if you can stab my heart on the same day we’re trying to pull this off!’
‘I told you I wasn’t myself, otherwise I don’t think I would have done that’.
‘You were literally fucking me and Emily Charlton at the same time and didn’t say one fucking word about it. Why should I believe you now?’
‘I already told you that I didn’t want to hurt your feelings and we were figuring things out. You were freaking out over seeing Miranda with Stephen all the time, then you’d immediately have sex with me to sooth yourself!’.
‘I’m not doing this over text with you’.
‘Let me know when you’re ready to meet up and talk’.
‘You’re the one still texting’.
‘You’re being so childish’.
‘I’d rather be childish than a cheating liar’.
‘Whatever’.
You lock your phone only to hear it ping again a few seconds after.
‘You’re still at Miranda’s aren’t you?’
‘So? You’re with Emily.’
‘I’m not with her right now’.
‘Okay?’.
‘I just thought you should know I haven’t slept with her whilst in Paris and I’m leaving for NY today’.
‘Just literally all the other times’.
‘Have you slept with Miranda?’
‘Why, are you jealous?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know what you want me to do with that?’
Three dots appear and disappear a few times.
‘I miss you.’
‘You still lied to me.’
She doesn’t reply after this.
The final timer goes off and you snap out to of your hyper focused thumb war with Andy.
‘Oh fuck!’.
You rush to the stove to open it, releasing some smoke, and thankfully, your breakfast hasn’t burnt. In fact, it looks just right, but anymore time in there and it would’ve been another story.
Someone must be watching out for you.
Your hands feel a bit shaky as you place the Oeufs en Cocotte on the counter. It smells like your childhood and reminds you of happier days.
Your emotions are a mix between frustration, melancholy, nostalgia and the small joy of having actually achieved the recipe.
Tears fill your eyes as you fall into a trance, processing the texts from Andy and recalling old memories of being in your Manhattan home.
It was a year before everything fell apart. You were six years old, lying on your mother’s lap after watching her make this exact dish.
She was still herself and soothed the both of you by playing with your wild hair, everyday.
It was your safest place in the world.
“Maman, qui vous a appris à cuisiner cela?", you asked, already full with the breakfast.
"Ma tante m'a appris, celle avec qui j'ai grandi, tu t'souviens d'elle?", she smiled, smoothing your baby hairs.
“Yes, I remember. Et ta mère?”, you gazed with intent, wanting to understand.
“I did not grow up with my maman, elle était pas assez en forme pour s'occuper de moi", Regina expressed, carefully studying your expression.
“Where is your maman now?”, you pressed on.
You must have looked worried.
“Heaven”, her eyes flashed some sadness.
“Your aunt became your other maman?”
“Oui”.
“She’s a nice lady”.
Regina laughed at your delivery of this, noticing the worry your eyes carried whilst you were trying to be optimistic and kind about her situation.
“Yes, but I will always be your maman, watch you grow and I will teach you many things, my sweet”, she kissed your forehead and tickled your sides, making you giggle until you couldn’t take it.
"J't'ai entendue maman, s'il te plaît!”, you scream laughed in between, begging her to stop.
“Oké! J'voulais juste vérifier si ma p'tite chérie est toujours en toi", she released you, her eyes bright with the mischief you loved so much.
"T'es tout mon monde, Rayna. Tout c'que j'tiens à cœur dans cette vie. J't'aime trop”.
“I love you too maman”.
You snap out of the trance, before resuming setting the table. The electric cup warmers in the kitchen help keep Miranda’s nonfat, no-foam, extra-shot, extra-hot latte hot.
A quick glance at the clock tells you that the older woman will be down shortly.
She’s woken up at the same time during weekends for as long as you’ve known her. Taking her sleep more seriously in the past decade.
You’re feeling giddy having actually pulled it off. It looks like one of your Pinterest aesthetic boards, thanks to her exquisite taste in kitchenware.
Of course you capture it on your phone, for your own memories and a notification pops up mid review of the photos.
‘I did it to protect your heart.’
Andy.
‘And how did that work out?’
‘Obviously not great.’
Anyway, I’m boarding my flight soon. I guess see you in NY. I hope you have a safe trip back home.’ [read]
Deciding you may as well start on the dishes, you scrunch up your sleeves and get to work.
Another ping comes from your phone, but you don’t hear it, having fallen into another trance.
This time of Andy and her lying, cheating, perfect doe eyes looking up at you while kneeling on your kitchen floor, stark naked, her breasts bouncing just a little. And it makes you wonder if she did it for Emily Charlton, maybe even on the same day.
“My my, this is quite the spread”, Miranda’s voice brings you out of your thoughts.
Before you have a chance to turn around, her hand rests on your back and she leans forward, closing in on you to take a look at your face.
The older woman’s bewitching scent pours over you and her skin radiates warmth.
Your cheeks immediately grow hot with this level of proximity from someone who was so far from your grasp for years.
“Don’t do these right now, let’s eat”, her voice is low and her arms wrap around you from behind, helping you rinse your hands, hers over yours.
‘How is everything so erotic with this woman?’.
This is the second time you find yourself holding Miranda’s wet hands. Well, the other way around.
The first being three years ago, at your sink.
You desire to turn around, meet her eyes and challenge her a little, but feel paralysed, like last night when her thumb was rubbing your lips.
She overwhelms you sexually, to the point of being unable to do basic things.
Something about the older woman disarms your dominant energy, making you want to bottom.
Whereas with Andy, all she had to do was bat her big eyes, pout a little and you’d ruin her, taking all of her there and then, without overthinking it.
“Shall we?”, she’s watching your face.
You nod, once again limited in your expression.
Miranda Priestly smiles, releasing you from her hold to dry her own hands with a dishcloth. A subtle redness growing on her face, as if she’s also blushing from being so close to you.
Instead of lingering your gaze on her for too long, you wipe your hands on your trousers, to bring your still hot coffees at the breakfast table.
Both of you sit across from each other as you did during yesterday’s dinner, although you feel more dressed up in your own clothes than her pyjamas.
It’s still not quite a date, but the feeling of safety around her seems to have grown more overnight.
“You forgot your communication device”, she teases a little, sliding you her notebook and pen.
Miranda watches you under longing eyes as you write, focusing on your hands, but you miss it.
{You’re loving this a little too much. It’s not fair}
A warm tingle travels through your fingers when they brush against hers, passing the note.
She laughs after reading it, her head tilting slightly back in a way that looks seductive.
You think she wouldn’t protest if you grabbed her hand right now, but again overthink it in reality.
Did the wine make you that much bolder on the night of your dinner with her and the twins? You were ready to take her by that sink if you could.
“Thank you for this, it looks lovely”, her gaze follows the display of food on the table and her latte, which she immediately grabs.
You can’t help but grin hearing her little sigh of first sip satisfaction. It makes the morning hassle worth it to see her so happy.
Similar to last night, there isn’t much interaction except for the occasional shy glance from you and the curious one from her.
In some ways you have a feeling she prefers the quiet more. She always liked working in silence during your study sessions, so it’s not surprising.
In fact it makes total sense, for a woman who’s always having to voice her opinion all day.
You once told her during your high school years that you’re similar to her, enjoying a quieter companion than Cassidy and Caroline.
Now you wish you could’ve been more talkative, maybe then she would’ve revealed herself to you a little bit more than what she shared back then.
This particular train of thought reawakens yesterday’s moments in her bed.
Your face starts to warm up remembering what she actually whispered in your ear.
‘…when I finally take this needy little cunt.’
It makes you feel wet just thinking about it, her tone and pacing, her sense of control and firmness. She’s so…mm-
[*you can’t quite say it just yet, even to yourself]
Now she’s sitting across from you as if it never even happened. How can she pretend so well?
What if you share your thoughts?
You scribble once again and slide it to her.
{I liked what I heard from you last night…very, very much and I’m already planning our date}
This time she avoids looking up, but she smiles.
Your foot intentionally moves in between hers under the table, not really touching. The tension already feels so palpable.
“Good”, that’s all she replies with, her tone unreadable, but her pink cheeks give her away.
By the time you finish breakfast, you’ve replayed everything she said to you in bed twice over, soaking your own panties.
When you go to clear the table she stops you.
“I’m not above a little manual labour, remember?”, her smile sends butterflies to your stomach.
Of course you remember, but it still surprises you.
You return her warmth, lingering just a little.
“It’s the least I can do”, she adds, already at work.
You still help her, not wanting to be far from her presence. This time being the one to wrap your arms around her while she washes the dishes.
The feel of her body, the quietness, with only the sound of the water hitting both your hands does something to your brain chemistry.
It’s beautiful.
Her breathing changes the longer you hold her in this position. The air feels thicker even for you.
No words are exchanged from her side.
You decide to be bolder, beginning to slowly graze your cheek against hers, until it eventually rubs back and forth, continuously.
Her skin has a softness that feels expensive to touch. It’s delicate, as if it can bruise easily.
She must be enjoying the sensation because she rubs back, like an intimate ‘call and answer’.
At some point you forget the dishes altogether, your hands continuing to tangle under the running tap, dreaming.
‘Just be courageous’.
Maybe you can experience a transfer of power similar to what happened with Andy the first time you had sex. It was such a rush to switch over.
With the water still on, your wet hands move from in between hers to grab her waist, not caring if you wet her top. At first she tenses at the feeling, until you fully wrap around her body, locking her.
For a second, you think when she rests her hands on your arms she’s about to remove you from her, but she stays on top, which is very encouraging.
Just like she teased you last night, you take your revenge. Your lips graze the bottom of her neck, slowly climbing up to her jaw, then ear.
It sounds so hot, hearing the contact you make.
Miranda throws her head back slightly to give you better access, her hands grab your arms tighter.
So, naturally you also tighten your hold on her with each soft kiss becoming more and more firm and audible on her skin.
Her little hums don’t go unnoticed.
She feels perfect in your arms this way.
Your mouth trails up and down, from her ear to neck and back again, until her noises aren’t so subtle. The older woman hisses getting turned on.
One of your hands move up towards her face, to tilt it further to you for better access of her lips.
There’s a little resistance in her.
Her own hand comes up to stop you.
So, you move yours down to feel and squeeze her ass, starting to hike her skirt up with your fingers.
“You’re being naughty”, her voice is breathy and hushed. “I told you my conditions, but you’re making it hard for me on purpose”.
“I need that kiss”, you hear your voice finally come out of your mouth for the first time since losing it.
It surprises you both, she turns around.
Your grip tightens on her waist.
Miranda Priestly’s eyes are so dilated and she appears to be sexually frustrated.
“I think what you need is discipline”, she leans in until her nose is almost touching yours.
“Hard discipline”, she unhooks your hands in one swift move, leaving your little sink bubble and heading out of the kitchen to what seems like a living room space. It catches you off guard.
“Come”, her tone is firm, wrapped with a ‘no nonsense’ attitude around it.
Your feet feel stuck as you imagine she has in mind, the boldness you felt a few moments ago slowly disappearing and replaced by nervousness.
“I won’t repeat myself a third time”, Miranda calls.
“Fuck”, you say under your breath.
You don’t want to test her limits any further.
Suppose you’ll have to figure out how to successfully transfer the power to yourself another time. If it’s even possible with her.
The older woman readjusts herself on the sofa when you finally walk in, as if already impatient.
You move cautiously towards her, like a kitten.
Her unyielding gaze following your every step.
She pats her lap like she did yesterday before playing with your hair. So, by default you resume the same position, your head on her soft thighs.
But, you hear a disapproving tut and a slender hand reaching for your hair, only to grip it in a fist, instead of lightly scratching your scalp.
“I’m not rewarding you for bad behaviour”, she explains, tightening the hold. It honestly feels uncomfortable, but not quite painful just yet.
She controls you this way, moving your head further away from her, until it’s on the armrest. Your body face down and your ass staring up from her lap. She readjusts herself again.
You feel so aroused and anxious all at once.
“Miran-”
“Be quiet”, she silents you, using her work voice.
“Your first lesson will be to do as you’re told”.
“Take these off”, her other hand caresses your jeans, feeling your ass through the fabric and lightly rubbing her fingers in between your legs.
You repress a sudden moan and lift your hips to wiggle your trousers down to your knees.
All that’s left on are your pretty lace panties, feeling absolutely soaked through at this point. You’re scared your juices will run down your legs.
She can probably smell how turned on you are.
“Have you ever been spanked before Rayna?”, her hand cups one of your ass cheeks, jiggling it, as if inspecting and testing for something.
All you want to do is moan out loud.
But you hold it in, barely.
“No”, your voice has a little whimper.
She squeezes firmly, interchanging with the other cheek, until your panties are riding up in between them, pressing on your aching, starved pussy.
Miranda yanks them up even further, giving herself naked access without you having to take them off. You feel like you’ll come soon if she keeps touching your skin and toying with you.
“You’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you”, she gives you your first hard slap. It actually hurts and at the same time it travels right to your core.
You bite your bottom lip to stop your sound from coming out. But when she doesn’t continue right away you open your mouth to answer her.
“Miranda I-”
“No no, that wasn’t a question”.
The hand gripping your hair turns your head slightly, making you look back at her.
This time when she slaps you, her eyes are locked on yours. Making it hard for you to stay quiet, what comes out makes you feel embarrassed.
You release a whimpering cry on her third one and catch her lips forming a small smile. She likes this.
Her fourth slap somehow feels harder and more charged, testing your capacity to endure.
“It hurts”, you’re tearing up, your body wanting to both recoil from her and be soothed by her.
“It should”, she coos at you before giving her fifth.
“Please…”, you whimper loudly.
At this point the lines of pleasure and pain are feeling blurred. You want to be able to take it, but each slap stings more than the last.
“I’ll be good”, you manage between your cries, when she hands you her sixth and seventh slap back to back.
“Will you, princess?”, her eighth has you almost screaming, your tears finally roll down sideways on your face, blurring your vision of her.
Miranda’s tone and pacing, her sense of control and firmness. She’s so…
“Mommy, I’ll be good, I promise”, you cry out on her ninth, unintentionally revealing your deepest desire. One which she guessed she already knew.
Somehow this excites her, going in harder for her tenth and final one. She even grunts a little.
“Please mommy…”, your tears continue to fall.
“I’ll be good for you”.
“I’ll be so good”, your voice begging when you feel as if she might just add another hard slap.
There’s silence for some time, as you sniffle and eventually calm. Her grip in your hair loosens just enough for it to not be painful anymore.
She dips her fingers further in until she has access to your scalp.
The older woman begins to scratch lightly, the hand still on your sore ass cheeks now rubbing gentle circles on both.
Your sniffs lessen the more she soothes you this way and you feel your arousal creep up again.
“Perhaps…mommy was too harsh”, she offers, her voice soft on you.
When you don’t answer immediately, she gazes down at your face.
“Do you still want a kiss from mommy?”.
You finally turn your eyes towards her.
“Yes, please”, your voice is shy, feeling slightly embarrassed, but also like a missing piece of you has been found.
The older woman turns you over, so you’re now lying on your back on the sofa, she climbs on top of you, without pulling your jeans up, so you can feel her knee grazing your soaking panties.
You bite your bottom lip to repress a moan.
Miranda leans down until you can feel her full weight on top of you. She’s so warm, her scent envelopes you in a different way in this position.
You’re the on the inside of the sofa, whereas she’s by the edge, leaning on one elbow, to see you.
Her long fingers reach for the back of your neck and you melt straight away in anticipation.
She brings her face down to yours, looks into your eyes and whispers.
“You are so perfect babygirl”.
“You made mommy soak through her panties with your little cries and whimpers”.
“Just perfect”.
“I can’t wait to devour your pretty pussy”.
“But my conditions still stand and you must obey me when I ask for something, okay?”.
“Otherwise, I’ll have to be harsh with you again”.
All you can manage to do is nod, feeling completely paralysed by her energy.
Miranda Priestly then presses her soft mouth against yours, her hand moving to the front of your neck to hold it in place.
It’s a good thing too because you float inside.
Both of you release different kind of moans, hers is ravenous, yours is just ready to be taken.
The level of arousal in this living room feels feral, it does not allow for tenderness, with both of you dying for an orgasm and each other.
You find your tongue quickly inside her mouth, already warring with hers. It’s sloppy and messy and absolute heaven.
That knee of hers casually positioned directly against your hot pussy keeps lightly rubbing into it, without the older woman’s knowledge.
She’s too busy drinking you in to notice.
You start moaning into her mouth, feeling as if you’ll soon burst from the light contact.
Her hold on your neck tightens a little possessively the more you kiss each other.
God, her knee is killing you.
You can’t even warn her, she only realises when your body starts to vibrate underneath her.
You come hard.
All the build up from yesterday evening, mixed with today’s teasing felt unbearable.
Somehow watching you orgasm this way makes the older woman reach her heights, slipping her hand inside her skirt to quickly rub.
You don’t hear her moan because she captures you in another kiss as her body jerks on top.
It’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen or done in your life, with anyone, coming so intensely while still fully clothed.
And you don’t stop there.
Your arms wrap around her body to bring her further down on you and she starts dry jumping your jeans, her skirt riding up higher.
The friction is delicious.
Her wet tongue exploring your mouth makes it all the more sensual. You could come again.
She has to know how good it is, so you pull back a little from the aggressive kissing.
“Please mommy, don’t stop”, you whimper against her lips, feeling the build up in your gut.
“Mommy will never stop princess”, she almost grunts, she must be close too.
“You’re gonna make mommy come again babygirl, be a good girl and make me come”, her voice is struggling.
Your hand reaches under her skirt, whilst hers reaches for your panties, both of you rubbing frantically on the wet fabrics.
The sensation is magnified, not lasting no more than thirty seconds before you both violently come. It might be even better than the first one.
She growls, whereas you scream.
A little too loud, because you miss the footsteps and the front door being closed shut.
Miranda slumps down, both of you unable to descend from the high clouds anytime soon.
You wrap your arms around her protectively.
“Holy fuck”, she says quietly to herself.
“Yeah”, you agree.
“Mom? Ray?”, her presence is suddenly made known, making you tense up.
Both of you quickly turn your heads to the living room entrance, to see none other than
“CASSIDY”
“CASSIE”
“Oh my gosh”, she covers her eyes and turns.
“What the fuck is going on?! Someone please answer me!! I texted and called because you told me to not walk in people’s apartments anymore, but you weren’t answering me! So I let myself in”, her voice is panicking and angry.
In the time she’s freaking out, both of you are pulling yourselves together to be presentable.
She walks in the kitchen, her hands shaking.
“Cassidy, please calm down, let’s talk”, her mother is the first to follow her in and you trail behind, both your faces still flushed.
She whips around, hers visibly angry and on the verge of tears.
“We’ll answer everything”, you try to speak, your heart pounding out of your chest seeing her this way. She’s never turned her fury on you.
“Ray! Are you fucking serious?!”, she screams.
God, she has her mother’s temper.
“You and her?! What about Andy?! You proposed like two days ago! Mom! What is happening?! Please, what the fuck is this?!”.
“Ray, go upstairs, let me speak with Cassidy first, okay?”, she turns to you seeing your tears also about to fall.
You nod and run up to the guest bedroom, immediately crashing on the bed to cry.
‘Please don’t hate me’, you repeat to yourself hearing Cassie continue to shout downstairs.
It goes on for so long, you fear your friendship with her is over, like forever.
It’s only after a few hours it feels quieter, until there’s no longer any inaudible voices at all.
You hear footsteps coming upstairs and anticipate anyone. However, when the door opens, it’s Miranda’s head that pokes through.
She immediately comes to cuddle with you on the bed. Her face still in a state of shock.
“Does she hate me?”, are the first words out of your mouth.
You can’t lose your other best friend after Andy.
“Of course not. She just needs time to process it”.
“Right now, I think she dislikes me more”.
“She thought maybe I took advantage of you, that’s what most of her yelling was about. But I told her everything from your side and mine”.
“You’ll have to speak with her another time”.
She sighs heavily.
“I should probably call Caroline, one moment”, she releases you and heads back out into her bedroom.
Whilst the older woman is gone, you cautiously walk back down to the kitchen to grab your phone, feeling terrified of Cassie’s messages.
When you unlock it, it’s nothing of the sort.
She hasn’t yet messaged you since leaving and the only texts you have from her are from earlier asking about how you’re feeling.
‘I’m so sorry Cass, I wanted to tell you, I just didn’t know how’.
‘Please don’t hate me, can we talk about it?’
‘I’m sorry Cassie, please text or call when you’re ready, I can explain everything’.
She reads it immediately and starts typing.
‘Don’t bother’.
‘Cass, it wasn’t as simple to explain before’.
‘I think I have a crush on your mom and I think she likes me back. What was so hard?’
‘You lied to me for years!’
‘I didn’t want you to look at me differently, I was still figuring things out with my own sexuality and also her’.
‘Bullshit! You could have told me the truth but chose not to’.
‘Do you know how foolish I feel? Knowing the proposal with Andy isn’t even real, after everything we did together to make it special!’
‘I’m sorry Cassie, I didn’t want to hurt you’.
‘Oh, well it’s a little too late for that’.
‘Please don’t text me right now, I don’t want to speak’.
You sigh and turn off your phone.
Suddenly feeling what it might be like to be in Andy’s shoes, in the same way you are with Cassidy. It’s not as black and white after all and it’s hurt whichever side you’re on.
You just hope your best friend doesn’t relapse because of all this. She’s been pretty consistent in her sobriety journey. You can’t be the reason she it all falls apart for her.
Miranda finds you sat in the kitchen in a trance, wiping your tears with the back of your hand.
She sits beside you, her arms taking you into her warm embrace, making you feel instantly safe.
“It’s alright Rayna, I’ll take care of everything. You need not worry yourself like this”.
“It will work out, you’ll see, okay?”.
“Okay”, you just about manage.
How she will do that, you have no idea.
“When do you go back home?”, you suddenly ask, realising Paris Fashion Week has been over.
“I’m flying back to New York tomorrow”.
“I can’t stay here any more days, unfortunately, but I wish I could a little longer with you”.
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, her gaze tender and searching.
“Caroline and her wife are expecting the baby any day now. I promised I’d be available for them”.
“Plus, she was more understanding of us”.
“Her exact words being ‘I knew this since high school’”, the older woman chuckles nervously.
There’s quietness as you sit with what happened.
Both of you in your own heads.
“She gives you her blessing”, Miranda adds a few moments later.
“Really?”, your voice feels small.
“Yes, really”, she leans in to kiss your forehead.
Chapter Nine - The Drama
(coming soon)
gays, how do we feel? 🫦😭
this song is bar for bar mommy priestly x reader/rayna
Summary : Your first date with Dex turns out to be an unforgettable one.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Vigilante! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Freak4freak, pen pal (?) meet cute, Romcom/dark comedy, Dex and reader being equally insane, task force murdered, stalking, break-ins, stolen clothing, surveillance photos, kidnapping, guns/knives/blood, food, sexual tension (no actual smut), you have a roommate called Mia and she's mentioned to be an arms dealer. (let me know if I missed anything!) Set in DDBA S2!
Word Count : 9.7k
Requested by : Ko-fi request <3
Notes : Y’all I have lots of work this week, so I won't be posting as much. I do have a John Walker kofi request for this Friday, and Bucky and Dex Blurbs scattered throughout the week. The title is inspired by a Royal Blood song of the same name. Enjoy!
You had never actually met Bullseye.
This, unfortunately, had never stopped him from ruining your day.
You picked up the paper, saw BULLSEYE STRIKES AGAIN printed above a body you had stabbed seven times, and nearly spat coffee all over the kitchen counter.
“Oh, fuck off.”
Your roommate, Mia, looked up from the table, where she was eating cereal beside an open ammo case. “Good morning?”
The guns she was disassembling meant there was less room for your food, but hey, you’ve gotten used to living with an arms dealer. Could you really complain? She gives you a friend-exclusive discount, after all.
You slapped the paper down in front of her. “They gave him credit for another one.”
Mia leaned over the headline. “Another another one?”
“Yes, another another one.”
She glanced past you at the fridge.
You didn’t need to look. You knew what was there.
Pinned under a strawberry magnet and a concerning number of takeout menus was the magnetic whiteboard you had made two weeks ago.
At the top, in red marker:
KILLS BULLSEYE STOLE FROM ME: 4
Underneath, in blue:
KILLS I STOLE FROM BULLSEYE: 4
Beneath that, taking up most of the fridge, were the newspaper clippings. Task force murders that were yours but had been attributed to him. Task force murders that were his but had somehow been attributed to you, because apparently every cop in the city had been dropped on the head as a baby.
Mia slowly chewed her cereal. “You’re losing.”
Your head snapped toward her. “We were tied.”
“Were.”
You scowled, tore the article out of the paper with unnecessary violence, grabbed a marker from the junk drawer, and stormed over to the board. You begrudgingly added one angry little tally mark that went under Bullseye’s side.
5.
Mia made a soft, faux-sympathetic noise. “Oof.”
“This is not oof,” you rolled your eyes. “This is fucking police incompetence! What was all that budget increase for, huh?”
“It is kind of oof.” She took another bite of cereal. “But you can catch up. He’s only up by one.”
You stared at the board. Your eye twitched.
Mia lifted her bowl toward you like a toast. “Very exciting season.”
“These stupid cops can’t tell the difference between a stab and a long-distance throw.” You turned back around, waving the paper like evidence in a trial you were fully prepared to win. “Look at the wound. Look at it. That’s clearly close quarters.”
Mia squinted at the grainy crime scene photo, her spoon hovering halfway to her mouth. The image was bad, blurred edges and cheap newspaper ink, but even from across the kitchen she could tell what it was: yours.
“Maybe they thought Bullseye walked up to him,” Mia said.
You stared at her.
“Bullseye doesn’t walk up to people. He has a ricochet fetish.”
Mia choked on a laugh, nearly spilling cereal milk onto the table. “Oh, so now you know him.”
You corrected her. “I know his work.”
“You know his work,” she repeated, deadpan. “You mean you’ve been staring at the leaked photos you saved again?”
You ignored her, because Mia had this very annoying habit of being right in ways that didn’t make you feel good about yourself.
The worst part was that you were angry.
That had been your kill. It was clearly your style. You were a melee specialist, for fuck’s sake!!! You liked the intimacy, the nearness. You like watching the life drain out of your victims’ eyes, being close enough to watch their face change when they finally understood why you were there.
Bullseye was different.
Bullseye liked a little distance. Bullseye was impossible accuracy. He could turn a room into a murder weapon without crossing it, and no, you definitely didn’t admire that.
You just understood skill when you saw it.
That was all.
But under the anger, in the small, horrible place where your dignity went to die, there was a humiliating feeling that curled in your stomach every time you thought about him opening the paper.
Because Bullseye was going to see this.
He was going to read the same headline, look at the same shitty photo, and know it was wrong.
He would know.
Maybe he would be offended. Maybe he would laugh. Maybe he would tilt his head at the paper and think, No. That wasn’t me.
Maybe he would wonder about you, and at this point, you were certain he knew of you. Because some of his knife-related rampages had been attributed to you too. Not often, but enough that sometimes your name got dragged into his mess, enough that you had stared at a clipping once for ten full minutes, heart crawling up your throat, because the paper had called one of his kills yours and you had hated how badly you wanted to know whether he had noticed.
Mia was staring at you again.
You folded the paper too carefully. “What?”
“You’re doing the thing again”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend to be mad,” she said, pointing her spoon at you, “but really you’re hoping your murder crush noticed you.”
You frowned “He’s not my murder crush.”
Mia smiled into her cereal and ignored the denial altogether. “Want me to get you more knives for today?”
You looked down at the headline.
“Yes,” you finally said. “The nice ones.”
Mia’s grin got wider. “You dressing up, too? Just in case you run into him?”
“I’m hunting,” you corrected.
“Sure.”
“I am.”
“Wear something slutty and stab-proof!”
You threw the newspaper at her.
—
Later that night, you went out in the jacket Mia called your “bad decision jacket” (it had extra knife sheaths) which was rich coming from a woman who kept grenades in a biscuit tin.
You were definitely not hoping to run into Bullseye. You were working.
There was a difference, even if Mia would have said hahhaha, sure.
The AVTF agents were exactly where your source said they would be, inside a half-empty municipal building wearing the kind of confidence that came from believing the badge still meant something. They had files they should not have had, names they should not have known, and enough blood on their hands to make your little visit feel almost civic-minded.
You made it quick.
Messy, but quick.
You handled most of it the way you liked best: Close, direct, personal enough that nobody could pretend it was an accident. But halfway through, because you were still one point behind on the stupid fridge-board and your pride had apparently become an emergency, you tried to make it look like Bullseye.
Just a little. Just enough to even the score.
You threw a knife. It hit a filing cabinet and dropped to the floor with the saddest little clatter you had ever heard.
One of the AVTF men stared at it like what the fuck was that?
“Shut up,” you said, before he could say anything.
Then you threw a smaller knife, in the hopes that it was easier to control.
It bounced off a desk lamp, went nowhere useful, and spun under a chair.
Fine.
Whatever.
Throwing stuff was harder than it looked, which was annoying because he made it look like flirting with physics. You were not built for distance. So you gave up and did it properly.
By the time you left, the crime scene was mostly yours, with two deeply humiliating attempts at his signature scattered around like evidence of a mental breakdown. You lingered on the fire escape for a few seconds longer than necessary, checking the neighbouring rooftops.
Nothing.
No figure in black. No little glint of movement across the street.
Which was fine.
Obviously.
You were not disappointed.
—
When you got home, Mia was out. Work, she had said, which meant she was probably meeting Turk in the back of some terrible bar and calling an arms deal “networking”.
The apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.
Not unusual.
You stepped in, a takeout bag hanging from one hand, the other already sliding toward the knife under your jacket. The kitchen was empty. Mia’s cereal bowl was still in the sink. Mia’s boots were next to your sneakers.
Everything seemed normal until you saw the fridge.
Huh.
Your magnetic board had been straightened.
Not cleaned or erased. It was fixed.
The crooked newspaper clippings had been lined up into neat rows. The takeout menus had been stacked by alphabetic order, it seemed. The strawberry magnet sat dead centre at the top, no longer holding up three different things at once. Even the tallies had been corrected into clearer, cleaner marks.
And below your personal Bullseye vs Me board, in new black marker, someone had written:
I’ve been looking for you too.
Your gaze snapped to the wide-open window, and realised, oh my god.
He had been here.
—
Dex came back to his studio apartment with a smile on his face.
He locked the door behind him, slid the chain into place, and reached into his jacket for the shirt he had taken from your apartment.
Your shirt. It was a plain white shirt he’d seen you wear before, and you looked pretty in it. I mean, Dex thought you looked pretty all the time, but still.
The fabric was soft in his hands. In his head, it still felt warm, even though it had just been hanging over the back of a chair when he found it. You had been careless and made it easy for him, really. You basically left it out like you had no idea someone could come in through your window and take a piece of you home with him.
Dex knew better now.
He knew how your apartment sounded in the dark. He knew which floorboard creaked near the kitchen. He knew your roommate left dishes in the sink. He knew your takeout menus were a mess, your knives were hidden well but not well enough, and your window lock was insultingly easy to pick.
He knew how you smelled now.
Dex sat on the edge of his bed and brought the shirt to his face, breathing in like he was trying to memorise your scent: Detergent, metal, and city smoke.
He closed his eyes.
He had stalked people before. Julie. Matt. Vanessa. Targets. Problems. People he wanted. People he needed to understand. But this was different.
This was not surveillance, or a job, or a petty attempt to become a good person, whatever that meant anymore.
This was you.
Dex had been infatuated with you since the first time he saw one of your kills credited to him.
From there, he found a photo of you in the database: grainy, badly angled, and almost useless for the cops. You had silver reflective paint smeared around your eyes to ruin facial recognition, strange under the flash, but Dex knew enough to know what he was looking at.
Before long, he figured out who you were.
And now, he had been watching your window for almost a month.
Tonight was just the first time you and Mia were both gone long enough for him to finally climb inside.
And then, he found that you had made a board.
The thought should have made him happy, and it had, at first. For one perfect second in your dark kitchen, Dex had stood in front of that fridge and realised, you had noticed him, too.
You had clipped the articles. You had tracked the kills. You had written his name in red marker and stood there thinking about him long enough to make tallies.
Then he read the rest.
KILLS BULLSEYE STOLE FROM ME.
His smile had died so fast it almost broke his heart.
Stole.
You thought this was a competition.
Dex stared down at your shirt in his lap, fingers tightening in the fabric.
That was wrong.
That was so wrong it made his skin feel too tight for his body. He had not stolen anything from you. He had never thought of it that way. Every time the papers confused you for him or him for you, every time your names bled into each other in some stupid journalist’s mouth, Dex had felt it like a sign that you belonged together.
The mistaken murders were just evidence that you were close to him without even trying. Your work was intertwined, cosmically, with his. Your violence answered his. His name kept finding yours in the paper, in police files, like the whole city already understood a fact you were denying.
You and Dex were linked.
Obviously.
So why had you made sides?
Why had you put a line down the middle and placed him across from you like he was just another person to beat?
Dex swallowed, still holding your shirt to his mouth and frowned.
He thought you liked him.
He thought you understood. He thought, maybe, when you saw his kills printed under your name, you felt the same obsessive pull he did. The same recognition.
Instead, you were mad. You were keeping score. You had written him down like a rival.
His jaw tightened.
That was okay.
It really was.
You were confused, that’s all. You had misunderstood. People did that all the time.
You would understand eventually.
He had fixed the board for you, so maybe you’d realise there was no ill intent. He had straightened the clippings. Alphabetised the menus. Corrected the tallies. Left the message underneath because you needed help getting to the obvious conclusion that you belonged together:
I’ve been looking for you too.
In his head, it didn’t look threatening. It was merely a correction. Perhaps a little nudge in the right direction.
Dex lay back on the bed, dragging your shirt with him until it was pressed beneath his cheek. He breathed you in again, slower this time, and the hurt in his chest eased.
You thought it was a game.
Fine.
He could play.
He could let you have your angry little board and your angry little tally marks. He could let you pretend you were chasing him, fighting him, competing with him.
But eventually, Dex would fix that, too.
Eventually, you’d want him as much as he wanted you.
—
You wiped the note off before Mia got home, even though you didn’t really want to.
You stood there for an embarrassingly long time first, staring at the neat black marker beneath your board while your stomach did a stupid flip.
Then you remembered Mia was weird about outside people being in the apartment.
Fair. You were also weird about outside people being in the apartment, usually. Usually, if someone broke in, you handled it with a knife and made Mia bleach the floor while you tied a brick to the body and sunk it in the Hudson.
But this was Bullseye.
So you erased it, like an idiot getting rid of DNA evidence.
You wiped the board twice, fixed the strawberry magnet, and tried to look normal when Mia came home carrying a bag that clinked against her hip.
She stopped in the kitchen doorway and squinted. “Did you redo the murder board?”
You didn’t look up from your hot chocolate. “No.”
Mia stared at the fridge.
The whole thing looked less like a breakdown and more like a very well-done administrative system. “Why is it nicer?”
You took a sip. “I got bored.”
Mia looked at you. You looked at her.
Then she shrugged. “Whatever. It was ugly before.”
Totally clueless, Thank fuck.
By the next morning, you had bought reinforced locks, and not because you were scared of him getting into your apartment again. If anything, the memory of the open window had been sitting in your mind all night. You kept thinking about him standing in your kitchen. Touching your board. Straightening your things. Writing to you like he already knew you would read it and think about it all night.
So no, the new locks were not there out of fear. They were a message.
You installed them yourself, one after another, until all the windows looked almost impossible to open from the outside.
Then you stood back, smiled despite yourself, and imagined him finding it.
He’d know the message then:
If you want to get in again, earn it.
—
Three nights later, the paper was waiting on the kitchen table.
Mia had left it there under her empty coffee cup, either as a warning or because she had run out of coasters. You found it while the kettle boiled, still barefoot, still half-asleep, and then very suddenly awake.
AVTF INFORMANT FOUND DEAD.
You stared at the headline.
Then the photograph.
Then the headline again, and then the subtitle, crediting the kill to you,
But that kill wasn’t yours.
You knew it before you read the article. You knew it from the angle of the body, the precision of the knife in a fatal artery. He had not been stabbed. He had been aimed at by distance, by calculation.
Bullseye.
And the papers had given it to you.
For a second, all you could do was stand there while the kettle clicked off behind you.
Then you smiled a small, helpless twitch of your mouth before you walked across the kitchen, uncapped the blue marker, and added one clean tally to your side of the board.
5-5.
Yay! Level again!
You leaned back on your heels and looked at it.
Perfect.
Almost.
You picked up the paper again, meaning to cut out the article, when something in the crime scene photo caught your eye. It was half-hidden behind the dead man’s shoulder, smeared on the wall, small enough that most readers would miss it.
Not a threat or a boast, but a question, written in blood.
why the locks?
Your hand tightened around the paper.
Oh.
He’d left you a message.
You could almost feel him in your kitchen again, standing in the dark in front of your board, touching the magnets, straightening the clippings, noticing what had changed. Of course he had noticed the locks.
You stood there for too long, long enough that the tea went bitter in the mug you forgot to drink.
When Mia came in later, tying her hair back and looking for her keys, you had already finished cutting the article out with careful hands.
She glanced at the board.
“Even again?”
“Mhm.”
“Congrats.”
She took her keys off the hook and left without noticing the way your fingers hovered over the little blood-written question in the photograph.
Good.
You did not need an audience for whatever this was becoming.
—
You answered him three nights later, when you eventually found Benjamin Poindexter’s apartment building.
It took patience, two evenings of watching, a borrowed set of binoculars. One very stupid moment where you almost slipped on a drainpipe and decided not to think about how humiliating it would be to die before the flirting even got interesting.
But eventually, you found his window. Child’s play, really. As if going under a stupid fake name like “Tony” would ever hide him from you.
That night, you waited until the light in his apartment went off.
Then you left a brand new lock on his fire escape.
The same brand as the ones you had put on your windows. Heavy, reinforced, and annoyingly expensive. It was still sealed in its packaging, with the little paper instructions tucked under the shackle.
You added a note:
Jealous?
Then you left.
—
Dex found it before sunrise.
He hadn’t slept much. He had your shirt twisted between his fingers, the fabric pressed into his palm until his knuckles ached. He had been sitting across the window for hours the night before, looking across at your apartment, at the little row of reinforced locks catching the streetlight like tiny silver insults.
You were keeping him out.
On purpose.
He kept telling himself not to be hurt by it, which was useless, because he was hurt. He was so fucking hurt it made his chest feel crushed, like an anvil had been dropped on his ribs and left there. You had changed the windows because of him. You had looked at the place where he got in, thought about him standing in your kitchen, touching your things, breathing your air, and your first instinct had been to shut him out.
Dex hated that.
Dex hated that so much he almost hated you for half a second.
Then, that morning, he opened his window and saw the lock waiting on his fire escape.
He went still.
It sat there perfectly placed, right where his hand would find it. Same brand as yours, same little shine in the dark.
For a moment, he didn’t touch it.
Then he picked up the note.
Dex read it once.
And then, he smiled.
Because now he knew you hadn’t locked him out because you wanted him gone.
You had wanted him to notice.
You had wanted him to see the effort. You had wanted him to look at your windows and understand that you had been thinking about him too. You had not made a wall. You had made a challenge. You had left him the same lock like a matching star, like a little joke only the two of you were deranged enough to understand.
Dex sat on the fire escape with the lock in his hand until the sky began to lighten.
The note went into his wallet.
The lock went on his window.
—
The next mistake came no less than a week later.
You had gone out the night before. You had driven the knives into the agents and controlled the room, kept the distance intimate enough that any half-competent investigator should have known better.
Unfortunately, half-competent was not what New York had.
By morning, the headline said it was Bullseye.
You stared at the paper in silence. Ugh. You were losing again.
That was irritating, up until you realised he would see it.
He would know the city had handed him something that belonged to you again, and you hated how badly you wanted to know whether that would make him smile.
It did.
Dex smiled so hard it almost hurt.
He read the article at the counter of a diner, coffee untouched, thumb pressed lightly over the blurred photograph like he could feel the shape of your work through the cheap ink.
Obviously yours.
They had called it his, but it was yours. Anyone who understood you would know that.
I understand you.
The thought sat inside him like a lit match.
He folded the article with almost painful care and took it home.
That night, when you came back to your apartment, nothing was out of place.
The windows were shut. The door was bolted. Every lock you had installed still sat exactly where it was supposed to, heavy and unpicked.
For one stupid second, you were disappointed.
Then you saw the kitchen window. Outside the glass, taped neatly to the pane where you could not miss it, was the newest clipping.
Oh. So he had climbed all the way up to your window, pressed flat against the glass like an offering.
At the bottom of the clipping, in small black marker, Dex had written:
they got it wrong again.
Your heart climbed into your throat.
You stepped closer until your reflection overlapped the words. It looked strange like that, his handwriting across your chest in the dark glass.
It was as if it was the two of you against everyone else’s incompetence.
You didn’t leave it there. Mia would see it in the morning. Mia would ask why Bullseye was leaving notes on your window like some homicidal pen pal, and you had no answer that didn’t sound insane. That, and Mia just ordered in a bunch of assault rifles. The last thing you needed was your roommate pointing it at Dex when he visited.
So you opened the window just enough to reach out, peeled the clipping carefully off the glass, and tore away the strip with Dex’s writing.
You didn’t throw it out. Instead, you folded that little scrap of paper twice and tucked it into your jacket pocket, right over your heart like an idiot.
Then you pinned the clipping to the fridge yourself, neat and straight beneath the strawberry magnet, just the way Dex would like it.
You updated the score, still a bit annoyed.
6-5
And somewhere outside, across the dark gap between buildings, you hoped he had seen you keep it.
—
The next one made it even again.
You knew it the second you saw the headline, before you even got to the photograph. There was a kind of cleanliness to Dex’s violence that the papers never understood. They called it brutality because they didn’t have better words, but you did.
TASK FORCE OFFICER FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY.
Attributed to you.
You stood in front of the bodega newspaper rack for so long the man behind the counter asked if you were buying it or grieving it.
By the time you got home, the board was waiting for you.
You added the blue tally slowly, smiling despite yourself.
6-6.
They had given you his kill, and you should have been pleased because that was the game. That was the whole stupid point. But instead, your eyes kept drifting back to the photograph, to the blurred dark shape on the floor beside the victim’s hand.
It was a knife.
His, you thought.
Maybe the police had missed it in the chaos of the shot, or maybe the photographer had caught it before evidence got bagged. Either way, once you noticed it, you couldn’t stop looking.
He had left something behind, but he wasn’t careless
Which meant he had either wanted it found, or he had been interrupted.
So you went to the scene of the crime.
You waited until the scene thinned out, until the uniforms got bored and the detectives started making the kind of mistakes tired people made. You kept to the edges: fire escapes, alleys, rooflines, with the courtesy of a little patience.
To your surprise, the knife was still there, half-hidden beneath a radiator, dark with day-old blood, beautiful even like that.
You took it.
At home, you cleaned it carefully, until it gleamed again under the kitchen light. You sharpened the edge until it caught against your thumb, cutting a little bit of your skin to check.
A little blood trickled off. Yep. Sharp enough.
Then, you wrapped it in a strip of clean white cloth and waited until night.
You climbed the rooftop up until you got to Dex’s apartment building. His window was closed when you reached his fire escape.
The lock you had given him sat there now, installed properly, bright on the frame. For one second, the sight of it made your heart warm.
He had actually used it.
You crouched outside the glass and placed the knife carefully on the sill where he would find it.
Then you tucked the note beneath it.
they keep getting us wrong :(
You stared at the little sad face for a second. Then you almost snatched the note back because, Jesus Christ, that was humiliating.
But the light in his apartment flicked on.Through the thin curtain, you saw his shadow move.
So you left it and climbed away before he reached the window, heart kicking hard against your ribs like you had done something worse than trespassing on a known assassin’s fire escape.
Behind you, Dex opened the window.
His hand appeared, picking up the knife first.
Then he found the note.
Dex read it and chuckled.
He sat down on the edge of the fire escape with your note in one hand and his knife in the other. You had cleaned it. Sharpened it. Brought it home to him like it mattered.
Like his things were worth taking care of.
Like he was.
As this all happened in the background, the score climbed.
7-6.
Your kill, his credit.
Then finally, after one long, ugly night that left half an AVTF unit dead and every paper in the city contradicting itself, the board settled again.
Then 7-7.
His kill, your credit.
Perfectly even.
After that, the messages got cuter, which somehow made them worse.
The first note Dex left was taped to the outside of your kitchen window with a polished bullet casing tied beneath it in red thread.
there’s an us now?
You stared at it for so long your tea went cold.
Your answer came two nights later, left on his windowsill beside an AVTF badge you put there like an offering
don’t get sentimental. but yes.
After that, it became ridiculous. A loose knife sheath returned with a note that said you left this behind. be careful. A newspaper clipping from you with wrong again :( scribbled in the margin. A black marker from him, because he could tell from your last note that yours was running out. A little evidence tag folded into a paper heart, which you immediately flattened, put under your pillow, and thought about all day like an idiot.
That night, somewhere across the street, a shadow moved on the opposite rooftop.
You didn’t wave or smile, but you left the window unlocked when you went to bed.
—
The next morning, there was black fabric at the foot of your bed.
For one confused, half-asleep second, you stared at it like your brain hadn’t finished loading. Then you sat up, hair a mess, blanket sliding down your shoulder, and realised it was a black shirt.
It was folded very neatly, sleeves tucked in, collar smoothed flat, like whoever had left it there had taken his time.
Underneath it was a note:
I took one of yours. It’s only fair.
Your mouth parted. Then, you smiled.
“Oh,” you whispered.
That was where your white shirt had gone.
Of fucking course he had taken it, likely on the first night he broke in. And last night, he had climbed through your unlocked window like a nightmare with good manners, walked into your room while you were sleeping, stood close enough to see the rise and fall of your chest, and decided the polite thing to do was leave you one of his in return.
You picked up the shirt and brought it to your face before dignity could stop you. So this was he smelled like: gun oil, soap, cold air, and a metallic tang underneath that made your eyelids flutter for one horrible second.
Fuck.
You were actually smelling his shirt. Worse, you were smiling about it.
You pressed the fabric harder against your mouth, grinning into it like an idiot, because the thought of Dex standing at the foot of your bed while you slept should have made you afraid. It should have made you check the locks, grab a knife, call Mia, do literally anything normal.
Instead, all you could think was: he was here.
He saw you asleep and he didn’t hurt you. He saw you vulnerable and all he did was give something back.
Then, from the hallway, Mia’s voice floated through the apartment. “What the fuck?”
You froze, lowering the shirt from your face. “What?” you called out.
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
You scrambled out of bed, still clutching Dex’s shirt in one hand, and padded into the hall.
Mia stood at the entrance to the living room in yesterday’s shorts and a tank top, hair sticking up in six different directions, one hand wrapped around a pistol and the other holding a mug that said WORLD’S OKAYEST CRIMINAL.
You followed her stare. Then you saw what Dex had done.
There was a man tied to one of your dining chairs in the middle of the living room.
Alive. Barely conscious, but alive.
His ankles were zip-tied to the chair legs. His wrists were bound behind him. His mouth was taped shut. A neat little bow made of red ribbon had been tied around his chest like Dex had either found gift-wrapping funny or had no idea how gifts worked.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then Mia turned her head very slowly and looked at you with the exhausted expression of a woman who had been through a lot with you and was still somehow finding new reasons to be disappointed.
“I didn’t do that,” you said immediately, which was technically true and therefore the best kind of lie. You lowered the shirt slightly behind your thigh and hoped she was too busy processing the tied-up man to notice you were holding another assassin’s laundry.
Mia blinked at you. “There is a task force rat in our living room with a bow on him.”
“I can see that,” you said, stepping closer like you were being practical about it and not fighting the urge to smile. The man, when he finally opened his eyes, made a muffled sound through the tape, eyes wide and wet with panic, and you ignored him because the coffee table was more interesting.
Dex had laid out everything the man had been carrying in neat rows: A burner phone, a badge, a small recorder, a folded surveillance schedule, and four photographs of your building sat arranged with almost romantic precision.
One was of you, from your bedroom window, wrapped in your towel after a shower. Two photographs were of your living room window: one of you enjoying the sunset from the fire escape, and the other was of you and Mia drinking beers and sitting on the counters by the kitchen last week. One was of your window last night, zoomed in close enough to show the lock you had left undone.
Your stomach dropped and warmed at the same time, which was deeply inconvenient. You reached for the note pinned to the red thread across the man’s chest before Mia could get there first.
Underneath, in smaller writing:
I didn’t like that. You should be more careful.
You stared at the note for too long, long enough for Mia to notice exactly how not-horrified you were. That was the problem with Mia; she was nosy, armed, and unfortunately not stupid.
“What is that?” she asked, taking half a step toward you. You folded the note before she could read it properly and tucked it into your waistband like it was nothing.
“Evidence,” you said, because again, technically true.
Mia’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you holding a shirt?”
You looked down as if you had only just noticed the black fabric in your hand. “Laundry.”
“That’s not your shirt,” Mia said, huffing. “That is very obviously not your shirt.”
You forced yourself to shrug and moved past her into the living room, putting your body between her and the note on the hostage’s chest like that would somehow fix everything. “Maybe he brought it,” you said, nodding at the informant, which was such a stupid lie that even the tied-up man looked offended.
Mia stared at you. Then she stared at the man. Then she stared at the shirt again, and you could practically see her connecting dots you were trying to kick under the sofa.
“You’re being weird,” she said.
“I woke up to a federal informant in our living room, Mia. I think weird is allowed,” you said, and crouched in front of the man before she could keep interrogating you. His eyes fixed on you with desperate relief, like you were the reasonable person in the room, which was honestly insulting.
He had not killed the man. He had found him, hurt him, wrapped him up, and left him breathing in your living room because he knew you would want the choice.
That wasn’t sane. That wasn’t normal. That was not something you could explain to Mia without her opening the biscuit tin full of grenades and declaring a turf war in your apartment.
So you just tilted your head, and Mia watched the movement with open suspicion, her pistol still raised but her attention now split between the hostage and whatever the hell was happening to your face.
Instead of giving her a second of your time, you crouched in front of the informant and smiled like this was business as usual. Behind you, Mia muttered something about needing stronger coffee, and you tried not to think about Dex standing in your bedroom while you slept, leaving you something comforting before placing something violent in the next room.
“Morning,” you said.
The informant whimpered again. You softened your voice, and smiled just enough to make him regret being awake.
“Where shall we start?”
The man made a desperate noise behind the tape, eyes blown wide his whole body jerking against the zip ties like panic had gotten under his skin. You watched him for a second longer than necessary, Dex’s black shirt still clutched in one hand and hidden half-uselessly against your thigh.
You reached forward and pinched the edge of the duct tape.
The man started shaking his head before you even pulled it free, frantic little sounds building in his throat, but you only smiled at him and said, “Relax. I’m helping.”
Then you tore it off.
The second his mouth was free, he gasped so hard it sounded painful. “Bullseye sent me!”
You froze.
Mia’s confusion manifested in a little huh? behind you, but you barely registered it. The man was already blabbing, words falling out of him too fast to be clean. “Please, please, I swear, I swear to God, that’s all this is. He told me to deliver a message. That’s it. I’m just the messenger. I didn’t ask to come here. He grabbed me, he tied me up, he said if I didn’t tell you exactly what he said, he’d come back and cut my hands off, and I believe him, I really, really believe him.”
You crouched a little closer. Your heartbeat had gone quick under your skin. “What message?”
The informant swallowed. His eyes flicked to Mia’s gun, then back to you, and whatever he saw on your face made him more terrified. “He said it’s a date. He said that specifically. A date. He told me to say date, not meeting, not job, not negotiation. Date. He said if the city keeps putting your names together, maybe you should stop letting everyone else have all the fun. He said you should meet him tonight at eleven-thirty at The Black Rabbit on 46th. The back booth. He said you’d know which one because. He said you’d know it because you cut through the alley behind it last Thursday after the task force thing, and he said you ordered fries there once and didn’t finish them because the oil tasted old, and— and I don’t know what that means, I swear I don’t know what that means.”
Oh.
Oh, that absolute freak.
Your mouth parted before you could stop it. You knew The Black Rabbit. It was small, low-lit, always half-empty after ten. You had used the alley behind it twice. Of course he had picked somewhere cute in the most deranged possible way.
The man saw your expression and started crying harder. “Please. That’s all. That’s all he told me. back booth, I told you. I delivered it. Please let me go. I won’t say anything. I won’t tell the task force. I won’t tell anybody. I’ll leave the city. I swear, I swear, I swear—”
You were not listening anymore.
A date.
Dex had called it a date.
The thought landed low in your stomach, warm enough to be embarrassing. You looked down at his shirt in your hand, at the black fabric bunched between your fingers, and your thumb dragged over the seam before you could stop yourself.
You would’ve gotten lost in your own head if Mia did not shoot the informant in the head, and the man slumped on the floor so suddenly the ribbon went crooked across his chest.
You flinched, blinking yourself back into the room. “Mia.”
“What?” she said, lowering the gun with the exhausted irritation of someone who had just turned off a very loud alarm. “He’s a messenger. He delivered the message.”
You looked at the body, then back at her.
Mia stared at you for a long second. Her eyes dropped to the shirt in your hand, then to the dead man, then to your face, which was doing a terrible job of pretending it had not just been lit from the inside. Her mouth flattened when she connected the dots.
“Oh,” she said. “So you’ve been in contact with Bullseye and didn’t tell me.”
You opened your mouth.
Mia lifted a hand before you could say anything. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. It’s not like I’m your best friend or anything.”
“It’s not like that,” you said, which was stupid, because there was a corpse in your living room wearing a bow and you were holding another man’s shirt like a keepsake.
Mia looked at the body again. Then at you. Then at the note still pinned under the ribbon. “Right. Not like that. Obviously. Men are always sending women hostage invitations to bars for completely normal reasons.”
You tucked Dex’s shirt closer to your side, as if that helped. “It’s complicated.”
“I bet.”
“Mia—”
“No, you know what?” she said, rubbing at her forehead with the heel of her free hand. “Fine. Go on your date.”
You had no answer for that, which was irritating, because you usually had an answer for everything.
Mia sighed so deeply, because this concern had come from years of friendship, unpaid rent, and every bad decision she had ever watched you make. She stepped around the dead informant, pistol still loose in her hand, then paused in the hallway and looked back at you with total, bone-deep exhaustion.
“Couldn’t he just send a singing telegram like a normal psychopath?” she muttered. Then, before you could smile too hard, she pointed the gun vaguely at your face. “Whatever. I’ll get you a gun. Just in case.”
You looked after her, trying and failing not to grin.
“And you’re telling me everything afterwards,” Mia called back.
—
You walked into The Black Rabbit at eleven twenty-seven wearing a skirt, a jacket, and Dex’s oversized black shirt tucked messily into your waistband.
It was a mistake.
You knew it the second he saw you.
Dex was in the back booth under the cracked mirror, one hand around a beer he hadn’t touched. He looked up when the door opened, and whatever expression he had prepared for you died instantly.
His eyes dropped to the shirt. Then to your skirt. Then back to your face.
For a second, Bullseye looked like he had forgotten how breathing worked.
You stopped at the edge of the booth. “Hi.”
Dex stood up too fast, almost hitting his knee on the table. “Hi.”
It was so stupidly endearing, you almost forgot your combined body count.
You looked him over, trying to be smug and failing because he was staring at you like you had walked in wearing his heart instead of his laundry.
“You picked a bar,” you said.
“I wanted it to be normal.”
“You sent a dying man to ask me out.”
Dex swallowed. “I wanted you to know I was serious.”
Your stomach flipped.
God. He was insane. Why did you think he was being cute about it?
His gaze dropped again, helplessly, to the shirt hanging loose off your shoulders. “You… wore what I gave to you.”
“You broke into my bedroom.”
“I gave it to you,” he repeated, like that was the important part. Like he had not stood at the foot of your bed in the dark and watched you sleep. Like that wasn’t the most frighteningly intimate thing anyone had ever done to you.
You should have been angry. Instead, you smiled.
Dex saw it and looked like he was about to explode.
Oh.
Your heartbeat kicked hard.
The bar noise blurred for a second: the jukebox skipping in the corner, the bartender moving glasses around, someone laughing too loudly near the door. Dex didn’t seem to hear any of it. He was looking at you with frightening, naked concentration, his hands flexing once at his sides like he wanted to touch you and was using every violent part of himself not to.
You slid into the booth across from him.
Dex sat after you did, still watching, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food.
“If you want to talk,” you leaned back, trying to play it cool, “then talk.”
“I… I know you hate being miscredited,” he said. “I know you check rooftops when you leave a scene. I know you keep your knives cleaner than your kitchen. I know you pretend you’re angry when you’re interested. I know you left the window unlocked for me.”
Your mouth went dry.
Dex’s voice dropped. “And I know you wore my shirt because you wanted me to see it.”
You stared at him.
For one long second, neither of you moved.
Then you reached across the table, picked up his untouched beer, and took a sip.
It was awful. Bitter and poured badly and exactly the kind of thing he would order because he had no idea what people were supposed to enjoy.
You set it down and smiled. “You’re very confident for a man who had to kidnap someone to ask me out.”
Dex’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed ruined. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
“You look surprised that I did,” you tilted your head with a genuine smile.
“I’m not surprised.” His gaze dragged over you again, softer this time, worse. “I’m trying not to do something stupid.”
Your heart climbed into your throat. “Like what?”
Dex looked at your mouth.
There it was.
The whole ridiculous game of notes and locks and knives suddenly collapsed into one fact sitting between you in the booth.
Dex wanted you.
Not abstractly or poetically. Not as some distant counterpart in a newspaper headline.
He wanted you right here, in his shirt, across the table, smiling like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
You should have made a joke. You should have leaned away. You should have reminded him that this was public, that he was dangerous, that you were dangerous, that Mia had told you to report back and would absolutely ask invasive questions.
Instead, you leaned in.
“Careful,” you murmured. “It’s only the first date.”
His eyes darkened. Very slowly, he smiled. “Then I’ll be good.”
Fuck.
You were in trouble.
—
Talking was easy after that.
Annoyingly easy, actually. Once the first charged silence broke, once Dex stopped looking at you like the sight of you, awake and talking, had rewired everything essential in him, the conversation settled into normal. Well, almost. If normal could mean two killers sharing beer in the back booth of a shitty Hell’s Kitchen bar, talking about murder like it was music theory.
It started with the board, obviously. You accused him of taking your credit. He genuinely seemed upset, not because of the murders themselves, but because you put each other on opposite sides.
You should have laughed at him.
Instead, you understood it.
See, under all the insanity, he made a horrible kind of sense. His violence was clean where yours was intimate. Yours got close. His made distance feel personal. You said as much, lightly at first, and watched the words hit him harder than any knife could have.
Dex went quiet after that, as if he was moved by your observation. You’re starting to get it, he said.
He talked like nobody had ever looked at the ugliest part of him and called it skill without feeling afraid. Like nobody had ever understood the difference between chaos and control before you. He sat across from you with his beer untouched for too long, staring like he wanted to crawl inside into your lap and live there.
The two of you kept talking for hours. Murder one-to-one. Technique, preferences, mistakes other people made when they tried to imitate either of you. Bad police work. Worse journalism. The insult of being misunderstood by people too stupid to deserve the blatant fucking evidence left in front of them. It should have been ridiculous, and it was. But Dex listened like every petty complaint mattered, like your irritation was holy because it matched in the one in him.
He had never felt so understood before.
You could see it on his face, which was embarrassing for both of you. Every time you leaned forward, every time the collar of his shirt shifted against your shoulder, his focus narrowed so intensely it made the air feel thin.
You could’ve continued talking there for hours if your phone didn't buzz.
You glanced down, expecting Mia to be demanding details or threatening you if you died before telling her everything. Instead, your informant had sent you an address. Then another, along with a list of names. AVTF agents moving together, not far from the bar, practically gift-wrapped by circumstance.
You looked at the message for a second.
Then you smiled.
You slid the phone across the table, and Dex read the text.
You leaned forward, his shirt slipping loose at your shoulder, and smiled sweetly. “Wanna go hunting?”
—
By the time you reached the rooftop across from the location, you were only starting to realize how intimate this was, even though it should feel like mostly work.
From your crouch near the ledge, you could see the building your informant had sent. It had everything a vigilante could ever dream of: rooftop access, bad perimeter awareness, two lit windows on the upper floor, a side entrance that might as well have had an invitation nailed to it.
Dex, meanwhile, looked exactly as he had in the bar, which was to say unfairly good. He had that same wound-too-tight stillness, only now it had somewhere to go. Neither of you really needed to change because this was who you were. The bar hadn’t been the disguise. If anything, the bar had just been two vigilantes forced briefly into civilian setting, and now the city had handed you both an excuse to slip back into yourselves.
His hand disappeared into his jacket pocket, and when it came back out, there was the mask. He looked down at it for only a second before starting to pull it on like it was muscle memory, like it belonged to the shape of his body as naturally as breath.
Your fingers closed around his wrist, before you thought too hard about it.
Dex stopped, startled, his mask half-unfolded in his hand.
Then you took it from him.
For one long second, he just stared. Not suspicious or annoyed. He just looked completely thrown off, all his composure knocked sideways by the fact that you had interrupted him so casually, like this was your right.
You should have said something then. Instead, you just pulled the mask over your own face.
Oh.
The fabric settled over your features, and you felt Dex go catastrophically still.
His shirt was still hanging off your frame beneath your jacket, the hem tucked into your skirt carelessly in a way that had already ruined him once tonight. The skirt itself was too short to qualify as practical, which had been part of the fun. And now, on top of all that, you were wearing his mask?
It was not subtle, what it did to him.
Dex looked at you like something inside his brain had simply stopped functioning, overloaded so completely there was nothing left for him to do but stand there and take it.
You could practically see the short circuit happen.
His mouth parted uselessly. His eyes dragged over you, and you could've sworn you had never seen anyone look so gone while still technically upright.
You smiled under the mask.
“Hold still,” you murmured, reaching into your little bag, the one you never left home without, fingers finding the small tin by touch alone. It was silver reflective paint.
You flipped open the tin and stepped closer.
The silver caught the rooftop light as you dipped your fingers into it. You reached up and touched him beneath the eye first, dragging one clean line of paint over the sharp plane of his cheekbone, right above his scar. Then another, across the bridge of his nose, your hand steady, his breathing not.
Dex didn’t move. He was holding himself together just to let you do this. The city noise carried below you, distant traffic and sirens and the hum of night, but up there on the rooftop it felt strangely intimate in a way that had nothing to do with proximity.
You painted the silver around his eyes the way you did your own, ruining cameras, distorting the face, making him look stranger and somehow even more himself. When you were done, you leaned back just enough to look at him properly.
“Pretty,” you said.
Dex’s throat worked. His gaze pierced your eyes. If he had looked overwhelmed before, now he looked outright haunted. Like being handed pieces of you had already been bad enough, but having your paint on his skin, his disguise on your face, the two of you standing there in each other’s signatures… it was something else entirely.
And for one absurd, breathless second, on a rooftop above a building full of men you were both about to kill, it felt less like getting ready for a job and more like the strangest, sweetest kind of undressing.
For a second, neither of you moved. Below you, through dirty windows and bad blinds, Task Force agents moved around inside the building like they had no idea the night had already chosen death for them.
Then someone inside laughed too loudly, and the moment snapped.
Right, work.
Or something like a work-date.
You laughed sweetly and dropped first, down the fire escape and through the service entrance, Dex behind you without needing a word. There was no need to gesture twice or whisper instructions. He moved like he already understood where you would go, which side you preferred, you wanted distance cleared and when you wanted a body left close enough for your knife.
It should have unnerved you. Instead, it made you giddy.
You had known he was good. You had studied the clippings, the photos, the evidence left behind. But watching Dex work beside you was something else entirely.
Every throw made space for you. Every little movement answered one of yours. He never crowded you, never interrupted, never treated the room like it belonged to him alone.
He made room for your violence like he had been waiting to see it up close.
And you gave him a show.
You moved through the agents with your style, close and quick and pulsing with adrenaline. Dex stayed in the shadows until he didn’t, a small knife flashing from his hand, then an agent behind you dropped before you even turned.
You couldn’t help but laugh.
It bubbled out of you, delighted though completely inappropriate, and Dex heard it through everything. His eyes found you across the room, stunned.
Like he had never heard anything lovelier.
Fuck, it was wonderful how well you worked together.
You ducked when he needed you to duck. He shifted when you needed space. You slid under his arm once, close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest. It was like dancing, if dancing was a criminal offence and everyone else in the room had arrived mortally underprepared.
Where the hell have you been all my life?
You thought it so clearly it almost became speech.
You only chuckled again, and Dex looked at you like he might never recover.
By the end of the bloodbath, twenty dead agents later, the building had gone quiet.
The euphoric, ringing kind of quiet. Broken glass glittered under the lights. A chair had been knocked onto its side and papers had been scattered across the floor. The agents were ruined, and the two of you stood in the middle of it like the last two people left after the world ended.
You were breathing hard, and so was he.
Dex had silver paint smudged beneath one eye now, a little messier than when you had put it there. His jacket was open. His hands were flexing at his sides, not because he needed a weapon, but because he didn’t know what to do with all the wanting still left in him.
You knew the feeling.
So you walked across the room before either of you could make a joke and ruin it.
Dex did not move away.
He watched you come closer with that open hunger on his face.
You grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him down.
The kiss landed through the mask, a frustrating thin piece of fabric between your mouth and his.
Dex froze for half a second, and then the restraint in him cracked just enough for you to feel it. His hands lifted, stopped, hovered near your waist like touching you might be another line he needed permission to cross. You smiled against the mask, and that was somehow worse, because he made a low, wrecked sound into the almost-kiss like you had done an unforgivable sin.
You pulled back, and he followed.
Only an inch, maybe less. But enough.
Enough to tell you exactly how badly he wanted the real thing.
His eyes were dark now, fixed on the place where your lips hid beneath his mask. He looked almost hurt, almost betrayed by the fabric, almost desperate enough to forget every wall he had built for your benefit.
“Take it off,” he said, rough, almost a plea. “Do that again.”
Your heart picked up a beat.
You stepped back just far enough to make him feel the loss.
You smiled beneath his mask.
“Earn it.”
And as Dex stared at your mouth through his mask, silver still wet beneath his eyes and twenty bodies cooling around you, you wondered, almost fondly, who the cops would blame for this one.
—end.
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SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL
stalker!benjamin poindexter x female!reader [9.5k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: dex escapes prison only to end up sleeping in half-frozen alleys, surviving on stolen food, spare change, and whatever shelter he can find before the winter cold kills him. until, on an freezing december night, you hand him a stack of blankets and a cup of hot coffee.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon (it’s supposed to be an au of what happens after dex breaks out of prison); she/her pronouns for reader; dex is temporarily homeless; loneliness & depression; brief hints at ending his own life and dying in general; stalker behavior; obsessive behavior; discussion of murder & violence; kidnapping; non-con use of a sleeping drug; anxiety & panic attacks; dark!dex (dubious morality); pathetic & quite creepy!dex (he’s pretty unstable in this); smut (dub-con); oral (f receiving); fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); creampie.
A/N: if anyone saw my post about my trick or tease series, yes—this title and this trope were originally meant for steve rogers. but I wanted dex to be part of it as well + the stalker dynamic suits him better, for obvious reasons ofc lol. ngl, this time I unsettled myself a little but that’s exactly what I was going for with his character. hope you’ll enjoy 🤍
trick or tease masterlist
Benjamin Poindexter wanders through the city without any particular destination in mind. The caution that has kept him alive during the first weeks after his escape now faded into the kind of resignation that started wearing him down after too many nights spent hungry and cold. He still avoids police officers when he spots them on the street and keeps his head lowered whenever he passes security cameras, but survival no longer feels like an objective he is actively pursuing. It feels more like a habit his body has not yet forgotten.
Days in the city are no different from the ones in prison: they all just end up blurring into one another. He wakes wherever he happened to fall asleep the night before, gathers the few things he has managed to keep, and disappears back into the endless flow of people moving through the busy streets. Sometimes he follows crowded avenues lined with storefronts and restaurants. Other times he finds himself in quieter neighborhoods where the sidewalks are cracked and the aging buildings weathered—a reflection of his own exhaustion.
It rarely matters where he goes. Every street eventually begins to resemble the next.
People brush past him constantly without sparing him a second glance. They have places to be, friends waiting for them somewhere. They are too busy looking at their phones and thinking about their own problems to notice the gaunt, unshaven man standing a few feet away. Even when their eyes distractedly land on him, there is no recognition. He is just another stranger occupying space.
Dex has spent his entire life studying human beings, as therapists taught him how to mimic emotional responses and superiors evaluated every aspect of his behavior. Observation has always been easier than participation, because people just make more sense when watched from a safe distance.
That didn’t really change. Nowadays he just watches them from bus stops and park benches, from the corners of coffee shops and train stations. Couples walking hand in hand while discussing what they should make for dinner; coworkers complaining about their bosses during lunch breaks; friends gathering outside bars and spending hours chatting and giggling...
The conversations are rarely important, because there is something far more interesting about them that catches his attention.
The ease.
The casual certainty with which they move through one another’s lives.
No hesitation. No calculation. No fear that a wrong word might cause everything to collapse.
They belong somewhere.
Everyone belongs somewhere except him.
There was a time when Dex convinced himself that structure could replace belonging with the help of therapy sessions and missions. Structure could free him.
Every hour of his life was accounted for by somebody else. Every success was measured, every failure documented. He spent so many years molding himself into whatever other people needed him to be that somewhere along the way he lost track of who Benjamin really was underneath all of it.
And now? Well, that same freedom feels too similar to being abandoned.
At night, when the city grows quieter and the streets empty, the loneliness becomes impossible to ignore. It follows him into abandoned buildings and dark street corners like a mourning ghost. It settles beside him in bus stations and laundromats and every other place he occasionally uses to escape the cold like a silent companion.
It’s in those moments that Dex finds himself wondering what would happen if he simply disappeared.
Not in the dramatic sense, like a shootout or an arrest.
Just... if he stopped moving altogether. If he died somewhere beneath an overpass or in one of the countless empty alleys he drifts through.
How long would it take before anyone noticed?
Longer than it should, probably.
Eventually some commuter would find him on their way to work and call 911. A local reporter would spend thirty seconds talking about the unidentified body discovered downtown before moving on to the weather forecast and traffic updates. By the next morning, nobody would remember the segment had aired.
Maybe somebody at the FBI would hear about it. An old colleague would recognize the name and mention it over coffee. There would be a moment of surprise, a few awkward jokes, a shake of the head.
The prison guards who kept him locked in solitary would probably celebrate. The administrators who spent years trying to keep him contained would finally get to close the file for good. One less monster on the loose.
And that would be it.
No funeral worth attending, no grieving family. Just a life reduced to paperwork and a body bag.
That thought clings onto the edges of his mind more than he likes to admit, because he knows the same thing would happen to countless other people around him. Every day he passes individuals carrying loneliness so obvious it might as well be written across their faces. Like the blonde woman who spends her entire lunch break sitting alone in the park, staring emptily at the ducks in the lake. Or the elderly man who goes grocery shopping every day just to talk to cashiers for a few minutes, because there is nobody waiting for him at home. And the exhausted employee at the bank who smiles politely at customers despite looking as though she has not slept properly in weeks.
Everyone is far lonelier than they pretend to be.
They hide it beneath routines and obligations and practiced smiles, but Dex sees it as clear as day.
Perhaps that’s why he notices you.
At first you are simply another face among thousands. Another stranger crossing his path who should have disappeared from his memory the moment you walked away.
Instead he finds himself lingering.
The first time he spotted you was outside the grocery store close by one afternoon, standing in the rain while helping an elderly man load bags into the trunk of his car. He remembers watching you crouch beside a stray cat behind a café two days later. And then seeing you again one evening while you came back from work looking exhausted enough to collapse, only to stop and smile at a little girl who waved at you from across the street.
And yet there are moments, between your kind smiles offered so freely, that are fleeting enough to disappear with a simple fluttering of lashes. Moments when your expression slips.
That fascinates him the most, because it reminds him of all the people who spend their lives pretending they are happy with what they have.
It reminds him of himself.
Most people look at you and see a nice, pretty woman going on with her day.
Dex looks at you and sees pain strategically buried beneath kindness.
The temperature has dropped well below freezing by the time evening settles over the city.
Dex has spent most of the day walking in an attempt to keep warm, but exhaustion catches up to him soon. The wind has grown sharper as the sun disappeared, slicing through layers of clothing that were never designed for nights like this. Every exposed inch of skin burns, his fingers having long since gone numb.
He eventually finds shelter in the recessed entrance of a shuttered storefront. It isn’t much, but it protects him from the worst of the wind. Lowering himself onto the cold concrete, he draws his knees toward his chest.
The city is still alive around him.
Cars pass, people hurry home. A group of friends laugh as they disappear into a restaurant across the street.
Some glance in his direction before quickly looking away. Most don’t bother looking at all, and he can’t even blame them.
See, most people have perfected the art of ignoring things that make them uncomfortable. They avert their eyes from anyone who serves as an unpleasant reminder of how quickly a life can unravel.
That’s when he sees you.
Stepping out of the grocery store with two paper bags pressed against your side, you adjust your grip halfway down the block, shifting the weight of them against your hip before continuing on.
Dex squints, trying to keep hold of the sight.
Well, it looks like you but the sight feels more like his mind offering him a gentle memory than accepting it as reality. You’re not here, you’re somewhere warm, a place that makes sense for someone as beautiful as you.
But when he blinks, the shape is still there. The same pace in your walk, the same slight forward lean, as if you’re only trying to get home without lingering in this horrible weather.
No, no, it can’t be you. And yet the image doesn’t disappear. His mind keeps it there, softening the edges, refusing to let it go.
You turn slightly as you walk, and the angle breaks whatever fragile certainty had been forming.
Still, he watches until you disappear between buildings, until the next gust of wind reminds him of the cold seeping cruelly into his bones.
At some point his eyes flutter close, tired in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
Tired of moving.
Tired of hiding.
Tired of waking up every morning only to repeat the exact same meaningless cycle.
The thought that he might not survive the night this time arrives with surprising indifference.
Maybe that was really a trick of his mind then, Dex thinks distantly. A pleasant feeling to hold onto as everything stops altogether, a last thing to look at that doesn’t hurt.
Until the sound of approaching footsteps abruptly pulls him from the sweet memory.
They are too slow to belong to someone just walking by.
Dex’s eyes snap open.
You are in front of him, still in your work clothes. Looking as pretty and composed as ever. His ears burn in shame at the contrast.
You hesitate when you notice him looking at you, as though debating whether approaching him would be intrusive.
It lasts only a moment, though, before you make up your mind and walk over with a tiny, determined wrinkle between your brows.
Dex follows you cautiously with his eyes, slowly straightening up. People don’t approach him anymore, especially carrying a stack of folded blankets and a cup releasing visible wisps of steam into the freezing air.
“You looked like you needed it.” You offer quietly.
The explanation is so simple that for a moment he doesn’t know what to do with it.
Not you are dangerous. Not I am calling the police. Not I know who you are.
Just cold. And that’s enough to deserve your concern.
His eyes fall on the blankets after you place them beside him. They look new, like something purchased deliberately rather than discarded.
Nobody has bought something for him in a very long time.
When Dex finally reaches for the cup, his fingers brush yours accidentally. The contact lasts less than a second, but he shivers anyway, electricity pumping through his veins.
You don’t recoil, nor grimace. Instead, you smile at him—a genuine, warm curve of your lips that transforms your entire face. And Dex allows himself to shamelessly bask in the sight. Not only because he thinks you’re possibly the prettiest woman he has ever seen, but because he can’t remember the last time somebody looked at him with something even close to kindness.
He has been pitied, feared… used. But this? Kindness offered so freely, without expectation and obligation? It knocks the breath out of his lungs.
By the time he realizes he should say something, you’re already standing.
“I hope things get better for you.” You give him another small smile, adjusting the strap of your bag.
The words are painfully ordinary, something many people probably say every day without giving them much weight. Just leisure pleasantries. Yet after you disappear into the crowd, Dex finds himself replaying them over and over again, your soft voice a pleasant touch that quiets his chaotic mind for the first time in weeks.
He sits there for what feels like an endless amount of time after you’ve gone, shakily cradling the cup between his hands while the coffee gradually cools. The blankets remain folded beside him, the cold just as bitter as before, but the possibility of this being his last night on Earth is now a distant memory.
Out of the hundreds of people who walked past him that night, you were the only one who stopped. The only one who seemed to notice that he existed, and was not any less deserving of compassion just because of what his life had become.
The only one who looked at him and saw a person instead of a problem.
When Dex eventually rises to his feet and starts absently following the route you took through the city, he tells himself it’s simple curiosity. Why someone like you would concern yourself with someone like him.
The explanation sounds reasonable enough in his head, enough that he almost manages to ignore the fact that he is still thinking of your smile as he stares up at your silhouette moving through your apartment.
If somebody told you five months ago that your life was about to improve, you probably would have laughed in their face and walked away.
There is only so much disappointment a person can absorb before they stop expecting good things altogether, and somewhere along the way you have crossed that threshold without even noticing.
The thing is, your life hasn’t changed all that much since then.
Your landlord is still useless. Your paycheck still disappears almost as soon as it arrives. You still spend most evenings alone in an apartment that feels a little too quiet and a little too small. However, over the past few months a handful of odd little incidents have begun accumulating in the back of your mind.
One evening you spent nearly half an hour searching for your keys after becoming absolutely convinced you had left them on the kitchen table before work. By the time you found them sitting inside your handbag, exactly where they should have been, you laughed at yourself for being so forgetful. Exhaustion does strange things to memory, after all.
A couple of weeks later you came home to discover that the smoke detector that had been tormenting you with intermittent chirping for days had finally fallen silent. You fully intended to replace the battery yourself, but somehow the problem solved itself before you got around to it. You remember standing on a chair and frowning at the device for a solid minute, trying unsuccessfully to figure out whether the battery compartment looked different than before.
Then there was the leak beneath your bathroom sink.
That one bothered you more than the others because you knew for a fact that it was getting worse. Every few days you had to shove another towel beneath the cabinet to soak up the water, constantly reminding yourself with gritted teeth that you would deal with it properly when you had enough money. Then one evening you came home from work and discovered the leak just... stopped. The better part of the next hour saw you crouched on the bathroom floor inspecting pipes you barely understood before eventually convincing yourself that perhaps the problem had never been as serious as you thought.
Long story short, life carried on.
You continued waking up too early and going to bed too late. Work consumed you, money remained tight. Most days you were so tired that once you got home you refused to make dinner and just collapsed in your bed with the same clothes, grimacing in the morning at the idea of having to change the sheets again.
Occasionally, however, more strange things started to happen.
Like that package that disappeared from the building lobby and mysteriously reappeared outside your apartment two days later, looking like it had been opened and then taped back together. The bedroom window that refused to close properly for nearly a year suddenly functioned perfectly. The lost pair of baby blue panties that you had worn to a disastrous date with a colleague who apparently resigned the morning after, only to disappear into thin air. The man who spent months making you dread every shift with his lewd stares and inappropriate requests found behind a dumpster with his face unrecognizable and his tongue cut off.
None of it made sense, but you weren’t that worried.
If anything, the incidents feel morbidly helpful, which is probably why you never examine them too closely. They simply make difficult days a little more bearable, and so you accept them for what they appear to be: coincidences.
That explanation satisfies you right up until the moment you unlock your apartment door one rainy evening in May.
The day has been particularly draining, even by your standards. Your feet ache, your shoulders are tense, up to the point that halfway up the stairs you briefly consider sitting down and just falling asleep there for the night. By the time you finally reach your floor, all you can think about is taking a shower and collapsing onto the couch until the sound of your alarm wakes you the next morning.
You are already reaching for the light switch when you sense something different in the air.
You stand on the entryway for a moment longer than necessary, your hand resting on the doorknob as your eyes jump from the blanket on the back of the couch to the dishes left to dry beside the sink. The apartment looks normal, nothing broken nor missing.
But something still feels off.
Perhaps you are more tired than you thought.
You shake your head with a sigh, locking the front door before making your way to the couch to remove your shoes. Your arms are already halfway up for a big stretch, when your eyes accidentally fall on the book on the coffee table, and your body freezes.
You clearly remember throwing it carelessly the night before, annoyed that it was late and you couldn’t keep reading, or else you would have been a zombie in the morning. Now it’s placed in the middle of the coffee table, right beside the decorative vinyl tray where you use to store any knick knack that doesn’t really have a place in your small apartment.
Even that is carefully arranged: the remote control on the right side, your partially burned candle on the other, and right in the middle, the kitsch party favor you got from your colleague’s wedding last year.
With a slow turn, you look at the kitchen, still dark. Even from here you can see that one of the cabinets—the one where you keep your stash of snacks—is not completely closed.
And then… the smell.
At first it’s faint enough to dismiss as something carried in from the hallway when you opened the door, but the longer you focus on it the more certain you are that it’s coming from the inside. Your apartment has always smelled of the jasmine candle you occasionally burn in the evenings, with traces of whatever shower gel happens to be sitting in your shower at the time.
This scent is musky. A presence still clinging stubbornly to the air long after it has left.
But you live alone...
From the moment you were old enough to go out alone, you started to imagine what you would do if you ever found yourself in danger, because every woman does at some point, and you had prepared yourself in all the ways that seemed sensible at the time. By now, walking home with your keys threaded between your fingers whenever a street is too dark and empty has turned into a habit you follow unconsciously.
That’s why you always believed that if the moment ever came, fear would sharpen rather than paralyze you, and you would at least be able to defend yourself long enough to get away.
Nobody tells you that the body doesn’t always choose between fighting and fleeing. Sometimes, the mind is simply trapped somewhere between disbelief and terror while precious seconds slip away.
There is no warning in the traditional sense, no footsteps or violence. Only the unbearable certainty that you are no longer alone in your own home.
One arm locks around your middle with a controlled firmness that prevents you from stumbling, while a cloth settles over your mouth before a scream can fully form. The terror manifests in your eyes widening, in panic turning your blood into ice as you struggle against someone that feels impossibly solid.
A strange, sweet chemical smell fills your lungs before you can turn away. You try to fight, to twist and push and reach for anything that might help you break free. To hold your breath, at least… but even that becomes increasingly difficult as your body starts to quickly lose its reliability, strength draining out of your limbs in a way that feels unnatural and deeply wrong.
A warm breath brushes briefly against your neck—the touch so light you might later convince yourself you imagined it. And as darkness hugs your pliant body, you can’t help but notice the way the arm around your waist is supporting your weight rather than restraining it.
You try to force your eyes open when something tenderly brushes the apple of your cheek, lingering there for longer than it should.
Your lips part slightly—or you think they do—but the attempt to speak dissolves as you succumb to the void once again. It’s the worst feeling ever: your brain being awake, screaming at you to open your eyes and run, while your joints are heavy, lying vulnerable at the mercy of a stranger.
But you keep slipping in and out of consciousness in a room you don’t recognize and a presence you can’t fully see.
The voice is always there, low and close and impossibly calm, because the person speaking knows they have all the time in the world and no fear of being interrupted.
“You don’t have to fight it.” You hear the first time, composed.
“I didn’t want it to be like this.” He murmurs at some point, his voice now on the brink of misery.
There are other phrases too, ones that barely hold together when you try to catch them: something about you being safe now, something about not being alone anymore. But they never fully resolve into clarity before dissolving again.
“Pretty,” he says that a lot, as if he is thinking out loud rather than speaking to you directly. “So pretty and so sweet, my angel.”
Sometimes it’s a slow, controlled touch that caresses your forehead and then moves to your hair, as though he is making sure you are still there, still real and present in the way he imagined all along.
Your body reacts sluggishly, sinking further into whatever is holding you up.
“You’re going to be alright, I’ll make sure of it.” He whispers against your knuckles.
The last thing you register is not fear in its sharpest form, but the confusing contradiction of being held with such reverence while your mind insists that nothing about this should feel safe.
When you finally manage to pull yourself out of the heavy fog weighing down your mind, you immediately become aware of how your mouth feels like sandpaper. The simple act of swallowing is painful, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth uncomfortably. Every part of your body aches, the disorientation reminding you of that meagre time off you are allowed once a year that you promptly spend sleeping for days.
The sunlight filtering through the curtains definitely doesn’t help.
The rays spill across the room in warm golden strips, forcing you to squint against the brightness. Your head throbs in protest, and when you shift slightly against the mattress, a wave of dizziness rolls through you hard enough to make your stomach turn.
Another thing that you notice with furrowed brows is that this room is too quiet to be your apartment—no matter where you settle, the loud chaos of traffic and the sound of sirens blaring somewhere in the distance are always following you.
There is also a faint smell of vanilla lingering in the air, mixed with the scent of coffee that has long since gone cold. But nothing about your surroundings feels threatening. If anything, the room is painfully ordinary in its muted colors and minimal furniture.
Yet an uncomfortable feeling weighs behind your ribs.
A feeling that grows stronger the longer you lie there.
Your mattress isn’t this soft. Your sheets aren’t made of silk.
You force your eyes open completely. Staring upward, you blink lazily.
Your ceiling is full of cracks and dark spots. This one is clean and smooth.
And your bedroom window isn’t supposed to be there. You don’t even own curtains—you can’t because of some stupid policy your creepy landlord put in place.
You push yourself upright then, but the room tilts at once. A sharp wave of nausea crashes through your chest again, forcing you to grab the edge of the mattress while dark spots dance across your vision.
The movement is enough for you to acknowledge the man sitting on the armchair near the window.
A book is resting open in his lap, although judging by the way his eyes are already fixed on you, it wasn’t doing a good job at holding his attention.
The first thing that draws you in is his handsome face and broad shoulders. The second is his stare. It’s not the same as that of men watching women on the subway or across bars. Neither that of customers occasionally studying you when they think you’re too distracted to notice.
He looks at you like he’s been dying for this moment to happen.
A mug sits abandoned on the small table beside him, and despite his oddly tense posture, his voice comes out surprisingly gentle.
“There you are.” Relief spreads across his face so openly that it catches you completely off guard.
“Easy,” he takes a small step toward the bed, carefully placing the book near the mug. He frowns. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
You don’t even realize you have been slowly shuffling away until he says that.
You stop immediately. Behind you, your shoulders bump against the headboard.
There is nowhere else to go.
His eyes flick briefly toward the distance between you and the edge of the mattress, the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepening for a fleeting moment before returning to your face.
“I was starting to think you’d sleep through another day.”
You continue staring at him, convinced for a moment that you must have misheard.
Another day.
Your thoughts feel like they are desperately trying to push through mud, because every attempt to make sense of this bizzare situation only seems to leave you more confused than before.
“You need to drink some water.”
There is a bottle on the nightstand beside the bed, and next to it a glass, a packet of crackers and a folded hand towel. The arrangement is uncomfortably scrupulous, too symmetric to have been the result of some mindless afterthought.
The man reaches for the bottle, and your eyes follow his large hands as he unscrews the cap and starts pouring water into the clean glass.
“Take slow sips, your throat’s probably going to hurt. You’ve been out for almost forty-eight hours.”
The room tilts again.
Forty-eight hours.
Your gaze snaps back to his face.
“What?” The word comes out rough and barely audible.
His expression immediately changes. A faint smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, small enough that for a moment you are certain it must have been your mind tricking you.
“Here, drink it.” He completely ignores your question, handing you the half-full glass that you unconsciously take with trembling fingers.
“You had me worried for a while.”
You had him worried.
As though he has any right to be worried about you.
As though this stranger belongs anywhere near you.
It’s in that moment that the memory crashes into your mind like a wrecking ball smashing concrete.
Your apartment.
The smell that didn’t belong.
The certainty that somebody had been inside your home.
The feeling of arms wrapping around you from behind.
The overwhelming heaviness that followed.
Darkness.
Your pulse spikes so violently that it hurts your chest.
The glass slips from your numb fingers and lands on the mattress between you, messily spilling water on the sheets. For the first time since waking up, genuine fear breaks through the haze still clouding your thoughts.
You try to move away from him instinctively, but your body is still uncooperative. The effort is clumsy, leaving you dizzy as you brace a hand against the mattress to stop yourself from falling sideways.
The moment he notices the change in your breathing, his features harden for a mere second. Until then he looked elated to see you awake after spending the last two days drilling a hole through the floor of this damn apartment with his feet. But whatever he sees in your expression sweeps that relief away at once.
His eyes dart across your face, taking in every ragged breath and every failed attempt to back away.
“Oh.”
The sound leaves him softly, almost regretful.
It’s the expression of somebody realizing they have made a mistake.
“Sweetheart.” The pet name sounds horribly familiar despite the fact that you have never seen this man before in your life.
“I know,” he slowly takes the glass and places it back on the nightstand. “I know this isn’t ideal.”
Not ideal. Of course, waking up in an unfamiliar room after being drugged and abducted is a rather unfortunate inconvenience. Surely not the worst experience of your life.
He takes a step forward before apparently thinking better of it. The hesitation lasts only a second, but it’s enough to suggest that he is trying to not overwhelm you and failing miserably.
For a man who somehow managed to break into your apartment, transport you somewhere else without being noticed, and keep you unconscious for two days, he suddenly looks too uncertain of himself.
“You’ve been asleep longer than I expected,” he continues carefully, as if you are some injured animal to coax out its hiding place. “I’m not going to lie, I was starting to worry. I checked your pulse every two hours, but you were breathing fine and your temperature stayed normal. I knew you were alright. Maybe you just needed to sleep a little bit more to properly gain back your energy.”
Does he really think that’s what you are worried about? Can’t he see the pure terror written across your face? Is he ignoring it voluntarily?
And the fact that he knows how often he checked your pulse, that he apparently spent two days probably watching you breath, touching you to take your body temperature while you lay unconscious, only reinforces the dreadful realization that this unknown man has devoted an unhealthy amount of attention to you.
When your breathing grows even more uneven, his expression tightens.
“Hey, don’t do that.” There is genuine concern in his voice. “You’ve got to slow down a little for me.”
The request is absurd enough that you almost burst out laughing.
Instead, it feels like the walls are gradually pressing down on you.
Dex recognizes it immediately. Something about the way he watches you suggests familiarity, as though he knows what it feels like when your own body turns against you.
Without asking permission, he frantically crouches beside the bed and reaches for your hand, carefully pressing it against the center of his chest.
The gesture is so unexpected that your eyes go wide.
His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, your fingers weakly twitching in the fabric of his shirt.
“Just focus on my heartbeat,” he says softly. “You don’t have to talk to me, you don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want to. But you need to calm down. Try to match my breathing, okay?”
For the first time since waking up, he stops talking entirely and simply demonstrates, drawing in a slow breath before letting it out again, the movement measured and controlled. He repeats it again, and then a third time, never taking his alarmed eyes off you.
Little by little, against your own better judgment and under his patient movements, your breathing begins to follow the rhythm he sets.
You are still trapped. Still want to throw up from the residual drug mixed with fear. Still sitting too close to the man who kidnapped you. But the sharp edges dull enough to not make you feel like you are drowning.
The visible satisfaction that spreads across his face is unsettling.
“Good. That’s good,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. “I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” You mumble before you can stop yourself.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, before his quiet, startled laugh fills the small room. He briefly looks down, shaking his head as if conceding the point.
“Yeah,” he hums, far from defensive. “Maybe it is.”
His lips briefly press in a thin line pensively. “I’m sorry it happened like this.”
You don’t believe, even for a second, that this man is sorry for what he did. What he seems sorry about is the fact that you’re afraid, and that’s disturbing enough to make your skin crawl.
“I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” He adds quickly.
There’s a softness in his expression that would almost pass for affection if the situation itself weren’t so wrong. Yes, he’s not looking at you like he’s enjoying your fear, but that makes it worse in a way you can’t quite explain. Anger, sadism would have been more logical. But this quiet conviction that nothing bad is happening—not in his version of events—leaves you speechless.
The moment his hand squeezes yours, you flinch, having completely forgotten that he’s still keeping your palm pressed to his chest. His thumb starts moving again over your knuckles in a repetitive, absent motion.
“Who are you?” You manage out feebly.
Your throat is still raw, the words coming out rougher than you intend. The moment you speak, he’s already reaching for the nightstand, this time pressing the bottle of water into your free hand.
“You should drink this first.” He repeats. “Please.”
The water is cold enough that it makes your throat ache on the way down. Only when you look back at him do you realize he hasn’t stopped watching you, his lips slightly parted as he takes in the way your throat bobs with every eager gulp.
“Who are you?” You repeat, pushing down the urge to hide from his intense eyes.
Your question seems to be bouncing off the walls of his mind as he ruminates over it... Like he’s deciding which version of the answer would bring less trouble.
“My name is Benjamin.” He says eventually.
The name sits there between you, formal and unfamiliar in a way that doesn’t fit him at all. Then he exhales lightly, reluctant.
“Dex,” he adds with strain. “People call me Dex.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
You are sitting in a room with a man you don’t know, having a conversation that shouldn’t be happening at all, and yet your body hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that you should be screaming, trying to kick him away and claw your way out of this prison.
The thing is, you’ve never been good with confrontation. You avoid conflict when you can, letting things go too easily and apologizing when you dare to speak up for yourself. It has never felt like a flaw before as much as a way of keeping life manageable. And look where it has led you... right to your condemnation.
Your eyes flick briefly around the room without meaning to. It’s not large, but everything in it feels intentional. There’s no obvious sign of chaos, nothing that suggests the filth and improvisation of an insane gesture.
Dex is still observing you, his hazel eyes completely soaking in your presence.
“We’ve met before.”
Your lips part uselessly, confused.
“Back in November,” he clears his throat awkwardly, readjusting his weight slightly. “The grocery store two blocks from your place. The one with the broken automatic doors that always stuck open halfway.”
Cold night. A man sitting too still against the wall. You debating for ten minutes whether it was a good decision to go back.
“But—but it was months ago...” You squeak out, recoiling. “You remember that?”
His face brightens, pleased that you do.
“Of course!” He nods. “You were still wearing your work clothes and had two bags with you because you’d stopped for groceries.” He swallows, eyes emptily staring at some random spot on your shirt as if he was reliving the moment.
“You walked right past me at first.”
Your throat tightens at his quiet comment.
“But then you came back,” he finally looks up, his expression open again. “You brought blankets, coffee... You didn’t have to do that, but you did anyway.”
You allow your eyes to study him, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one he’s describing. He looks different now—cleaner, more put together, but there’s something underneath that practiced calm that feels like the same person from that alley… the same empty eyes.
“You are kind to everyone,” he comments shyly. “Even when they walk right over you.”
The air changes with his expression.
“You think I didn’t notice?” He scoffs lightly at your clear surprise, his head momentarily tipping forward. “You hated your job. You came home exhausted every day, and yet you still kept going back. And your friends…” His mouth twists.
“Half of them only remember you exist when they need something. The others stopped calling altogether. You’re always the one reaching out first, always the one asking how they’re doing, always the one trying to keep those friendships alive. Then your birthday comes around and suddenly everyone’s busy. You spend holidays staring at your phone waiting for messages that never come, and they still expect you to be there whenever it’s convenient for them.”
A lonely tear trails down your cheek and his gaze holds yours for a moment longer than you can comfortably handle.
“I saw you cry.” His words are nothing short of a whisper but they hit you like a punch in the guts.
“In bed. In the shower. In the kitchen.” He swallows. “You were always so sad.” He whispers.
“I know what it’s like,” he adds after a pause. “Being alone.”
His free hand tentatively lifts, until it cups your cheek. The touch is far too careful, it makes you feel like an ethereal creature being worshipped rather than a woman kidnapped to satisfy some sick fantasy.
“But you’re not alone anymore.”
Your breath catches at the inevitability coloring his voice.
“Dex—”
“You’ve got me now.” He smiles, and for the first time you notice a missing tooth.
You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing properly until he is standing up, the bed dipping slightly under his weight.
Your first instinct is to back away, but it’s useless. The mattress gives under you in every direction, your body betraying you by freezing under his big frame.
“Hey,” he mumbles. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”
The words make no sense coming out of his mouth, in your situation, in anything you understand, yet they don’t sound like a lie to him. That’s what makes it worse. He believes them. Completely.
You try to speak again, but all it comes out is a broken whimper, tangled in breath and panic, earning a small sound of frustration from Dex. The situation keeps slipping out of his control.
“I didn’t mean for it to go this way,” there’s a faint edge of strain in his voice now, actively struggling with your fear. “I just—I couldn’t keep watching you living like that anymore.”
The moment he moves closer, your muscles lock as the space between you starts to disappear. You try to shift away fruitlessly, already suffocating in the warmth that radiates off his body.
To your absolute horror, he doesn’t stop in front of your distress.
Each small movement forward strengthens the grip around your lungs—the oxygen around you is not enough.
Your fingers curl into the blanket beneath you without you meaning them to.
“I couldn’t leave you there.”
His hand comes down near your hip, close enough that it brushes your covered skin, but still not touching you. You stiffen at the proximity alone.
Then the bed dips more as he lowers himself further, causing you to press harder into the headboard until the metal is digging uncomfortably into your bones. Your ears are ringing, your heartbeat so fast you feel like you are going to pass out, yet you are forced to live every second of it as Dex fully settles between your thighs.
His presence looms over you, before leaning in slowly. You flinch hard, an involuntary movement of your torso that causes the headboard to hit the wall with a deafening clank.
But Dex doesn’t stop, not until his head is resting on your chest.
Right over your heartbeat.
The contact sucks the fight out of you at once. Even your breathing stalls for a painful second before restarting in short, uneven pulls out of your control.
He doesn’t speak anymore.
He just stays there, still, listening.
“You’re really worked up,” he murmurs to himself. There’s something almost analytical in his voice. “I can fix that.”
Your fingers twitch into the sheets, until you finally gather enough strength to lift your arms and push at his shoulders, your neck desperately straining back to keep the contact to the bare minimum. It barely registers, your hands trembling as they make contact with a wall of steel. The effort leaves your limbs weak and unsteady, though, falling back against the mattress dejectedly.
“I’m not hurting you,” he recovers immediately, the words sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself. “I swear I’m not.”
You force your throat to work, and when your voice finally comes out, it’s in a thin, pathetic whimper.
“Get off me.”
Everything comes to a halt. Dex lifts his head from your chest with terrifying calm, just enough to face you. For a moment he doesn’t respond at all, his eyes just fixed on you, unblinking and so clear you can almost see the way he replays your words over and over again.
“Oh.”
He shifts back gradually, pulling his weight away from you as he settles on his knees. His hands go flat on his own thighs, open and visible, like he is deliberately trying to remove any sense of threat.
The movement is controlled, but there is a stiffness to his joints now, clearly responding to something he did not account for.
“I didn’t—” He begins, then stops mid-sentence, his jaw tightening slightly. “Okay. I won’t do that.”
He remains sitting close, his posture unnaturally still.
“I thought it would help,” he mumbles after a moment, his attention dropping briefly to the sad space between your bodies before returning to your face. “When people are overwhelmed like that… physical contact usually helps them settle.”
Again that detached tone.
You swallow thickly, genuinely scared at the speed your heart races inside your ribcage.
His eyes jump from your blown pupils to your heaving chest, then back up again.
“You’re still afraid.”
A pause follows in which you simply stare at him with tears threatening to spill.
“I don’t want you to be scared of me.”
Is Dex repeating that an attempt to convince you, or himself?
His breathing changes before he even finishes speaking, the rhythm of it losing its steadiness as if the thread keeping it all together just snapped under the inconvenience that is your reaction.
His hands keep lifting from his thighs before settling again, the small, restless movements never quite resolving into anything concrete.
“I have a job now,” he blurts out, eyes locked with yours, wide and intense. “A real one. I get paid regularly and I’ve saved money. I can take care of things—of you.”
Dex leans forward as words collide into themselves.
“You don’t have to go back to that life,” he swallows. “I can make it better. I—I already know how, I’ve planned it all! I got us a place out of the city, somewhere quiet where—where there is no traffic and no perverts scaring you at night.” His jaw clenches, knuckles turning white briefly as his hands close into two fists.
“You talked about it, I remember, you wrote it down in your journal,” you wince. He even read your journal? “About—about the cottage in the middle of nowhere, and the garden with a place for the birds to rest and eat, and—and a porch where you can sit with your tea in the morning. No nosy neighbors and no greedy landlords.”
His voice keeps rising and shaking around the edges.
“I can keep you safe,” he whispers like a secret, his nose merely a few inches from yours. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. I’ve been handling things already, you just didn’t see it happening.”
That last part slips out before he seems to catch it, and Dex’s mouth snaps shut.
“No!” You flinch at the sudden rise in volume, witnessing first-hand how regret washes over his features.
“Sorry, sorry! I mean,” he exhales sharply, tone dropping again. “I mean I’ve been trying to make it right. For you.”
The lump in your throat is suffocating you.
“But I—I never asked for any of this. I don’t even know you.” You manage eventually, even if the sentence breaks apart halfway through, collapsing into tears before you can swallow them down. “Please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I won’t—just, please... please.”
Your hands come up to your face but they do a poor job at hiding your despair, because your body folds forward as the sobs take over, loud and agonizing.
Dex simply lets his body sit back on his heels, watching you cry with an unreadable expression.
After a long stretch of silence, it appears slowly—a faint curve of his lips that successfully slips past the control he had been so careful to piece together for you.
“What do you want?” You sob out, increasingly unsettled by his calm demeanor.
“I just want you.” He answers without hesitation.
Dex leans forward again, then stops himself mid-motion, catching his own impulse and forcing it back down. His hands hover for a second over your shoulders before returning to his sides.
“We’re going to be okay,” he hurries out. “You know that you were stuck. You want something different.”
“But I didn’t mean—”
“We can go,” his words tighten again with urgency. “Anywhere you want. Anything you want, I’ll make it happen.”
His voice lowers.
“Just...” His voice quivers faintly. “Don’t leave me.”
Your body is still shaking with every hiccup, but the words don’t bounce off you the way they should. They settle like a boulder on your chest, pressing against the exhaustion, the slow collapse of a life you were pretending was fine.
And before you can fully comprehend the mess you got yourself into because of a stupid good deed you decided to do on a whim, you flinch again as Dex moves, decisively enough that there’s no time to escape.
He pulls you into a hug, your body instantly going rigid as his muscled arms wrap around your waist. Whimpering, you lift your hands to push at his chest, but his hold tightens in response, your palms now forced flat between you two.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” His voice is low against the side of your head. “Don’t cry, please, angel. You’re breaking my heart.”
He starts to rock slightly, the motion unhurried and consistent, but your crying doesn’t subdue right away.
When he lowers you back onto the pillows, your body tightens again at the change in position, but he follows the movement instead of pushing it. He stays close, his hands still wrapped around your body but careful to not press his weight into you the way he did before.
“I don’t want you to shake like that around me.” He mumbles in your ear after a while, stripped of the earlier urgency. “Why won’t you believe me? I said I’m not going to hurt you.”
You swallow at the hurt pouring from his voice, but you turn your head away anyway in a last, futile attempt to set a boundary.
“I just…” He cuts himself off, his next breath shaky. “I didn’t know how else to make you stop running in your head like that. You were—you were going to break yourself apart.” His arms squeeze once.
“But you don’t have to do that anymore,” he adds happily. “Not with me here.”
You don’t remember the last time someone stayed this close to you without an ulterior motive. Even friends and ex-boyfriends who touched you in the past did it like contact had an expiration date you were supposed to respect.
Most days you try to ignore it, because it’s work, home, work again, and then fill the spaces in between with loud music and books so you don’t notice how quiet everything is when no one is there to witness your life unfolding. You’re used to eating alone, shopping alone, coming back to an empty apartment without expecting anything different.
But here, with someone actually holding you with such devoted desperation, something lodged deep inside you gives up before your mind can stop it. Your shoulders drop first, only now giving you the time to properly register the sharp sting caused by your constant rigidity. Your hands, which have been tense against his chest, loosen without your consent, fingers uncurling slowly instead of pushing.
Dex is still above you, braced between your legs and still surprisingly careful as he clings onto your body. Your arms move next. At first it’s only a mere jerk that you have the chance to stop, but then they are hovering over his back. And when they finally settle around his shoulders, his muscles lock in shock for a long moment.
Keeping still throughout it all, he is scared the faintest movement could drag you back into that dark conviction that paints him as the bad guy. Which should probably be the sensible thing to believe, because this is wrong—you are betraying your own sense of safety by embracing the same man who forcefully carved a place into your life and took control of it.
But you stay there anyway, even when Dex slowly lifts his head from where it has been tucked against your chest. The movement is timid as his hands remain exactly where they are: one gripping your side, the other resting between your shoulder blades.
For a few seconds neither of you speaks.
His face is close enough now that you can make out details you hadn’t noticed before, too blinded by panic. Like the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the scar on his right cheek. The hesitation that keeps flickering in his hazel eyes.
From the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth before returning to your eyes, you know what is about to happen.
You should turn your head.
You should push him away and hold onto whatever common sense you have left.
Instead, you remain perfectly still.
When he finally leans forward, it’s so tentative that you almost don’t register it at first. His nose brushes yours, the small contact making his breath hitch.
For a moment it genuinely feels like he’s giving you one final opportunity to stop him. But you don’t.
The kiss lasts barely a second before he’s already pulling back again, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.
You don’t know what to make of any of this.
The fear is still there, intertwined with confusion. Nothing about the situation has become less alarming, yet beneath all of it sits a quieter realization that is much harder to confront.
You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you as though your existence alone mattered to them.
You truly are pathetic.
Dex studies your face frantically, searching for a reaction. When you don’t immediately recoil, some of the tension visibly leaves his shoulders.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding embarrassed. “Haven’t done this in a long time.”
After the stalking and the break-in, you somehow expected him to be smoother than this. Certainly not to apologize for his kissing techniques.
Taking your silence as encouragement, he locks your mouths more forcefully than before. It’s eager, clumsy in the way his tongue pushes between your parted lips as the hand on your hip quickly flies behind your head to keep you nice and still for him.
“Wait—” You gasp when his big hands are suddenly everywhere. They squeeze your asscheeks, play with your covered breasts and palm your thighs as he keeps pressing wet kisses down your throat.
A loud whine falls from your lips, and it feels downright mortifying, your body completely on fire under his desperate touch. Dex muffles a growl against the swell of your tits once his hand sinks into your ruined panties, basking in the sharp tang that invades his nostrils and that he only had the chance to smell from stolen underwear.
With his other hand, he lowers your tank top, leaving the fabric hanging hopelessly from your torso to admire your beautiful tits.
It’s nothing that Dex hasn’t seen before—he did have to install cameras inside your apartment to make sure that fucking asshole of your landlord wouldn’t break in while you were gone.
These creeps never learn their lesson…
Fortunately you wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. Not when you are finally with Dex, while he is somewhere in the depth of some big lake on the other side of the state.
Your first orgasm of the night hits you with two of his fingers slowly fucking inside your pussy, and his lips delicately suckling your clit.
Your hands were desperately clutching his shoulders, his groan deep and animalistic around your nipple when your nails sank into the fabric of his t-shirt, causing a pleasant sting to travel down his back.
“Yes, sweetheart. Mark me, ‘m all yours.”
When Dex finally looked at you with a pretty blush across his cheeks, mumbling that he needs to taste you.
You fought him at first, frantically shaking your head and squeezing your shaky thighs close to keep his mouth as far as possible from your core. But again, you must be so pathetic to cave in for a pair of glossy hazel eyes looking up at you as if you just told him to keep his disgusting hands to himself and let you go.
Dex panted, chin gently propped on your belly. “Please, please my angel. Just a little taste, I promise.”
Now, a shiver runs down your back at the primal sound clawing out of his chest when he finally gets his mouth on your slick folds.
Your eyes turn wet, breathy whimpers reluctantly falling from your parted lips when you come, wave after wave of electrifying pleasure running through your veins as Dex watches mesmerized, tongue still working on your pussy and his free hand on your hip to help you hump his face.
“That’s it. That was a strong one, hm lovely?” You flinch in shame at the sight of your wetness shining on his smirk, but Dex is already discarding his pants and boxers, blanketing your body with his as he drags his hard cock between your sensitive folds.
He moans in your mouth, ignoring the way your palms keep pushing at his shoulders.
“Dex.” You wail, overstimulated.
“Yes, angel. Say my name, wanna hear you scream it. Wanna show everyone how good I make my pretty girl feel, and then I’m gonna cut their fucking ears off.” He groans against your lips, completely missing your flinch.
“You’re beautiful everywhere. Pretty face, pretty lips, pretty tits, pretty pussy…” He blabbers, eyes squeezed shut as the tip of his length slips inside.
A loud moan claws out of your throat. “Stop talking.” You mewl, the stimulation causing your hips to buck uncontrollably as another climax draws impossibly close again.
Your face is on fire, not used to praises, much less coming from a man.
“Can’t, sweetheart.” His answer is strained, the control he spent months building just for you slipping miserably once the realization of finally having you on his cock, naked and moaning, fully hits him.
“You’re my good girl now.” His hips gain speed, the stretch burning a little until he finally finds that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back. “Taking me so well, look at you.”
“Dex.” He shudders helplessly when you call for him. Never has his name sounded so sweet.
His head tips back all of a sudden. “Fuck, are you coming, my love?” He growls out, indulging in the way your pussy clamps desperately around him.
Your climax is stronger and messier, slick steadily pouring out around his length as your back arches and you find yourself shamelessly moaning and convulsing, trapped in an endless circle of bliss with his cock abusing your sweet spot and the trimmed hair at the base rubbing your puffy clit raw.
“Gonna fill you up, baby.” He mumbles urgently, surging down to suck on the skin of your neck. “Shit, shit—” Dex grunts, his balls tight as thick ropes of cum stuff you full.
You are now lying pliant on the mattress, his body still looming over yours as his cock weakly twitches inside you.
For a brief moment, a dangerous thought flashes across your tired mind.
He is spent and trembling, mumbling incoherently into your breasts... would it really be that hard to push him away? He is a broad, muscled man, but Dex would never expect it. Not after you surrendered so viscerally to his touch. You could shove him off and make a run to the door. Or reach for the glass on the nightstand and smash it against his temple hard enough to buy yourself a few precious minutes.
Instead, when his mouth frantically finds yours with a low whine, you allow Dex to steal the oxygen from your lungs as your hands slowly cradle his cheeks.
Maybe it’s the beginning of something terrible. Maybe one day you’ll regret not even trying. But as this broken man holds you like letting go would kill him, you find that you can’t bring yourself to care.
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
🏷️ general dex taglist: @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @erina00 @star-yawnznn
i loved your blurb about dex and his awkward nerd gf and i hope you’d indulge in this thought that’s been rotting in my brain bc i think it’s so them: dex and gf having a movie marathon night where she shows him more of her interests, they’re both sitting on the couch, dex sitting upright and gf lying down with her legs/feet in his lap. i can totally see dex having a habit of being touchy with his gf once comfortable and he’s definitely rubbing her ankles/feet as she yaps about the lore of whatever movie series they’re watching and unfortunately he’s lowkey not paying attention bc he’s so fixated on his soft gf that he begins to kiss up her legs. she eventually raises her head and gives him a look and tells him “what are you doing pay attention this is important (lovingly)” and gently pushes his face away with her foot 😭 dex gets a little pouty but ends up getting invested bc he loves his little nerd sm (he’s still holding her ankles in his lap)
YASSS babe you are in my brain, bad!!! I feel like I kind of went off prompt just a little because I got so wrapped up in the softness of this wowww
Lord of The Rings is very important to you, and even if he didn't know that, already he's pretty sure anyone within a five-foot radius could feel the tension in your shoulders, see the shine of your irises and the fully concentrated expression you've got during Boromir's last stand.
He can't focus, which is rare for him but very much so something that happens when he's around you specifically. The movie is a buzz in the background, and he doesn't really get it like you do so it's a no brainer that he'd rather fixate on the feeling of your soft skin against his calloused palms.
He's not really a foot guy. But yours are so soft in his hands cause he asks to rub lotion into them every night, and he is having the time of his life kneading his thumbs into the soles of your feet. He picked out your nail color recently, wonders how they have managed to stay unchipped despite your long shifts at work.
He needs to buy you a new pair of shoes, a random thought that sidetracks him for a split second before he regains his attention towards you.
"Those are the Urik-Hai's I was telling you about, remember?"
You are gasping, fully entranced and he gets so caught up in your heart achingly cute expression of disgust and distress that he almost forgets to respond.
You’ve watched this movie at least three times together.
"Mhm." He hums, lost in your calves and ankles now, tracing his fingers along your tibia. He sees the goosebumps erupting across your skin, feels it rise under his touch. But still, you’re thoroughly locked in to the tv.
And he can’t stop thinking about it, how your skin feels against his lips. About tracing his tongue against it.
So he grips the underside of your calf, lifts your leg to his mouth starting at the ankle and pressed soft, half open mouthed kisses. At first he’s lost in it, just one two three four, all the way up to your knee.
And then he peers across at you, sees you watching him with intensity. You can’t hide the heat radiating off of you, but you also keep glancing from him to the screen like he’s putting you in a severely compromising position.
Your toes meets his cheek, gently and firm. You nudge him away with this half chuckle that makes him blush, a harsh crimson bleed underneath his skin.
“You’re not watching! This is important, like central to the plot important!” You motion to the screen and resist the urge to give him a goofy grin, clearly both entertained by his neediness and also extremely investment in your movie.
He places your feet back in his lap, huffs an indignant breath through his nose. It makes his whole body move, chest rising and falling in one go.
You gaze at him sideways, his thumbs still twirling circles across your skin. He’s listening, taking you seriously despite this petulant, pouty expression that makes him look so innocent beyond years of life and decades of destruction.
With your eyes still on the screen you sit up and he immediately watches you - while you pretend you don’t notice that he looks like you kicked his metaphorical puppy.
He gets that panicky uptick in breath, until you’re immediately scooching closer, coming to nuzzle yourself against his side with your head tucked against his neck. He smells clean and warm, and distinctly Dex.
He gives in quickly, wrapping two big arms around you like you’ve given him some sort of mundane gift. You smile, one hand on his belly. You feel him tense there, before he relaxes into it while you rub small, open palmed circles across his torso.
“So what are they anyways? The Uruk-Hai’s?”
His voice is low and calm, and you peer up at him through your lashes.
He’s so handsome, and you can see every detail so up close. Between feeling him, and admiring him, you get that achey feeling in your chest, the itch to touch him. Cause he’s trying, for you, and it’s really fucking endearing.
So you don’t fight it, the soft chuckle that leaves you or the urge to kiss his jaw and chin. It takes him by surprise because he really was trying to pay attention. His skin is scruffy and warm against your mouth, a little bit of awe behind his eyes from the way your eyes are twinkling at him.
“I love you. You’re cute.”
It always sends a shiver down his spine, those words. You feel it through his body, and in the way he pulls you in impossibly tighter and how he strokes your cheek with the back of his hand.
“I love you too.” It sometimes still feels foreign in his mouth, cause love is so new for him. It doesn’t even feel like it’s a good enough word for the all consuming emotion, for the willingness to do absolutely anything for you if it meant proving an act of devotion.
“To answer your question, they’re creations of Sauron. Remember him?” You thread your fingers through his greying blonde hair, and he leans in like a puppy. He nods fervently, watches your mouth move when you talk, tears them away to glance at the television when he sees you do the same.
A perfect mirror.
And so the rest of the night is spent with you reminding him of other plot points, your favorite characters and why their story arcs add important.
And poor Dex does try his best, despite the fact that he’s buzzing with your contact. But by the end he’s asking question even you haven’t thought of, because he’s absorbing at it through a fresh pair of eyes.
He’s just absolutely and disgustingly in love what can I say!!!
“They're beautiful.”
“Well, they match their new owner.”
Was Clark Kent… flirting with you?
“They're—” you start, words tripping over themselves. “Camellias… my favourite. How did you…?”
“I remember you recommending them when I was debating what to send my Ma on her birthday,” he says softly, smiling in that shy-but-warm way that makes your chest fizz. “Said that they ‘can light up any room without even trying.’”
“Do you remember everything I say?” you ask, feeling your heartbeat jump straight into your throat.
“I try,” he admits, voice low. “You say a lot of beautiful things.”
The Cupid tingles were here, and they were going crazy.
Or
No matter what you do, love doesn't seem to agree with you, despite your matchmaking powers. The same goes for your best friend, Clark, who you may or may not be in love with. When you get a taste of your own medicine, your Cupid powers start getting out of hand.
Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Photographer!Reader, Metahuman!Reader with Cupid/Matchmaking Powers, Mutual Pining, Workplace Crushes, Office Romance, Friends to Lovers, Secret Identity Shenanigans, Love Confessions, Reader has a grumpy cat named Cato (I had just watched Hunger Games, but better), Baking with Superman
WC: 11.0k
A/N: Posting stuff that's been in my drafts for a while. I've been dying to post this for ages since I haven't written a long Clark fic since Office Gossip. Hope you enjoy!
***
Irony is a cruel mistress.
Downright evil, in fact. Because how and in what world would you be so unlucky in love?
Every relationship you have bursts into flames. One time, literally, a fellow metahuman you dated caught fire and threw themselves out a window when you said “I love you” for the first time.
But that's not where the irony kicks in. It's the fact that you are the closest thing this earth has to Cupid.
Everywhere you go, you leave a trail of heart eyes in your wake.
Meet-cutes happen right in front of you with a snap of your fingers.
Whether it was the exhausted accountant and the barista at your coffee shop or the dog-walker and the grumpy author downstairs, you'd shoot a little love-powered finger gun, and they'd ride off into the sunset together.
Trudging your way into the Daily Planet, the world’s most chaotic newsroom, you were not in the mood for any bullshit, especially not superpowered bullshit. The Big Belly Burger near your house just got blinked out of existence. You mean it, there’s literally a crater where it used to be, your rent’s due tomorrow, and a supervillain just stole your cat this morning for funsies.
Not to mention, you and your stupid powers just set up the really cute florist you’ve been plotting on for months with your neighbour.
He was the perfect guy for you.
Sweet, funny, smelled like jasmine and sunlight, and your powers weren’t giving you any reason not to go full steam ahead.
But of course, the second your neighbour entered his flower shop, and they made eye contact, BAM, you made a match.
At this point, it would be merciful if someone finally struck you down with lightning. But knowing you, you’d survive, but all your hair would fall off instead.
You reach your desk, slumping down in it like the saddest little puddle of melted ice cream.
“You look like you’ve been through hell,” Lois comments, eyeing the scorch marks on your sleeve and the suspicious dusting of concrete in your hair. “You okay?”
“Toyman stole my cat.”
You replay the moment in your head. There was a large crash shattering through your window, glass everywhere, and before you knew it, your cat had leapt into his arms. Traitor.
“Sure, Cato’s really grumpy and tears my kitchen apart on a daily basis and has run away from home three times in the past month,” you sigh, rubbing your temples, “but he always comes home, and I miss him. He’s my grumpy little disaster.”
Lois blinks. “Toyman. The Toyman. Stole your cat.”
“Yup. Didn’t even monologue. Just grabbed Cato, said ‘shitty apartment’, and jetpacked out the window. Who even does that?”
You lean back in your chair, far enough that it creaks in warning. “Save me, Lois Lane,” you groan dramatically, flinging an arm over your face like a silent movie star in distress.
“Not my jurisdiction,” she says with a playful shake of the head and a comforting pat on the shoulder.
You’re about to retort when the elevator dings across the bullpen.
A deep voice filters through the chatter. “Sorry, Perry!”
Then comes the soft shuffle of papers, a muffled thud of a bag, and the unmistakable steady rhythm of footsteps, ones you’ve heard a hundred times before.
Your favourite mild-mannered reporter and serial bringer of pastries steps into the newsroom, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes as he makes his way to his desk just across from yours.
“Hey, Cla—”
You lean back a little too far, mid-greeting, and gravity decides to betray you. The chair tips, and you tumble backwards in a spectacular display of dignity loss, hitting the floor with a thud that echoes across the bullpen.
As you’re groaning in pain and contemplating whether your day could get any worse, a shadow falls over you. You blink up, squinting against the overhead lights, and find yourself staring at a very concerned Clark Kent.
His hair is an adorable mess, a sure sign he’s been running around trying not to be late and failing miserably. His tie’s crooked, glasses slightly askew, and of course, he still looks like a lead in a rom-com.
You may or may not have an itsy bitsy crush on him. It absolutely does not consume most of your waking moments.
But you can't help but think of him when things are rough.
Just a smile could warm even the coldest of days, thaw ice with a single chuckle.
If you could put your powers to use for anyone, you'd do it for him, but who to set him up with? Your Cupid senses were not tingling.
Which was odd. They always tingled. Constantly. Especially when Jimmy’s around.
You’d stumbled through multiple love matches a day thanks to him. There was Jimmy and the new interns, Jimmy and the girl from layout, Jimmy and the pizza delivery driver who once gave him an extra pizza he didn't order “because he looked like he needed it.”
But with Clark? Zilch. Nada.
Maybe he was unlucky in love just like you.
“Are you upside down, or is that just me?” you mumble, wincing as you try to sit up.
Clark laughs softly, that warm, gentle sound that makes your stomach do weird somersaults. He reaches down and, with one effortless motion, lifts you upright as if you weigh nothing more than a stack of newspapers.
“You okay?” he asks, still holding your arm a second longer than necessary.
You stare at him, heart doing that annoying thing, and sigh. “Define okay.”
“What happened?”
“Toyman stole her cat,” Lois answers from her desk.
Clark blinks. “Toyman stole your cat?”
“And insulted my apartment,” you huff, crossing your arms and glaring at the floor like it personally offended you. “What does he know about interior design anyway? The man literally lives in a dollhouse.”
Lois snorts. “Technically, a lair.”
“Whatever. It's ugly as hell,” you reply.
Clark’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m sure Cato’s okay. Toyman wouldn’t hurt—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” you cut in, sighing. “But still. He kidnapped my cat and roasted my décor. That’s a new low, even for me.”
“I know you’ll get your cat back.”
“Thanks.”
Lois’s kind smile makes you feel better, but you’re not sure she knows just how unlucky you are in every aspect of your life.
You may never see your precious cat again, hear his grumpy meows, or wake up to him sitting on your chest and pawing at your face at 3 am.
Clark is still beside you, mind working at lightning speed to cheer you up.
“How about we go to Amoré for lunch in a few hours? Get some of those Belgian waffles you love so much. My treat.”
Your heart soars at the offer, the excitement on your face as plain as day.
“You always know how to make me happy.”
***
On your way into downtown Metropolis, you’re snapping every photo you can get your hands on. From street corners, skyscrapers, pigeons doing that weird little hop thing, anything that catches your eye.
From the tram, you can see the city stretch endlessly below.
“Pretty, right?” You say, leaning towards Clark, showing him the faintly blurred picture of a couple having lunch under the sunlit arches in Centennial Park.
One of your favourite sights in town, you had to say. Especially this time of the year, the cherry blossoms were in bloom, painting the city in a light blush.
It was a sight to behold and completely and utterly romantic.
You couldn’t be the second coming of Cupid if you weren’t a hopeless romantic. Even if it wasn’t happening for you, you were happy it was happening for someone else.
The feeling of him right next to you, the faint but intoxicating smell of his cologne as he leans closer, has you swooning.
Then he spoke, and it’s like he’s trying to put you in an early grave.
“I love seeing Metropolis from your eyes…”
You were so gone.
You love the way he made you feel. Even the smallest things make you feel like you’re flying.
“Well, it’s a special city,” you shrug. “Lots to shoot, lots to be inspired by.”
You play it off well enough. Just long enough for your heart rate to return to something less concerning. You didn’t need to be having a heart attack before you got your hands on free Belgian waffles courtesy of Clark.
He seems to accept your response, not pushing any further, but the little twinkle in his eyes tells you he knows more than he’s letting on.
“I know,” he says softly.
You smile to yourself, a quiet kind of peace rolling over you before lifting the camera back up to keep shooting. Your world, framed in your lens once again.
You don’t use cameras just for work; they're tools that help you focus, a way to keep your powers in check.
Finger guns can be… unpredictable. One time, there was a little misfire, and suddenly, you made a guy hopelessly in love with his own reflection. You can only hope it wore off before lunchtime.
But with the camera, you have control. Two consecutive photos of the same people with the same camera and, BAM, the match is made.
It’s the perfect tool for unsuspecting singles everywhere.
It'll push them both in the right direction, make them bolder, and give them the confidence to make that first move.
Sure, it’s a little bit of an occupational hazard, but you've gotten better at controlling it… mostly.
“It’s our stop,” Clark says, waking you from your daydream. You feel the tram car judder to a stop and step off. But not without stumbling a little, though your big, strong guardian reaches and steadies you.
Letting out a deep breath of relief, you didn’t become a pancake. You beam up at him.
“I swear, I would’ve become a splat on the pavement a long time ago if it weren’t for you.”
“I have to look out for a fellow klutz,” Clark responds, still holding you upright.
It should be funny, really, that somehow you’re just as, if not more, clumsy than he is, but he makes it look endearing instead of disastrous.
Clearing your throat, you try to pull yourself together before you get lost in that beautiful oasis called his eyes.
“Well, fellow klutz, let’s get food.”
You reach out, half considering taking his hand before opting to tug gently at his sleeve instead.
Turning into a side street, you drink in the familiar sight in front of you. You couldn’t count how many times you’d found yourself walking through this part of New Troy, a hidden-away jewel, tucked quietly behind the hustle and bustle just a few feet away.
You snap a picture here and there, of the sun-worn brick walls lined with ivy, your favourite food cart with burritos you swore by, the smell of grilled peppers and warm tortillas bringing you back to the day you and Clark tried them for the first time.
An old jewellery store catches your eye, the one with the slightly crooked sign and the velvet-lined display. You smile at the memory of you and Clark stopping in to pick something out for his mother’s birthday, the store clerk wrongfully (but very enthusiastically) trying to sell you engagement rings. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Clark turn that red.
Before you finally arrive at the doors of Amoré, the cafe of your dreams. It’s like someone took a look inside your brain and planted it in reality.
The little jingle as you both enter is nostalgic as you’re yet again brought back to a memory with Clark.
Unlike today, it had been absolutely horrid, winds threatening to sweep you off your feet, and it was as if heaven itself had opened up and decided to rain down without mercy.
Clark was soaked from head to toe, and it was partly your fault.
In your defence, it hadn’t been raining when you left the office, and it wasn't even forecasted, but your chronic unluckiness decided to make an appearance anyway.
Before you could get completely drenched, though, the rain stopped, or at least, it did for you.
Above you, Clark had shielded you from the downpour, holding his suit jacket over your head like a makeshift umbrella.
“But you’ll get cold,” you protested, trying to tug the jacket back toward him.
“I’ll be fine.”
“No, you won’t be. You’ll get cold and then get sick and then—”
He chuckled at your concern, adjusting the jacket so it covered you completely, water dripping from his hair as he met your eyes.
“I’ll be okay,” he said softly, “as long as you’re okay.”
You felt like Cupid had shot you with an arrow that day.
Clark’s hair, wet and curly, clung to his forehead, droplets beading on the frames of his glasses. His white shirt was soaked through, clinging to the lines of his torso. That was also the magical day you realised Clark Kent has abs.
He was a vision. A romantic vision, the kind you’d scribbled about in the margins of notebooks and never expected to meet in person.
The whole time he was smiling. All pretty and gentle as he shepherded you into Amoré, shaking the rain from his sleeves and insisting you go ahead while he wrung out his tie.
He treated you to the best hot chocolate you’d ever had: thick, sweet and plenty of marshmallows.
“Give me your hands,” you demanded, and started rubbing them together rapidly, palms pressing against his as if your friction could send some warmth straight into his bones.
“What are you doing?” he asked, eyebrows quirked up.
“Getting you warm and making sure you don’t get a cold,” you said, dead serious. You knew very well your efforts were dumb and mostly theatrical, but you couldn’t be blamed for trying. “If you get sick because of me… I’ll end up feeling terrible, and I'll make you so much soup that it'll be falling out your ears.”
He laughed, the sound low and fond. “Is that the threat?” he teased. “Homemade soup?”
“Yes,” you said, because you meant it. He squeezed your hands once, warm and sure, then leaned in and brushed his forehead to yours, just for a second, before leaning back as if reconsidering his actions. You missed his touch as soon as it was gone.
“After you,” Clark says, opening the door to Amoré wide, and you step in immediately, hit with the smell of cinnamon and sugar.
A stolen cat and a trip down memory lane could really make someone hungry.
***
You had eaten your weight in food, the owner, Dana, giving you a free cinnamon roll on the house for your cat-related troubles.
“It’s the least I can do since you spend half your paycheck here every month,” she joked.
Now, you’re walking down the street, the city humming quietly around you, on your way back to work.
You glance at Clark’s empty hand as he walks in step with you, his palm facing slightly upward, open as if he’s waiting.
You wish you could reach out and take it.
Be one of those effortlessly affectionate couples, the kind you see on park benches or on travel posters, sickeningly cute in a way that makes strangers roll their eyes but secretly smile. The kind you’d find on the cover of a magazine titled Love in the City.
You find yourself smiling at the idea. Clark would look good on the cover of something like that.
You’re about to head to the tram stop when something catches your eye. It’s the way the afternoon light hits a shop window, scattering across the glass and bouncing off a row of flowers in buckets by the door. You rush to get one of your cameras out before adjusting the focus with muscle memory, taking shot after shot as the light shifts and flickers.
You can feel Clark’s eyes on you, probably curious and fond, but you’re too deep in the zone to meet his gaze. You’ll probably freak out about it later, when your brain catches up with you and remembers how close he’d been, how soft his look had turned.
A couple enters one of your shots, looking like they’ve stepped straight out of an old, vintage postcard.
“Those are going to turn out beautifully,” he comments.
“Well, in another world, I’d be a wedding photographer,” you say, lowering the camera.
Clark chuckles, “Another world, huh? You’d make a great one.”
“I would. But fortunately for you, Mr Kansas, we’re in this world, and we get to work together.”
“Mr Kansas? That’s new,” he says, clearly amused.
“I gotta keep you on your toes,” you joke before continuing to take pictures.
Taking shots of things you love. A street musician playing to the clouds, the way sunlight hits a puddle after rain, a dog barking at a squirrel in a tree. Life’s precious little moments that you’d normally overlook.
You walk over to the couple, camera still in hand, and offer them a print.
“I got you in one of my shots,” you say, smiling softly. “You can have this if you want it.”
Their eyes widen, and they take it with a “thank you”. It’s a candid moment of love, something so pure and effortless, yet somehow, just out of your reach. But seeing how it lights them up, how it makes them laugh and lean into each other, might just be enough for you.
You rush back over to Clark, cheeks flushed from the little burst of excitement still buzzing in your chest.
“Did they like the picture?” he asks, eyes lighting up, just at the sight of your happy face.
“They loved it,” you say, grinning, your heart all warm and gooey, like a freshly baked cookie right out of the oven. “Maybe love isn’t meant for me, but I love it regardless. I don’t know, being able to capture it for someone else makes my world a little brighter.”
You catch something flickering in Clark’s eyes, a look you can’t quite place. Knowing him, he’s probably fighting the urge to gently call you out on the self-deprecation, to tell you you’re wrong about love not being meant for you. But before he can say anything, something else catches your eye, inspiration burning inside of you like a fire.
“Can you hold this for a sec?” you ask, holding out one of your cameras to him.
“Of course,” he says, taking it carefully, as though it’s something precious.
You’re already moving, half jogging, half skipping, the sun spilling across your face as your eyes dart around, scanning the street for that perfect shot.
Clark watches with that quiet, unshakable fondness of his, his heart pitter-pattering with every step you take, every moment you stop to frame a picture. And unknown to you, there’s a soft click, the snap of the shutter, as he lifts the camera and takes a candid photo of you.
He thinks you look beautiful.
Like something out of a postcard.
***
After a long day at the Daily Planet, editing and colour-correcting your photos for print until your eyes felt like sandpaper, the only thing you wanted to do was sleep for the next decade.
So naturally, there’s a knock at your door.
You groan, rolling out of bed and immediately regretting every life choice that led you here when your knee slams into the floor.
“Fucking—” You bite down on the rest of the word, hissing through your teeth.
You grab the baseball bat you normally use to shoo away the pigeons that loved to shit on your balcony, hobbling toward the door and wondering who would dare interrupt your beauty sleep at this hour.
“Listen, whatever you’re selling—”
Meow.
You freeze. Your eyes widen when you see your cat being held in the arms of someone standing in your doorway. Cato looks perfectly content, purring like the little traitor he is, tail flicking lazily as if he hadn’t been abducted by a supervillain less than twenty-four hours ago.
You blink, lowering the bat slightly. “Cato?”
He meows again, utterly unbothered.
“My sweet baby. Never run away again!”
You pet him lightly, and he leans into your touch, purring contentedly… before suddenly hissing at you.
“That’s my boy,” you coo.
As you straighten, your eyes travel up the body that’s holding your cat. That’s when it hits you: a very distinct colour scheme, blue, red, and yellow. And that unmistakable symbol on his chest that Cato had been pawing at… where did you know that from?
Lo and behold, Superman, in all his heroic super-ness, is standing in your doorway, holding your cat. The curl of Cato’s tail drapes over the Man of Steel’s arm, his little claws kneading gently at the emblem as Superman smiles down at you, that warm, world-saving smile that somehow makes even an over-caffeinated yet sleep-deprived photographer’s knees weak.
“Superman,” you start, trying to sound calm and not like you’re about to melt into a puddle of nerves. “Why are you holding my cat?” You can’t help the deer-in-headlights look on your face.
He shifts Cato gently in his arms, the cat looking way too pleased with himself for someone who just survived a supervillain kidnapping.
“I rescued him from Toyman’s old hideout,” Superman explains, “There was a small explosion, a lot of smoke, and I found this little guy sitting on a busted control panel like he owned the place.”
You blink, trying to picture your cat perched amid sparks and wreckage. That tracks.
Superman smiles, holding Cato out to you. “His collar had your address on it. Figured he’d want to come home.”
You take Cato, your fingers brushing briefly against Superman’s gloved hand, a spark running through your body. “Yeah, well,” you murmur, cradling your cat, “he’s grounded. Forever. No more villain playdates.”
Your mind is grasping to keep this conversation going when a certain someone comes to mind.
“Oh! We uh, have a mutual friend,” you start, shifting Cato in your arms like it gives you some excuse for talking to Superman. “Clark Kent? Or, well, I guess I don’t actually know if you guys are friends. But you do give him an awful amount of interviews.”
Superman tilts his head, that signature half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Clark keeps me busy,” he admits, voice calm but amused.
“I’ll bet,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “So what’s a girl gotta do to get a moment with you? I take great pictures.”
He chuckles softly. “Persistence goes a long way.”
“Oh, I’m persistent,” you counter with a grin. “If you ever want a proper photo shoot, call me first. I’ll make you look just as handsome as you are in real life.”
Your eyes wander before you can stop them, over the sharp line of his jaw, up to the curl of hair that refuses to obey gravity. You swallow hard, heart thudding traitorously against your ribs.
“Which is,” you murmur before your filter can kick in, “really, really handsome.” A beat passes. “Wow, you’re perfect.”
Superman blinks, then smiles. That small, devastating smile that could probably power Metropolis for a week. “I’m… far from perfect,” he says gently, though the faint pink dusting his cheeks suggests he’s not entirely immune to the compliment.
“Liar.” You let out a shaky laugh.
“I should let you get back to saving Metropolis, or sleeping…” you pause, tilting your head, “Do you even sleep?”
“Yes,” he says, that soft smile still in place. “I sleep.”
“Good to know.” You laugh under your breath, rubbing the back of your neck. “Well, I uh…” You trail off, words slipping away as you look at him. The warmth in his eyes, his voice like a balm for your brain, smoothing out the edges of your chaotic day until everything feels… easy.
“Thank you so much,” you say quietly. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“It’s okay,” he replies, his tone gentle, reassuring. “I’m just glad I got him home to you. Seems like he missed you, too.”
You glance down to see Cato nuzzling against your arm, purring like a motorboat, his earlier hissiness forgotten now that he’s safely home. “Yeah,” you whisper, smiling softly. “He’s a menace, but he’s my menace.”
When you look up again, Superman is already stepping back into the hallway.
“Goodnight, Superman,” you say, voice a little softer than you meant it to be.
He smiles back, “Goodnight.”
And with a rush of wind and a flutter of red, he’s gone, leaving you standing in the doorway, clutching your cat and wondering if maybe your Cupid powers had finally started working on you.
***
You’re going mad.
But you can’t stop thinking about him.
No matter how many times you flip your pillow or change positions, sleep refuses to come. You toss and turn, your mind replaying every single moment on a loop, the way he laughed, the way his eyes softened when he said “I’m glad he’s home,” like he actually cared. The way his smile made the world tilt just slightly on its axis.
But on the other hand, he was Superman.
He probably dated someone equally as… super. Why wouldn’t he? It made sense. Someone who could fly beside him, and not have to worry about things like rent or camera batteries. He probably had a super hot alien girlfriend somewhere who could light up the sky with a wink.
Still… your Cupid senses were pinging around like a broken radio, so it was definitely alive. At least, on your part.
You’ve had crushes before. You’ve even fallen in love once or twice. But this was different. It wasn’t the soft, dreamy kind of love that crept up quietly. It was electric and loud.
Like your heart was dancing in your chest, and not a slow dance either, it was like the tango or samba. So full of life, like it might just grow wings and fly.
Kind of like that day in the rain with Clark…
Fuck, love was confusing.
You arrive at the Daily Planet the next morning with renewed energy. A spring in your step that even a double shot of espresso couldn’t usually inspire, you practically glide past the reception desk.
Jimmy, perched on the edge of a chair with a camera slung around his neck, grins and raises an eyebrow. “You look… chipper.”
“Chipper?” you repeat, smirking. “Jimmy, Superman saved my cat. Not just saved him, but brought him to my door.”
Jimmy whistles, leaning back like he’s suddenly seen the headline of the century. “Wait, what? Your cat? And Superman personally delivered him?”
“Yep,” you say, popping the ‘p’ obnoxiously as you wipe your nails on your shirt. You were loving his stunned expression, eating it up, in fact. “We like talked or whatever. It's not even a big deal.”
You gush him to Jimmy for a couple minutes…or 15, give or take, until he shoos you away from his desk. With a sigh, your eyes sweep the office, looking for someone else to brag to when you see Clark.
Walking over and sitting on the edge of his desk, you smile at him a little too long.
“Is… everything okay?” he asks.
“Everything is more than okay. Clark, your boy, Superman, dropped by my apartment yesterday. Did you tell him about Cato?”
He blinks at you, maybe at the fact that you called him and Superman “boys”.
“I—”
Before he can even confirm or deny it, you throw your arms around him. “Thank you.”
You sink into his embrace, and no matter how many times it happens, you’re always a little stunned by how right it feels, like slipping into a warm bath after a long day.
His arms wrap around you easily, steady and warm, and for a fleeting second, you think this must be what home feels like. Your own little safe haven.
And his strong, solid biceps? Yeah, you could definitely make a home right there if he’d let you.
Reluctantly, you pull back before you end up attaching yourself to him like a koala on a eucalyptus tree, though you’re very tempted.
“Plus, I swear, Cato has been so well-behaved since he got back. I woke up, and my apartment was still intact because he kept meowing at my Superman poster.”
“You have a Superman poster?”
You laugh, that same shaky, breathy laugh from last night, and wave a hand dismissively. “That’s irrelevant.”
You lean closer as if to imply whatever you're about to say has to stay hush-hush.
“But, uh, don't run off and tell Superman. I'll never live it down.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” he says, holding out his pinkie, which you immediately wrap around his.
While he has you close, he says, “Well, I was actually going to ask if you're free for lunch later?”
“I'm always free for you.”
***
At lunch, two of you head back to Amoré that afternoon, ready to melt into the seats over a cup of coffee and a croissant…or 5.
“Couple discount,” Dana intises, as she approaches the two of you in your usual chairs.
“You know very well that we're not dating,” you whine, probably sounding a little too sad that you aren’t.
“But you should be. In all my years of working here, I've never seen friends with chemistry like this. Truly, tell me…why not?”
The two of you don’t have an answer for that.
You just let the question wash over you as you noticeably avoid each other’s eyes.
“Because…we’re friends,” you reiterate. She remains unconvinced by your weak attempt at deflection.
“Well, the couple discount will be here until next week, so I would hurry up if I were you.”
“Thanks, Dana,” Clark replies politely as she walks off, grumbling to herself, something about “idiots in love”.
She was a character, but you can’t help wondering what if.
What if she was right?
To distract yourself, you reach for your camera as you always do.
The light is just right, painting the room in a warm, honeyed glow. Not quite sunny, not quite dim. The kind of scene you could set music to.
And then there’s Clark.
You lift the camera and look at him through the lens, and somehow, impossibly, he’s perfect as always.
He's always so dynamic, so interesting. Wherever he's laughing at a joke Jimmy told, or he's hard at work on an article, there's so much to see, so much to love.
By now, he’s used to being the subject of your photos every now and then. He barely reacts when the shutter clicks, just glances up, raises a brow, gives you that familiar half-smile before going about his business.
You can’t help it. He’s just so fun to take candid photos of. Capturing his beauty that's usually in motion in still moments.
Snapshots of Clark that feel honest. Real. The way his eyes soften when he smiles, the way he simply exists in a space.
You take the picture and practically die at the result.
He’s looking at you.
Not posing or performing. Just looking, curious in that way he often is, like he’s quietly wondering what’s going on inside your head. Like he’s trying to read you without asking the question out loud.
It’s funny how a single picture of him can weigh so heavily on you.
It’s the dimples, first of all.
The way they show when he smiles at you, all soft and patient, like he’s waiting for your reaction. For your attention. For something.
That's real.
You smile at the photo without even thinking about it.
“Good picture?” he asks.
“More than good.”
You tilt the camera toward him, letting him see.
“See?” you say softly. “Perfect.”
***
You wake up in the morning, and everything feels lighter. It’s like the clouds in the sky were made of candy floss, and the sun is quite literally smiling down at you. It’s that warm and gooey again.
You try to shake it off to no avail, blinking against the morning light, and begin getting ready for work, brushing your teeth and throwing on your clothes with a little extra spring in your step.
When you get to the office, Clark is already at your desk, leaning casually against the corner with that half-smile that drives your brain into a mild panic.
“Hey, Clark,” you say, drawing out the greeting and fluttering your eyes a little more than usual.
You catch yourself before it goes too far, snapping out of it and sitting up straight. What the heck was that?
“Hey yourself. I got you, your morning coffee,” he says casually, “And this bouquet of flowers.”
Before turning around and pulling the flowers out of seemingly thin air. It's a beautiful bouquet, full of life and colour. Is he a magician? A mind reader?
“They're beautiful.”
“Well, they match their new owner.”
Was Clark Kent… flirting with you?
“They're—” you start, words tripping over themselves. “Camellias… my favourite. How did you…?”
“I remember you recommending them when I was debating what to send my Ma on her birthday,” he says softly, smiling in that shy-but-warm way that makes your chest fizz. “Said that they ‘can light up any room without even trying.’”
“Do you remember everything I say?” you ask, feeling your heartbeat jump straight into your throat.
“I try,” he admits, voice low. “You say a lot of beautiful things.”
The Cupid tingles were here, and they were going crazy.
“Well, you say a lot of beautiful things too, Mr Kansas.”
You step closer into his space, almost chest to chest, love is in the air, and you can’t seem to stop yourself.
Were you flirting with Clark?!
The realisation knocks you out of the clouds as that sudden burst of confidence wears off.
“I need to… feed the printer some, uh, paper,” you blurt, already stumbling backwards, walking directly into a filing cabinet and half tripping over your own feet before escaping to the supply closet like it’s a lifeboat on a sinking ship.
You didn’t know what was going on with you… more importantly, you didn’t know what was going on with Clark.
Behind you, you think you hear him exhale, and then quietly say to himself, “…Nice going, Kent.”
The rest of the day, it’s like the whole world had come to life, everything that bit brighter, more vibrant. And you can’t keep Clark off your mind, and you mean more than usual. Whenever you thought of him, he'd appear, just a few seconds later.
And sure, maybe you could chalk that up to the fact that you work together, but that doesn’t explain him randomly walking up onto the rooftop where you were and having no reason as to why. Or him finding you in the broom closet, when he had no reason to be in there.
It has something to do with the warm, gooey feeling from this morning.
Even as you walk back from lunch with Clark, you notice that flowers that are out of season are in full bloom. Though little did you know, the worst was yet to come. As you’re walking, he stops over to help an old lady across the street.
“I’ll just be a second,” he says, rushing off. You watch him greet her and help her across the street, the way her face lights up as they talk, it makes you soft.
Ping.
So it’s no surprise that a random halo appears over your head.
You only realise it's there when you feel a pair of eyes looking above you, rather than at you. You wave it away, the halo disappearing in a puff of smoke, thankfully before Clark makes back over to you.
“Ready to head back?”
“Yeah, totally.”
***
Working was impossible at this point. It felt like you just stepped into a movie with how perfect everything felt. And for the girl with exceptionally bad luck, that could only mean one thing. Everything was about to go to shit.
It’s not even anything major.
You were chilling by your desk, fiddling with your pencil, finalising some edit when he came over to your desk. He simply says your name and then, “I’ve been thinking about you…”’
You don’t even hear the rest of the sentence. That was enough for you to want to go feral on this man.
“Shit—”
You let go of the pencil, instead of falling, instead of bouncing onto the floor as physics intended, the pencil hangs suspended in midair, floating in front of you like you’ve stepped into a zero-gravity simulator.
A beat passes. Then the coffee cup next to you lifts off the table too, tilting slightly, liquid sloshing dangerously but somehow not spilling. Papers flutter upward like startled birds. Pens twirl. Lois’s stress ball drifts majestically past your ear.
And then a far more alarming realisation hits you like a bus.
Why are my feet off the ground?
That should not be a question anyone asks during a normal weekday. That’s a question reserved for roller-coaster fanatics or trapeze artists, not you.
You swish your legs experimentally, and instead of falling back down, you glide slightly sideways, drifting up like a helium balloon.
If this weren’t happening in front of the entire newsroom, you’d feel like Peter Pan, all whimsical without the whole kidnapping children thing.
“You’re floating,” Cat gasps from across the bullpen, mouth hanging open as she drops her phone, which, of course, stops mid-air and starts floating too.
What was happening?
Was this… you?
Were you causing this?
Had your powers just evolved?
Or had flirting with Clark Kent somehow launched you into spontaneous levitation like a lovesick rocket?
You spin slowly in mid-air, hair drifting around your face like you’re underwater, and all you can think is, Why can’t I ever just be normal for one second?
All he did was bring you a pretzel, and your powers decided to have a complete meltdown about it.
Clark opens his mouth to say something, probably to reassure you, because of course he would, but you beat him to it.
“No, no, don’t worry, everything’s under control,” you blurt, voice cracking like a rusty hinge.
It is absolutely not under control.
You’re now fully horizontal, hovering like a board in a magic show, the only thing keeping you from drifting straight up toward the massive ceiling is the death grip you have on the edge of your desk.
Your knuckles are white, your heart is tap-dancing in your chest, and you’re pretty sure your dignity has already packed its bags and left the building.
The Daily Planet has stupidly high ceilings. If you let go, there is a non-zero chance you may never come back down. And you absolutely do not want to become the human party balloon of the office.
But of course, because this is your life, your grip slips.
Your hand slides, scrambling against piles of paper and glossy magazines that flutter upward like startled birds, slipping through your fingers one by one.
“No, no, no—!”
And then you let go.
You start to drift upward, slowly at first, then faster, and before you can cry out, a hand closes around yours.
“I’ve got you.”
As if you couldn't feel more weightless.
Despite all the chaos, the floating furniture, the gasps echoing through the bullpen, it’s like the world narrows down to just his face.
Everything else blurs out: the newsroom noise, the fluorescent lights, the fact that you are currently defying gravity in front of your coworkers.
It's like nothing else in the entire universe exists.
You’re weightless in more ways than one, and suddenly you understand why. It's exactly how he makes you feel.
His hands wrap around yours, warm and sure, and your fingers curl instinctively around his, clinging like he’s gravity itself.
“Just keep your eyes on me,” he says. He's steady, not freaking out in the slightest, and he has every right to be.
It's not every day your coworker starts floating away.
You nod at him, and slowly, he tugs you close. You fight the zero gravity and drift into his inviting arms.
And before you knew it, you were back on the floor. Everything was floating, crashing down shortly after.
“What the hell is going on?” Perry yells.
***
You hoped the incident would be forgotten by tomorrow. You doubted it, but you sure can hope.
You have been in love before, but never in a way that had your powers this out of whack.
He had you floating, and you didn't know you could do that!
But words couldn't fully explain the way it felt. Like your heart was climbing with you as you left the ground.
You were comfy now and firmly obeying the laws of physics. Wrapped up in your blanket, watching reruns as you try to fall asleep.
Though it was impossible, the events of the day were still spinning through your head like a washing machine.
You’d all but exposed the fact that you’re a metahuman to your colleagues.
It’s not like you were ashamed of it or hated who you were; it was just…private.
Not even Clark knew.
And you liked it that way, the control, the separation between your strange and your normal.
But now?
Maybe there was still a chance you could blame everything on a freak accident. Or that you’d been accidentally blasted by an evil cosmic ray on your way to work. That sounded like something that happened in Metropolis at least twice a week.
Fuck.
The thought of the end of your social life disappears from your mind when you see a certain someone on the news. The thought of Superman, the image of his smile on the screen, lulls you to sleep, easier than you thought was possible.
You awaken to the soft knocking on the window to your balcony. You and massaging out the crick in your neck from falling asleep half off the couch.
Assuming it’s just a pigeon pecking at the glass, you grab your trusty baseball bat, ready to shoo it away. You open the balcony door cautiously to find not a pigeon but a whole ass man.
Your gaze travels from his shoes up to a handsome face staring back at you, calm and impossibly composed.
“Superman,” you wheeze, heart racing, “What are you doing on my balcony?”
“I wanted to check on your cat,” he says, calm as ever.
“Oh.”
“And you.”
“Oh?”
“You’ve made quite the impression on me.”
You made an impression on Superman?!
You may not be screaming out loud, but on the inside, you've got a megaphone that you're yelling at the top of your lungs into.
“I tend to have that effect on people.”
You aim to lean against your doorway but miss, stumbling a little. He catches you because, of course, he does.
So much for being suave.
The way he holds your arm, gently but securely, has you thinking about Clark. It's you've been hit with a wave of deja vu.
You shake away the thought and look back up at him. Probably shouldn't be thinking about two guys at the same time, but you couldn't help it.
“You look like you've seen a ghost.”
“It's not that, it's just… there's something so familiar about you.”
As you look at him, it's like your brain is straining to put together a puzzle with a missing piece.
Like you couldn’t find the right words. He had your brain all fried; he had put a spell on you, that’s for sure.
Before you can find that missing puzzle piece, your cat bounds up to him. Meowing at Superman's boots and pawing at his legs.
“Sorry about that. You've made quite the impression on him.”
Bending down, he lifts Cato into his arms and pets him softly, “I've missed you too, buddy.”
Right then and there, you decide it should be illegal to look that fine while holding a cat.
He looks up at you with light concern.
“What are you doing awake? It's 2 am.”
“Can't sleep. My brain is being stubborn. What about you? Shouldn't you be sleeping instead of throwing bricks from your glass house?”
“You got me there.”
“Seriously, though. You should sleep. I just saw you on TV lifting a building. You don't need to check on me.”
The guilt you would feel if he were tired the next day and potentially getting hurt fighting some villain, because of you, would be immeasurable.
Sure, you didn't know what he did during the day when he wasn't Superman-ing around, but you wanted him to be well rested.
“I'll survive.”
From his tone of voice, you knew he was resolute in this.
“If you insist. So…” you tap your foot, trying to think what you would do with a superhero in your living room.
“Wanna bake with me? By the time we're done, I'm sure we'll be tired.” You suggest. Doing something with your hands always helps tucker you out. “...Unless you think it's dumb. I know you're a busy guy—”
“It would be an honour.”
***
Superman was nice.
Not just nice but nice to be around. Like the kind of guy you'd bring home to meet the parents.
Boyfriend material.
Just who is this guy? Superhero and rom-com lead? You're starting to wonder if he was made in a lab.
“My Ma makes the best pies,” he says, voice reminiscent, kneading the dough with his hands in practised movements.
Those words bring you back to the first week of knowing Clark. It was around Thanksgiving when you started, and he fawned over his mother's pumpkin pie.
“My Ma makes the best pies,” he had said, probably verbatim, followed by, “Wish you could try it sometime.”
He had said it quieter, almost like he didn't mean for it to slip out. The thought of him bringing you home to meet his parents for Thanksgiving makes you feel a little lightheaded. What you wouldn't give to be that important to him.
You laugh softly, chuckling at the memory. You just couldn't stop yourself from thinking about him, could you?
“What?” he asks, brow furrowing slightly.
“No, it’s just… You remind me of someone,” you say, smiling, shaking your head. “A good someone. Someone I really like.”
He glances down at himself, a hint of concern crossing his face. You mistake that concern for concern about the mess the two of you were making.
At this point, there was a light dusting of flour in his hair, and some on your cheek.
“Are you sure you can get, like, flour and stuff on your suit?”
“It’s okay,” he says casually, shrugging.
“Of course,” you tease, grinning. “The Man of Steel can handle a little flour.”
He smirks, brushing a playful dusting of flour from his shoulder, and you can’t help but notice how domestic and endearing he looks in the kitchen.
“Oh, wait, I know!”
You scuttle around your kitchen, slippers sliding on the floor, and grab an apron to present it to him in a most dramatic fashion.
“Kiss the cook?” he says, questioning as he reads the block writing printed on the front, along with a gratuitous number of love hearts.
“Gag gift from a Secret Santa a few years back,” you explain away. “Now bend down so I can put this on you…”
Without arguing, he bends down, allowing you to slip it over his head.
“How does it look?”
You love the sight of Metropolis’ protector in an apron, goofy smile and all.
“Perfect, Superman. Absolutely perfect.”
***
One thing’s for sure, Superman knows how to bake a pie.
It was still dark, the room illuminated by your vintage bedside lamp, its warm amber glow spilling softly across the table. You’d found it years ago at a little thrift shop downtown, a place that smelled faintly of old books and cinnamon buns, for some reason.
Outside, the sun would soon begin to rise, birds chirping to life as the night slowly loosened its grip on the world.
As the two of you dig in, wrapped in the quiet stillness of morning, the only sound is the clink of forks against porcelain.
He chuckles as you let out contented hum after contented hum with each spoonful.
“What?” you pout, “I can’t be excited about pie?”
“It’s not that,” he says, smiling. “You just have a little…”
Before you can ask, he reaches out, wiping the crumbs from the side of your mouth.
You can’t stop your heart from racing as his thumb brushes away the last trace, lingering just a second too long, right next to your lips.
Ping.
A halo appears above your head.
The universe seems to be confusing Cupid with an angel.
“You, uh, also have a little…” he trails off, eyes set just above your head.
You tap above your head, hands finding the solid halo above you.
“Don't pay it too much attention,” you grumble, dropping your hands in defeat.
“Is that because of me?” He asks, definitely still paying it attention.
“...perhaps.”
What use was there in lying? Your heartbeat was already giving you away anyway.
He leans a little closer, and you have to remind yourself how to breathe as you look into his impossibly blue eyes.
“Well,” he says softly, “it’s an honour to give you halos.”
Shit.
You hadn’t felt this flustered in a long time. Not since—well. Not since this afternoon with Clark. Why were handsome men flirting with you all of a sudden? Had you somehow won the love lottery after years of bad relationships after bad relationships?
“Can I take a picture of you?” you blurt out. “While I have you captive in my apartment. And, don't worry, I won't go selling anything to tabloids or anything. This is just for me.”
“Go right ahead,” he says easily, continuing to eat like he knows you want him exactly as he is.
You reach across with a grunt, yanking your camera from the counter it was resting on.
You turn it on and focus on him immediately; you wouldn't let this opportunity go to waste.
A curl has fallen loose, resting against his forehead, stubborn and soft. You take a picture, then another. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look up at first. You figure he must be used to cameras.
“Do you use gel?” you ask, lowering the phone slightly, “or is that all you?”
He smiles as he finally looks up at you. “All me.”
You take one more picture.
“Can I see?”
You move closer and show him the screen. “You’re perfect,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Those dimples are to die for.”
Your smile falters just a little because dimples suddenly make you think of Clark. Why were all roads leading back to him?
He notices, but doesn't say anything.
“I think,” he says gently, eyes flicking from the photo back to you, “I only look so ‘perfect’ because you’re the one taking the picture. Everything looks great from your point of view.”
***
By the time you wake up, it's 1 p.m.
Thank fuck it's a Saturday and you have nothing to do except sleep and stew everything that's happened in such a short space of time.
Hours pass as you think of Superman's cute little smile and how you're so not looking forward to going to work on Monday.
Before you know it, it's evening yet again. Time flies when you're having a mental breakdown.
You start going through the pictures on your personal camera, you hadn't used in a few days… because hotties love to scrapbook.
Seeing a flash of your face.
You didn't remember that picture.
You flip to the next one over, and it's the picture you took of Clark.
You flip back to you, then to the picture of Clark, then to you, then to Clark. The smile on your face suddenly drops.
If A + B = C… one picture of him plus one picture of you equals… accidental love match?
“Fuck…” you say, dropping your camera into your lap before letting out a noticeably louder, “Fuck!”
It practically shook the building. You spring up and start freaking out.
After getting your steps in by pacing and down so fast it was making Cato dizzy, you make the harrowing decision to call Clark.
He needed to know.
It explained a whole lot: the flowers, the flirting, the floating.
How did you not see this earlier?
Your press on his contract, it rings once, then—
“Hello?”
“Clark?” you say, your voice is shakier than usual. You didn't quite know how to act.
How could you explain that you kinda made him fall in love with you?
“Is everything okay?” He asks, as if he could read your mind from miles away.
“I know it’s late, and this is so stupid, but…can you come over?”
“I'll be there as fast as I can.”
A few minutes later, he arrives at your door. You don't even question how he got here so quickly when he lived halfway across the city from you, dragging him inside with urgency.
“What's wrong?” he says, frowning at your distressed expression.
“I fucked up. Like majorly, and when you find out…”
You pause, looking up at him and his kind eyes, marred with worry.
“Just try not to hate me.”You start sniffling, “I couldn't bear it if you hated me, but I'd understand if you did. I mean, this is just so fucked up and—”
He pulls you into his arms, making you feel secure. “Whatever it is, it won't change how I feel about you.”
You didn't have the time or energy to dissect his words, instead leaning your head against his chest.
Who knows? It may be the last time you're able to.
You try to speak, but it's too hard. It's like you're being choked, the words too big to get out.
Seeing your distress, he gently guides you toward your couch, his hand warm on your back, and you don’t object. Your brain is too scrambled to even consider resisting.
“How about we relax?” he murmurs. “Just so you can collect your thoughts, and then you can tell me whatever you need to.”
You let out a long, shaky sigh before nodding.
“Come here,” he says softly, opening his arm for you, and you practically crash into his side, like gravity shifts just to pull you against him.
He wraps an arm around your shoulders, steady and protective, and your forehead finds the curve of his chest without thinking.
His heartbeat is calm.
Yours… less so.
At some point, somewhere between his fingers brushing your arm and the warmth of his side against you, your eyes grow heavy.
Little snores escaping you before you can help it.
Clark’s breath hitches in the smallest laugh, fond and quiet. He adjusts his hold so you don’t slump over, fearful of waking you.
He knows how hard you work, running in empty and getting in your head about not doing enough. When you do more than enough, you are more than enough.
And when he’s sure you’re completely asleep, he shifts carefully, lifting you into his arms with an ease that makes you wonder how you ever doubted if he'd be there for you or not.
He carries you to bed, smiling as you mumble in your sleep before laying you down gently.
Taking extra care to tuck the blanket around you.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, making his way out of the room.
***
You wake up with a start. It's not a slow recollection of events; it's like you've been shot.
Jolting out of bed, you trip all over your room before finally making it out.
Though before you can make any rash decisions, you freeze the moment you walk into your living room.
Clark is on your couch.
Cato sprawled out on top of him like he pays rent, tiny paws kneading at Clark’s hair.
He sleeps peacefully, mouth soft, glasses still on. The light from your half-open blinds highlights every perfect inch of his face.
You stand there staring like an idiot, because this is not just your coworker, not just your friend, he’s the guy you're head over heels for.
And you might just lose him forever. All because you're the idiot who accidentally made him fall in love with you.
You swallow hard.
“Clark…?”
He stirs instantly, eyes fluttering open. His hand automatically goes to steady Cato so the cat doesn’t fall off. It’s stupidly endearing.
“Oh—hey,” he says softly. “Did I fall asleep? Sorry.”
“You—” You gesture helplessly at the entire scene. “You could’ve gone home. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
He sits up carefully, Cato sliding into his lap like a sleepy loaf.
“You were pretty distraught when I got here.”
You nod, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.
“Do you want to talk about it now? Whatever you had to tell me?”
“Yeah, I think that's best.”
Steeling your nerves, you sit down next to him and press your hands to your face. “Clark, listen. These past few days, you may have been experiencing something odd. Like heart palpitations, and all sorts of romantic notions when it comes to me.”
You clear your throat, “It's all my fault. I uh…I'm basically like Cupid.”
Perhaps you should've thought about your words, prepared a speech. There's nothing like free styling, telling your best friend you're a metahuman.
“Cupid?” He questions, not in a judgmental way. Mostly just confused.
“I can matchmake people, and sometimes when I take pictures, they're like my ‘arrows’.”
Another nod.
“So when you took a photo of me the other day…” You cringe. “And I took a photo of you…”
Understanding flickers in his expression. Don't panic. Just quiet, steady recognition.
“Right,” he says. “So, you were worried because you thought you made me fall in love with you against my will?”
Bullseye.
“Well, yes. Or… no. No, they can’t create something that’s not already there or impossible. They just… amplify. Highlight. Push things along. Even though it was an accident it was still shitty—”
You’re babbling, faster than you can think, and he puts his hand on your shoulder.
“So,” he says softly, “you're saying there's something here.”
You go perfectly still. In all your panic, you hadn't really considered the fact that this meant that he liked you too.
That it wasn't just a misplaced finger gun or a passing infatuation.
He liked you.
He shuffles closer on the couch, stopping close enough that you can feel his warmth, see the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose a little.
“Between you and me.”
He looks at you like he’s already known the answer, like he’s been waiting for you to catch up.
“Yeah, I…I guess there is.”
If he keeps looking at you like this, like you’re the only person in the world… you might honestly end up floating straight up to your ceiling again.
“Aren’t you mad?” you whisper. “I manipulated your feelings, I—”
Clark shakes his head before you can spiral.
“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he says gently. “It was an accident. And… honestly?”
His voice softens even more.
“It was the little push I needed. To finally tell you how I feel.”
“That you…?” you prompt, barely audible.
“That I’ve loved you since the moment we met. Showing me all the pictures you took, and talking to me like we've known each other for years. You really know how to make a guy feel at home.”
He gives a small, embarrassed smile.
“I can't get you out of my mind; it's always been like that, even before the whole matchmaking fiasco. Memories of you run through my head on the daily. From the night you dragged me out to karaoke after I said I've never been, to the rainy day we stopped by Amoré for the first time and you tried to heat up my hands.”
Your heart lurches.
He remembers all of it.
Your fingers reach out, and he meets yours halfway.
“I love you and all that you are.”
Your hands intertwine, fitting together like they’ve been waiting to.
“You have no idea,” you breathe, “how long I’ve been wanting to hear that.”
Clark’s response is not verbal.
He leans in, and your lips connect like they were never meant to be apart.
The kiss is deep, warm, hungry without being rushed, like he’s been waiting for this but wants to savour it.
When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, hearts beating in sync.
It was perfect.
The most perfect kiss.
The kind of kiss you’re pretty sure qualifies as the world’s greatest.
You think you might never recover from it.
Though a thought rings out in the back of your head.
A certain Superhero, you may or may not have flirted with.
You don't notice, but Clark is going through a dilemma too.
“I have something to—”
“I need to tell you—”
You both start talking at the same time.
A beat.
Then Clark gives a tiny nod. “You first.”
You swallow, “I… I baked with Superman.”
Clark blinks. “Hm?”
“I know, I know, don’t look at me like that—it just happened! I didn’t plan it, he was checking on me, and my cat, and we both couldn't sleep, and flour was everywhere and—” You put your hands in your hair. “Holy shit, am I going to have to reject Superman? No, no, that’s ridiculous, we only met twice, there's no way he likes me, it’s fine—”
“I’m Superman,” Clark says quietly.
You stare at him.
Then you let out a big, incredulous laugh. You might have even slapped your knee.
“And I'm Batman. The fuck are you talking about?”
He hesitates. You can practically see him realising he maybe should’ve eased into that better.
“I… I’m Superm—”
“You can’t just repeat it!” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Obviously, I don’t believe you. I sit across from you every day, Mr Kansas. You like fresh pancakes and Sunday morning walks, not to mention you’re the clumsiest person I know, bar me. There’s no way—”
He takes off his glasses.
You blink twice before letting out a scream.
Is it one of horror? Excitement? Both?
You may never know.
But the next thing out of your mouth, on repeat and in varying volumes, is “what the fuck?”
You leap up from the couch, speed walking around in an attempt to burn off all this nervous energy. Your poor downstairs neighbours.
“Clark, what in the ever living—? How is this even possible?” you question, vaulting yourself back over your couch to face him.
“Hypno glasses.”
“Hypno— of course, of course,” you chuckle in mild panic as you throw your hands up.
The similarities you were getting when you were around Superman were making a whole lot of sense.
“The dimples… Oh! And the fucking pumpkin pies, I should've known!” you grumble.
The whole time you thought you were leading Superman and Clark on, he was the same guy? At least you're consistent.
“Are you angry with me?”
You shake your head immediately. “I’m not angry in the slightest.”
Your voice softens. “You’re Superman, Clark. A secret identity is… kinda necessary.”
Relief flickers over his face, but you keep going, because your brain is finally catching up.
“I mean, honestly, a lot of things are adding up now.”
You let out a breathy laugh, half disbelieving, half relieved.
“The disappearances, the fact that you’re always late… the way you’d show up with a new excuse every time I tried to confront you about it.”
You shrug helplessly.
“I just thought you had… I don’t know. A second job? A weird hobby? Some kind of… side hustle?”
You gesture vaguely.
“But not this. Definitely not ‘hey, by the way, I’m Superman.’”
Clark’s cheeks flush faintly (adorably).
He reaches for your hand without thinking, thumb brushing your knuckles.
“I wanted to tell you,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted to for a long time.”
You squeeze his hand back.
“Now you have,” you say softly.
“And I'm not going anywhere.”
***
“Catooo…” you whine for the fourth time.
He’s managed to perch himself on the very top of your shelf, tail flicking smugly, with absolutely no way of getting down.
Clark sighs, amused. “I swear he does this on purpose.”
Before you can argue, Clark lifts himself into the air, hovering up toward your stubborn little menace.
“Come here, buddy.”
Cato doesn’t need to be told twice. The moment Clark’s close enough, the cat launches himself straight into Clark’s arms with a loving meow like he’s been rescued from a burning building.
“That's my Cato,” Clark coos at him, getting nothing but adoring purrs in response.
He drifts back down, landing softly with Cato snuggled against his chest.
You fold your arms. “Traitor.”
But the moment Clark steps close enough to hand Cato over, it happens—
Ping.
A shimmering ‘love halo’, faint at first, then solidifying the instant he touches your hand.
You groan. “Is this ever going to wear off?”
Clark just smiles, wholly unbothered. “I quite like it.”
And he leans in, kissing the tip of your nose like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You’re about to complain again when something tugs at your back, a sudden weight and a strange tickle, enough to make you sit up straight.
You twist around, confused.
There’s a… movement under your shirt. A flutter.
You freeze.
Slowly, cautiously, you lift the hem, and lo and behold… two tiny Cupid wings are sprouting out of your back, fluffy and soft.
“…Oh my,” you breathe.
You turn back to Clark, eyes wide, wings still twitching behind you like confused baby birds.
“This,” you say, pointing at him in outrage,
“It's your fault.”
“It is?” he replies, finding it all entirely too amusing.
“You made me fall so hard, I grew wings!”
“Your wings are adorable,” he chuckles before he wraps his arms around you, kissing all over your face.
“Clark!” you whine, but he doesn’t let up, determined to show you how much he loves you. “Be careful, I might grow a tail next.”
Imagine Clark Kent planning to propose to reader, but he gets so flustered and nervous that when he kneels, all he can muster is a desperate, breathy, “Please.” Saw this idea from a woman sharing her proposal story on twitter!! 🫦🫦🤤🤤
The star that leads to you
Pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938
a/n: The plan was for this to be 5k words long TOPS but i'm a bottom so...
Classification: (Suggestive) Fluff | Moderate workplace PDA, suggestive comments and explicit/implied sex scenes w/superpowered intimacy (destruction of the bed), normal relationship anxiety and overthinking, sci-fi talk and kryptonite exposure, use of superpowers in daily life.
Word count: 10,3k
Divider by me ;)
The days leading up to any leave or holiday were always the most chaotic. In journalism, there was no such thing as getting ahead. No matter how many drafts you filed, how many interviews you wrapped up or how many loose ends you tied off, the work simply piled up somewhere else, waiting for your attention.
You made your way through the bullpen with Jimmy trailing closely behind. For the past few days, a persistent unease had settled beneath your skin. Everyone seemed to need something from you before you left, another question, task or last-minute request, and on top of that, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.
Eyes appeared to follow you wherever you went.
Right now, though, the only thing demanding your attention was Jimmy's steadily rising panic.
"I…I can't do that." He shook his head again, likely for the hundredth time that morning.
"Jimmy, it's just my email." You stopped at the coffee station, reaching for your mug and filling it. "All I'm asking is that you log in once a day, check if anything's worth investigating and follow up if necessary." You stirred your coffee before lifting your eyes to him. "You won't have much to do…Lois will be helping too."
"What do I do if he contacts you?" Jimmy asked quietly, watching your hands move with nervous intensity.
"What if who contacts me?" you asked, only sparing him a brief glance.
"You know." He shrugged. "Superman."
A laugh escaped you as you picked up your mug and started back toward your desk, taking a sip as you walked. "You think Big Blue has an email address?"
"I…" Jimmy frowned as he tried to explain himself. "Well, I believe he's a modern man."
You snorted into your coffee.
"Who knows," he continued. "Maybe he'll want to meet up. To…talk."
You stopped beside your desk and turned to face him fully, narrowing your eyes. "About what?"
"I don't know." Jimmy lifted both hands. "Whatever it is you two usually talk about."
"Sure, Jimmy. Maybe he'll need help setting up an email account." You nodded thoughtfully. "Let's just hope nothing too big happens while I'm gone so I can enjoy some uninterrupted rest."
As you spoke, your gaze drifted across the bullpen and landed on Clark.
Your eyes narrowed immediately at his staring but the moment your eyes met, he jerked into motion. His attention snapped downward as he began fumbling with the papers on his desk, shuffling folders that clearly didn't need sorting and reaching for things that weren't there.
You had only held his gaze for all of two seconds before he folded completely under it, which was suspicious. Your attention lingered on him even as Jimmy continued talking.
"Alright, but just in case, tell him I'm perfectly fine with meeting in dark alleys during pouring rain and all that." Jimmy nodded once, looking entirely too eager for the possibility.
"He's more of a rooftop kind of guy, but I'll pass the message along." The reply came automatically, your focus already elsewhere. “Thanks Jimmy.”
Your gaze dropped to your own desk as Jimmy finally wandered off. Taking your seat, you looked over the organized chaos spread across the surface and got to work clearing away the last of it, though most of the clutter simply disappeared into drawers and folders. You wanted to return to a clean workspace, not a disaster waiting for you after a week away.
Your final drafts had already been submitted and every article due before your leave had been filed and approved. There were still two hours until lunch and for the first time in days, there was nothing immediately demanding your attention.
You intended for the following week to be dedicated entirely to rest. Well, rest and unpacking the mountain of moving boxes currently occupying Clark's apartment, which was now yours too.
The thought alone made you look up.
Clark now sat perfectly still at his desk, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the bullpen. His head was tilted slightly, his attention caught by something none of the rest of you could hear. If there was one thing you'd learned about him, it was that there usually was something, a distant cry for help, an emergency unfolding miles away or a hundred voices filtering through the world at once.
You watched him for a moment until he rose from his chair, the movement quick and purposeful. He reached for his messenger bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder as he stepped around his desk, his eyes finding yours immediately.
The look was familiar, it was the same one he always gave you right before disappearing. You pushed yourself to your feet and followed after him, weaving through the bullpen until the two of you reached one of the quieter hallways.
"How bad is it?" you asked worriedly.
The question and tone had nothing to do with your upcoming week off. You were never worried about canceled plans, you were worried about Metropolis. If Superman was needed in the middle of a workday, something somewhere had gone terribly wrong.
Clark suddenly turned and you barely had time to react.
The momentum of your hurried pace carried you directly into his chest and as always, the impact barely moved him. Before you could stumble back, his arms were already wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as he dipped his head and pressed his lips to yours.
It caught you completely off guard. You knew kissing with your eyes open wasn't particularly romantic but you couldn't help the way they widened in surprise. For a moment, all you could do was stare at him as you failed to kiss him back.
Only when he pulled away did you finally speak. "That bad?" you asked, eyes searching his face frantically.
Clark blinked as his brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"You have to go to your other thing, right?" You gestured vaguely. "I know you heard something."
The confusion on his face matched your own. Still, his arms remained around you.
"I did." He forced himself to pause and collect his thoughts because keeping things from you had never gotten easier. "It isn't bad, sweetheart. I just need to go check it out."
At the same moment, footsteps echoed from farther down the hallway, so he reluctantly released you. Neither of you was particularly interested in becoming a more serious conversation for Human Resources yet.
You cleared your throat as Clark adjusted the strap of his bag and the silence stretched until the employee rounded the corner and disappeared again.
"Will you be long?"
"I'm not sure." He shook his head softly.
You nodded. "Be safe…I'll cover for you."
Your hand came up to pat his chest before you stepped back. Already turning toward the bullpen, you glanced down at your watch, mentally calculating how many hours "checking something out" usually translated into but a few steps later, another thought occurred to you.
"Oh… anything special I should make for di–" You turned to face him just as a rush of wind swept through the hallway. Your words died instantly and the corridor stood empty, Clark now gone. You sighed. "Takeout it is."
Muttering to yourself, you turned and headed back toward the bullpen.
Lately, Clark had been acting strange, not in the usual "I'm the last son of a dead planet" kind of way. This was different, he was distracted, restless and keeping himself busier than usual. At first, you'd assumed it had something to do with the upcoming week off. Maybe he felt guilty about stepping away from work for that long and the idea of slowing down made him uneasy, but you'd made it clear more than once that the vacation wasn't meant to be a break from who he really was.
You would never ask that of him. Clark Kent could take a week off but Superman never truly could, which only made his recent behavior feel all the more unusual.
You supposed your concern must have been written all over your face.
"Where is he?" Lois stopped in front of Clark's desk, a thick folder tucked beneath her arm.
The question snapped your attention away from his absence. Straightening your shoulders, you forced your expression into something more neutral before walking over.
"His parents needed him at the farm." You motioned vaguely toward the elevators.
Lois looked unconvinced. "He was supposed to send Perry a final draft for tomorrow's print edition."
"Is that it?" You pointed toward the folder she held. She barely lifted it before you plucked it from her grasp and pivoted back toward your desk. "I'll do it."
You dropped into your chair and opened the file immediately.
"It isn't exactly impartial." Lois crossed her arms.
"It never will be, Lois." You flipped through the first few pages of his notes. "We're about to move in together and I doubt he'd react particularly well to me firing him when I become Editor-in-Chief."
Your grin finally earned a small laugh from her.
"Besides," you continued, glancing back down at the paperwork, "I need something to do, otherwise today is going to feel even longer than it already does."
The humor faded from her face. "Is something wrong?" Her voice lowered enough that the question felt genuine rather than curious.
You opened your mouth, then stopped. For a moment, you simply stared down at the pages in front of you. "I don't know. I'm usually really good at reading him." Your fingers paused against the pages. "But I just can't do it."
"You can't?" The surprise in her voice was immediate as she settled herself on the corner of your desk. "You think it's about the two of you moving in together?" she asked. "If it is, don't. You've been together for so long…most people would've expected you to move in together the second you both got to Metropolis."
A soft laugh escaped you. "No. No, that's not it…I mean, I hope not." You leaned back in your chair. "It's all going well." The words came easily because they were true. "As much as I love him, moving in with my first ever boyfriend straight out of college would've been a terrible idea."
Your smile softened. "We learned how to live separately first…how to have our own lives. I think that was the right decision and I know he does too."
Lois nodded. "So what's the problem?"
You hesitated, then cleared your throat and rolled your chair a little closer, lowering your voice despite the noise of the bullpen around you. "Have you ever wanted something so badly that you're afraid to call it what it is?"
Her brows knitted together. "Is that supposed to be a riddle?"
You laughed despite yourself. "No." Your gaze drifted away, settling somewhere beyond the bullpen. "There's something I want this whole situation to be..." The words felt strangely fragile once spoken aloud, like giving them a voice somehow made them more real. "What if I start asking the questions I want to ask and find out it isn't?" Your fingers toyed absently with the edge of the folder. "Then I'd be mad at him for not wanting to move at the pace I want to move at."
Lois watched you carefully and for once, she didn't rush to answer. "This isn't a race."
A small smile tugged at your mouth before quickly fading. "If it were, he'd win…I just wish I knew what we're running toward now." Your voice dropped quieter. "And if he still wants to get there with me…precisely."
You let out a long breath, hoping it would carry away some of the anxiety that had been nesting in your chest for weeks. The truth was, you had never once believed Clark would leave you, that fear had never existed.
You knew how he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, you knew the certainty behind every promise he made, every plan he included you in and every future conversation that naturally assumed you'd be standing beside him.
The fear wasn't losing him, it was timing and getting it wrong.
Had moving in together been too soon? Was he having second thoughts now that it was actually happening? Maybe he simply wasn't ready to leave behind living alone, he needed more time before taking another step forward and the answer was that simple…Or maybe you were working yourself into knots over something that had never crossed his mind at all.
"You're one hell of a reporter, Y/n." A smile tugged at the corner of Lois's mouth. "I've never known you to hesitate when it comes to asking questions."
She pushed herself off the desk and headed back toward her own.
The conversation ended there but her words lingered as your eyes wandered across the bullpen again and they landed, inevitably, on Clark's empty desk.
His abandoned coffee cup still sat beside his keyboard and a stack of notes remained exactly where he'd left them. Everything still looked normal, so why didn't it feel that way?
You couldn't keep living with the uncertainty and maybe it was time to stop dancing around the questions that had been circling your mind for months, but as much as you wanted answers, you'd never been someone who forced them out of Clark, never someone who cornered him into confessions he wasn't ready to make.
Your gaze lingered on the empty desk for another moment before moving to the clock. Only five more hours and you'd finally be out of this place.
Clark flew to the Fortress of Solitude at a speed he'd never thought he could reach, responding to a signal from the Superman robots. He absolutely hated hiding things from you, no matter how good the reason but this was taking longer than planned. It didn't just involve the usual planning and sourcing, this was as close to science as he'd ever get.
The cold arctic air caressed his skin as he sped up, the crystalline structure growing in the distance as it revealed itself to him.
His feet eventually sank into the snow as the doors parted before him. The Fortress received him the way it always did, silently, the crystals catching his footsteps and scattering them into nothing. Four was already standing at the central console, two of the other robots positioned at the secondary array flanking what Clark recognized as the solar concentrator, reconfigured into something smaller and more precise than he'd last seen it.
"Sir, you're here." Gary, the fourth Superman robot, turned before Clark had fully cleared the entrance.
"I got your signal," Clark told him as he moved to the center of the main room.
"I calculated twenty minutes before your arrival." Four's optical sensors held on him a moment.
Clark didn't answer. He crossed closer to the console, eyes already moving over the readings. "Tell me."
Gary turned back to the array. "The theory is sound. Whether the application holds is a separate question." He indicated the containment chamber at the center of the concentrator, it was small, built for a single stone. "The isotope that produces the radiation is not inert by nature, it requires destabilization. Conventional neutralization attempts have failed historically because they addressed the emission rather than the source."
Clark’s brows furrowed. "You went after the isotope directly."
"We modeled different broad approaches over the last year. Sixteen produced either incomplete neutralization or structural destruction of the sample." Gary paused. "The seventeenth is this. Concentrated solar saturation at a specific frequency, not broad spectrum, which scatters. The isotope absorbs until it cannot sustain the radioactive chain. It burns out rather than being suppressed."
He looked at the chamber. "And the stone?"
"Structurally intact in our simulations. The color will change, the green is a function of the active radiation. Once the isotope is spent, the stone retains its crystalline structure but loses the glow. It will read as pale…residual hue only."
Clark was quiet for a moment. "You said it would only work on a very small piece."
"Correct. The solar saturation has to penetrate the sample completely and evenly. A larger stone creates differential exposure, the exterior burns out and the interior remains active. At the scale you require–" Gary moved to the secondary console and brought up the dimensional rendering, a stone large enough to yield a single, flawless diamond. “–full penetration is achievable. We have run the model four hundred and twelve times over the last hour."
"And it holds?"
"In simulation. Yes." Another beat. "We will not know with certainty until we attempt it on an actual sample."
Clark exhaled slowly, he'd known that was coming.
"You cannot be present for the extraction phase," Gary continued, without inflection, as if this were simply logistical. "Or the initial handling. Your proximity to an active sample at that size would still produce symptomatic response. We will handle and chamber the stone. You will monitor from the secondary console at a distance of approximately fifteen feet. Once it is inside the concentrator and sealed, the chamber will contain the emission. You can approach then."
"And the concentrator–" Clark glanced at the machine. "Same as the healing protocol?"
"Modified from it. The frequency is different as healing requires broad cellular stimulation. This requires narrow isotopic targeting but the core mechanism is the same." Gary looked at him directly. "It should not harm you. The chamber is sealed, the emission goes inward, not out...but again, it’s a hypothetical."
Clark nodded once. He stood there a moment, looking at the small containment chamber and the re-rigged concentrator, it’d been a year of work sitting quiet and precise on a console in the Arctic.
"You've been thorough," he said finally.
"You were specific about what it needed to mean, sir." Gary nodded, as Clark turned to look at him. "When you told me what the ring was for," He continued. "I did not think imprecision was appropriate."
"And the piece I chose?" Clark asked, looking around for it.
One of the other Superman robots pushed a closed lead box onto the console. "Still untouched, sir." Twelve nodded. "As are the other uncut stones, as you requested."
"The band?" Clark asked as One approached, opening a chamber on his own structure and revealing it.
Clark reached for it and held it up to the light between his fingers. He still remembered waiting for you to fall asleep so he could measure your ring finger, holding his breath the entire time, terrified you might wake and catch him in the act. The memory made warmth settle in his chest.
"It's perfect," he said quietly.
"It must be, sir. You've been working on it for almost a year," Gary spoke.
"And it's finally done."
Gary lifted a cautionary finger. "Remember there are still hypotheticals, sir. We must test the machine."
Clark shook his head. "It's going to work and when it does, I want her here for it." He turned to look around the Fortress, taking in the crystalline walls, the hum of advanced technology and the sanctity of the space. "You know the plan." His gaze swept across the main chamber. "I want this place spotless and the sunglasses ready." He drew a breath, letting the weight of the moment settle over him. "The day has come…I can’t wait any longer." He turned back to the robots. "Thank you, all of you."
"No need to thank us, sir, as we will not appreciate it. We have no consciousness, we are merely automatons here to serve," Gary reminded him.
Clark simply pressed his mouth into a thin line, long accustomed to their peculiar bluntness while some of the Superman robots scurried away, already beginning to clean. Gary, however, lingered.
"Shall we prepare for the baby?"
Clark's head snapped toward him, eyes slightly widened. "What baby?"
"My knowledge indicates it is a natural succession of events, sir."
He smiled despite himself, shaking his head. "Let's prepare for a ceremony first…That's if she says yes."
"She will," Twelve said brightly in passing, already carrying a stack of crystalline components toward the secondary console.
"Shall we rehearse the speech?" Gary pressed. "We have yet to hear it."
"No can do, Gary." Clark's voice was gentle but final. "And you won't...It’ll be for her ears only."
He stuck around long after, helping clean and organize with no real need other than the comfort of keeping his hands busy. He had thought about the day plenty, in the small hours of the morning when sleep wouldn't come, during long flights over empty ocean and in the moments just after saving the world when everything went quiet again. He had imagined it a hundred different ways, in a hundred different places and it had to be perfect.
You got home late, stopped at the door as you still couldn't quite figure out how the new lock worked. After a moment of fumbling that felt much longer than it should have, you finally managed to push inside, carrying takeout bags and immediately running into scattered moving boxes in the dark.
"Fuck," you muttered under your breath as you reached for a light switch and turned it on. "Clark?" You called into the silence of the apartment, leaving the bags on the kitchen counter.
You then walked toward the bedroom, weaving around moving boxes you'd take care of soon, phone already in your hand as you dialed his number.
You pressed call, setting the phone on the bed as you began to undress.
Back at the Fortress…
"Superman, we have intercepted a call from your human lover."
Clark chuckled, shaking his head as he moved gear out of the main room. "There's no other kind, Gary. It's just 'lover.' Please, patch it through."
There was a soft crackle and then, "Clark?” Your voice slipped through the sound systems, warm and familiar and Clark felt the anxiety in his chest ease at the sound of it.
"Hi, sweetheart. Everything okay?"
"Uh, yeah. Where are you? I'm at your–" A pause, then a quiet correction. "Our place...Any idea when you'll be back? It's starting to get late."
Clark realized then that he'd lost track of time completely. He began heading toward the exit, your voice trailing after him as you launched into what was clearly the beginning of a longer rant. The sound of you faded from the Fortress's speakers and transferred directly into his ears as he lifted off, flying fast in the direction of your voice.
He heard you kicking off your shoes and the soft thump of your pants hitting the floor.
"I'm not saying I'm worried and I don't expect you to always be back at a certain time…That's just not reasonable. I mean, I knew what I was getting into before we ever started dating–" Then came the sound of the closet door sliding open as you were surely, definitely, picking a shirt of his to sleep in. "Not that it's complicated or anything. I feel like that word has never really applied to us. I mean, I hope not. You've never been complicated to me, even after you told me who you really were."
He heard the rustle of fabric as you peeled off your shirt and the soft sound of your bra hitting the floor. Clark flew even faster.
"I remember telling you Kal was a pretty good name," you said and he could hear the smile in your voice. You cleared your throat, "I also remember that one time I moaned it while we were–"
A faint breeze drifted through the room, making you turn to the window to check if it was open. You suddenly screamed, shirt clutched to cover your naked chest as your heart hammered so loud he could count every individual beat.
Clark unexpectedly stood there unmoving and smiling unapologetically, hair slightly messy from the flight. "Having sex?" He continued for you, grin widening. "I also remember."
You exhaled a sharp breath, rapidly pulling his shirt over your head, feeling his eyes on you, "I get carried away."
He shrugged, still grinning. "It's happened more than once."
Your eyes narrowed at him, already desperate to change the subject. "Mind making a little more noise next time? I intend to live long."
He stepped toward you, wrapping both arms around you and pulling you to his chest. "You make enough noise for the both of us, don't you think?"
"Ha. Funny." You said dryly because it was true. Once close to him, you felt his chest while observing his face as you always did, checking for injuries. He looked untouched, which was always ideal, but… "You're really cold."
He smiled and something changed in his expression. "Do you know where you packed the winter clothes?"
You blinked, eyes going to the moving boxes and suitcases scattered across the bedroom, your mind already cataloging the rest of the clutter throughout the apartment. "I'm not sure. Why?"
Clark let go of you, eyes scanning through the boxes as he activated his x-ray vision.
"It's about to be summer, Smallville…And I don't think you've ever needed them."
He walked out of the bedroom, looking into boxes as you trailed behind him, accidentally stepping on the long cape pooled at his feet.
"Oops, sorry," you muttered as you coughed yourself with a gentle hold on his shoulders.
"You're going to need them."
"Need what? Apologies?" you asked, lifting a brow.
"Winter clothes," he specified with a breathy chuckle, stopping by a box that read ‘Kitchen’ in your handwriting.
"In June?" You watched as he opened the box anyway. "That says ‘Kitchen’, Clark."
He fumbled for a second as he lifted it from a pile and put it on the ground, then he carefully opened it and pulled out your winter coat by the hood.
"That's why it was so light," you said under your breath.
"We're taking a trip tomorrow."
Your eyes widened slightly as you searched his face and found no humor there. "Did you use that little trick to find my passport and book the trip?"
"Never needed a passport to fly Clark Kent Airlines." He grinned.
"Never needed a coat to sit on a plane." You shrugged with a gentle smile. "Where are we going?"
Clark's smile faltered. His eyes searched the room, looking for anything to change the subject and landed on the takeout bags still sitting on the kitchen counter. "We should eat dinner before it gets too cold," he said, already reaching into the box and pulling out a scarf, hat and gloves. "You'll need your snow boots too." He set everything on the couch, almost distractedly and walked right past you into the bedroom, already peeling off his suit.
Your eyes followed him, narrowing at the deflection. "Good thing we have a microwave." You noted as you followed after him. "You've been acting weird lately."
"Weird?" He echoed with a light, forced chuckle. "There's nothing weird about me…Besides the obvious." He paused, pulling his shirt over his head. "Which you like telling me you love." There was another pause, longer this time. "You still do, right?"
"You mean the part of you that likes to take me along while soaring through the sky?" You questioned hypothetically, already nodding to yourself. "Yeah."
"That's good…That’s really good." He reassured himself more than you as he changed into a plain shirt and plaid pajama pants. "That you still do."
"I don't like how you keep saying 'still,'" you pointed out quietly, looking at him as if you could read his mind…and you probably could, if you weren’t suddenly scared of what you might find.
He chuckled breathily, stepping toward you and placing both hands on your arms, caressing them gently. "You're making me really nervous right now."
You narrowed your eyes at him again. "I weirdly think you're doing that to yourself." You paused, letting the words settle. "I love you, Clark…No amount of weirdness is going to change that."
His hands went to your face, cupping your cheeks slowly, thumbs brushing over your skin with so much love in his eyes that it made your chest ache. Tomorrow had to be perfect..because you were.
"I'll fly slowly," he murmured, in an attempt to reassure you.
"No, you won't…and that’s fine," You laughed softly, poking his stomach playfully. "Just make sure you hold me tight."
He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingered long enough to make your eyes flutter shut. "I love you so much," he confessed against your skin. "I don't know how to hold you any other way."
Moments like that had a way of dissolving whatever fear or doubt had quietly accumulated and that night was no different. By the time you had dinner and you'd both found your way to sleep, there was nothing left to worry about.
The next morning was perfect. Genuinely and unqualifiedly perfect, the kind that felt almost unfair in how completely it arrived. No alarm pulled you out of it, no distant sound of something collapsing somewhere that would take him away before you'd finished waking up, just sunlight coming in at an angle through the curtains and Clark, who woke up like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of pretending otherwise.
He pressed kisses into your skin slowly and without urgency and the morning dissolved the way good mornings do, in warmth, weight and the breathlessness of someone who loves you, knows how to show it…and how to make you feel it. You lost track of time entirely and you didn't try to find it.
At some point he slipped away. You hadn't noticed the exact moment, sometime in the narrow window between you getting up and the shower warming, enough time for him to go somewhere and come back, which for Clark could mean almost anywhere. When you stepped out of the bathroom, towel around your chest, a bouquet was sitting on the kitchen counter and beside it, breakfast, already plated and still warm.
You ate together at the counter, knees touching, talking through where the art should go and whether the bookshelf fit better against the east wall or broken up between two rooms.
It wasn't much later that he started mentioning getting out for the day.
You didn't question it. You started getting everything he'd laid on the couch the night before, working through the layers methodically while he stood somewhere behind you watching you with an expression you couldn't fully read.
"I think you should add another scarf," he suggested. "Just in case."
You looked at yourself in the mirror, at the coat, hat, gloves, boots and the scarf that already looped twice around your neck… and it was June. "Clark." You turned to look at him with a gentle, reassuring smile. "This is enough…You'd think we were going to the Arctic."
You meant it as a joke. You were already smiling when you said it, turning back to the mirror to adjust the hat which meant you didn't see his face go completely still behind you.
Flying with Clark was its own category of experience, one that didn't get easier to explain the more times you did it, only more familiar. The first five minutes were always the same, your stomach hadn't made peace with the altitude yet, your eyes stayed forward or shut and some part of your brain spent the whole time insisting that this was not how bodies were supposed to work but underneath all of it, was certainty. He had never once made you feel like you might fall, not for a second. His arms around you were absolute, his chest solid and warm against your cheek and the cold that hit everything else somehow didn't touch the space he made around you.
"We're almost there!" he called over the wind.
You didn't answer, only nodded against him and held on.
Then, gradually, the quality of the air changed as the speed bled out of it. You felt him adjusting his descent in small corrections and a minute later your feet met the ground with a soft crunch that traveled up through your boots and into your knees. It was snow, fluffy and undisturbed in every direction.
You kept your eyes shut even as he released you and you stood on your own.
"Sweetheart." He called softly, you could hear the smile in it. "You didn't need to close your eyes."
"Oh. I thought I'd–" you started explaining as they fluttered open.
The light hit first, that particular brightness that had no equivalent, white reflecting white under a sky that was almost cloudless. You blinked against it, adjusting and inevitably, as you looked around, your gaze landed on the structure in the distance and everything else stopped.
Your lips parted.
It rose from the landscape like it had grown there, which in every way that mattered it had. It was an eruption of crystal spires reaching at different angles, pale blue-white and enormous even from that distance, catching the flat Arctic light and fracturing it into something that barely looked real.
You took a few steps toward it without deciding to.
"Is that your–" you started, pointing at it in awe as the words died somewhere between your throat and your lips. You stood frozen in the snow, staring at it.
Clark stepped beside you, footsteps quiet in the snow as the wind tugged gently at his cape. Your shoulders almost brushed when he spoke, "I'll show you around."
You faced him then. He was smiling down at you with his hand extended between you, patiently waiting for you to take it, which of course, you did.
The two of you walked the remaining distance without rushing. There was no path, no track worn into the snow from use, no indication that anyone came and went from this place by foot. Just the flat white expanse and the crystal rising out of it and now, appearing behind you in a clean double line, your footprints beside his. You looked back once at the trail you were leaving and felt something open up in your chest that you weren't entirely prepared for.
He had never brought anyone here, you understood that without needing it said. This was the place that belonged to the man beneath everything else, the person who was both Clark Kent and Superman and neither of them entirely. He was bringing you into that, he was walking you to the door of the most private place he had and holding your hand while he did it, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
You looked up at the Fortress as it grew larger with every step, feeling the weight of being trusted with something irreplaceable.
His thumb moved slowly, across the back of your hand as the entrance came into view and the doors began to open before him.
The inside of the Fortress opened up in a way that made you stop walking for a second without meaning to. Everything climbed, walls, ceilings and structures you didn't have names for, all of it crystalline and catching the same pale light from a dozen different angles at once. It was somehow colder and warmer at the same time, the air sharp but the light itself almost golden where it pooled. You could feel Clark watching you take it in, his hand still wrapped around your gloved one, waiting for you to need him to say something.
"Welcome back, sir."
You turned at the voice as footsteps approached from your right. For a moment, you simply stared.
Clark had talked about the Superman robots before, he'd mentioned their names, their functions and the way they helped maintain the Fortress but none of those descriptions had prepared you for seeing them in person.
"Ms. Y/l/n. I have long possessed information regarding you. It is noteworthy to finally confirm your existence through direct observation.”
You looked up at Clark first, a small laugh escaping before you could stop it, then back at the robot in front of you, eyes dropping briefly to the number four stamped into his chest plate.
You smiled softly. "Nice to finally meet you too, Gary."
Gary turned smoothly toward two more robots crossing the floor behind him. "I have observed that Superman references us during conversations with his human lover…Identifying the species is unnecessary, as there is no other kind of lover for him." A brief pause, as if confirming the data was correctly filed. "This is Twelve. She is new."
You looked at Twelve and smiled.
Twelve looked back, head tilting slightly in your direction. "Oh, she looked at me!"
Seven approached next, arms already extended, holding a folded red blanket and a metallic blue thermos. Gary continued without missing a beat. "We have prepared warm blankets and tea. The tea has been heated for three minutes to the ideal temperature of eighty degrees Celsius, with two sugars, per Superman's specification."
"I'll take the tea." You took the thermos from Seven, wrapping both hands around it gratefully. "Don’t think the blanket will be necessary. Clark already had me wrapped up like a burrito before he swept me off my feet…Literally." You took a sip, the warmth spreading through your body.
"'Swept off my feet,'" Gary repeated, processing it audibly. "This is a common idiom among your kind. I hope you also intend it in the romantic sense, in the event further confirmation is required."
You narrowed your eyes slightly, glancing up at Clark. "Confirmation for what?"
Clark cleared his throat, a little too quickly. "Let me, uh, give you a tour." His hand found the small of your back, gently steering you down the hall before you could press further.
"We shall prepare for the activities, then," Gary said, already turning toward the main room. "The clock is, figuratively, ticking."
"Thanks for the tea!" you called back over your shoulder, lifting the thermos in salute.
"They're not very good at saying 'you're welcome,'" Clark told you quietly as you walked.
"Noted."
He smiled as he watched you sip more tea. "So…what do you want to see first? The glass bedroom or the bathroom? The toilet seat is heated."
You stopped walking, eyes widening slightly at the possibility of a glass bed. "Are you serious?"
His grin only widened, he shook his head. "There's no glass bedroom."
You let out a breath, shaking your head as you started walking again. "They’re doomed…The Superman robots are certainly learning from your sense of humor, Clark. Your jokes are setting their development back by decades...They need an upgrade."
"We should probably get you better winter gear, then. If you're going to be spending more time here." He glanced over at you, already thinking out loud. "I'll look into some kind of heating system." He kept walking, leading you down the corridor. "There aren't many rooms, but there's one I really want you to see."
You looked over at him, slowing your steps. "Clark…wait."
The teasing had dropped out of your voice entirely and he heard it instantly. He stopped and turned to face you and for a moment neither of you said anything.
You chose your words carefully, offering a reassuring smile. "You've already trusted me with so much…and I'm honored to be here, truly, I am, but..." You shook your head slowly. "You don't have to do this, any of this."
He listened in out of worry, the way he sometimes did without really meaning to, to your heartbeat. It was steady and still unafraid, just nervous in the ordinary way. "What do you mean?"
"This is your legacy, Clark. It's a piece of where you come from. It could just be yours…I'd understand that.” You paused, “Once I've seen it, I can't unsee it. I’ll become a part of it too, whether you meant for it to or not."
He stepped closer, taking your unoccupied hand in his. "I've always wanted you to know all of me...every piece, if you're willing to hold it." His voice dropped, steady and certain. "This isn't a sacrifice, sweetheart. Showing you this doesn't cost me anything…You've always belonged at the center of who I am. This–" he glanced around, at the crystal stretching up into the light, "–this is just proof of it."
You nodded slowly. Your breath caught and you sniffled, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes. "Do you happen to know the temperature at which tears freeze?" you asked, voice thick.
He laughed softly, pulling you gently forward by the hand as he led you toward the next room. "Yeah, I think a heating system really would be a good idea."
"Wouldn't a heating system melt the whole place, though?"
"It's Kryptonian crystal," he explained. "Not ice. It can withstand a lot more than that. It's just naturally cold in here."
"Well, insulation would ruin the aesthetic anyway, so think it through." you decided and felt him softly squeeze your hand.
He spent the better part of an hour walking you through the Fortress. Through the rooms that mattered and rooms that didn't but that he showed you anyway because you asked, small alcoves of crystal that hummed faintly when you got close enough. You stayed in a state of quiet awe through most of it but the room that stopped you completely was the one lined with his suits. Row after row, the same emblem rendered over and over in different materials and ages, the symbol of an entire dead world that he had carried across galaxies and made his own among people who barely understood what it meant.
You felt his eyes on you the entire time, watching you take it in and no matter how simple or obvious your questions were, he answered every one of them and you could hear the smile in his voice with each one.
Eventually, the two of you made your way back to the main room, where all of the Superman robots stood arranged in a loose half circle and at the center, set on a low pedestal, sat a small sealed box. You knew exactly what was inside before you directly saw it, that particular sickly green you'd only ever glimpsed in passing, in places you tried not to look too long.
Your hand tightened around Clark's, your first instinct pulling him back half a step.
"It's okay, sweetheart." His voice was steady, hand staying exactly where it was, not pulling away from yours. "Gary?"
Gary approached, holding out a pair of sunglasses toward you. "Please keep these on until we give the all clear," he said. "Your eyes are not equipped to withstand what you are about to see."
You took them carefully, turning them over once. They looked like ordinary sunglasses, maybe a little heavier and the lenses a shade darker than you expected.
You slid them on. "Is this some kind of science class?"
"I certainly won't be the one teaching it," Clark said, the corner of his mouth lifting. He looked past you toward the console. "Gary, are we ready?"
"Whenever you are, sir." Gary moved toward the main console, where two of the other robots were already standing by, lights along their forearms beginning to pulse in slow sequence.
"Clark, what's going on?" you whispered, eyes flicking between the box and his face.
"I wouldn't let anything happen to you, you know that, right?" He squeezed your hand as his gaze met yours.
"You, on the other hand–"
"I like experimenting." He shrugged, like it cost him nothing.
Your eyes widened slightly, "With Kryptonite? Since when?"
"Uh…a year, give or take." He smiled down at you and then his eyes lifted to Gary, he nodded once. "Gary. We're ready."
Gary moved to the console without hesitation and the rest of the robots fell into position around the central platform like they'd rehearsed it a hundred times, because they had.
Twelve lifted the small box from the pedestal, carrying it with both hands toward the center of the room, where a shallow chamber sat recessed into the crystal floor, lined with something dark and metallic that looked nothing like the rest of the Fortress.
"That’s a containment chamber," Clark said quietly to you as his thumb moved slowly over your knuckles. "Built specifically for this."
"Sir," Gary said, eyes still on the console, "might I suggest you and Ms.Y/l/n retreat to the secondary platform. Fifteen feet, as discussed."
Clark's hand tightened slightly around yours. "Come on."
He guided you back, until you were standing on a raised section of crystal floor that put you above and away from the chamber. From there you could see the whole room laid out steps beneath you, the concentrator rising above the platform like an enormous lens angled toward the sky, panels of crystal catching light that wasn't there yet.
Seven lifted the lid of the box and even through the dark lenses the green light intensified, throwing long shadows across the floor, catching every facet of the Fortress and scattering it back in shades of sick emerald. Nestled inside, on a bed of dark fabric, sat the stone. Smaller than you'd expected and uncut, glowing from somewhere deep inside itself like it had a pulse of its own.
Twelve lifted it with a pair of long, articulated tools and lowered it carefully into the chamber. A transparent shield slid closed over the top, sealing it in. The glow didn't stop but it dimmed, pressing against the inside of the shield like something trying to get out.
"Sample secured," Gary announced. "Beginning calibration."
The concentrator began to hum. It started low, almost beneath hearing, a vibration that traveled up through the crystal floor and into the soles of your boots. Far above, panels began to rotate, realigning toward the chamber below and what little Arctic sunlight there was began to gather and bend, funneling down through the lens.
"Finally," Clark breathed, watching it. "We've been working on this for so long…there’ve been thousands of simulations." His jaw worked once. "I didn't want to tell you until I knew it would work."
"Tell me what?” You asked quietly, eyes never leaving the scene as worry crept in. “And do you actually know?"
"I trust the math." He nodded firmly.
The column of light reached the chamber and the room changed color. For a moment the green and the gold fought each other, the stone lit from above in concentrated solar light while it pulsed back against it, radiating that same sickly glow like it was resisting. The light intensified in stages, the hum climbing in pitch and beside you Clark's hand went rigid in yours.
You immediately looked away from the machine, eyes moving across his face, searching instinctively for every symptom you'd learned to recognize over the years. "Clark? What’s happening?"
"It's fine." His voice was rough. The green glow spilling from the chamber reflected across his face as he kept his eyes fixed on the stone. His fingers tightened once more around yours. "This is the part where it resists…Gary said it would resist."
"Isotopic activity decreasing," Gary reported. "Forty percent…Thirty-five."
You watched his shoulders ease slightly, the tension starting to bleed out of him the way it had a moment ago and then it spiked.
The green flared violently, brighter than it had been at any point and the hum from the concentrator stuttered, a half second of dissonance that set your teeth on edge. Clark's hand crushed around yours, hard enough that you gasped and beside him his knees buckled enough that you felt him catch himself right on time.
"Sir." Gary's voice changed, the flatness cracking for the first time. "Output is exceeding modeled parameters. Fifteen feet is no longer sufficient at this intensity…I recommend immediate retreat."
"No." Clark's voice came out through his teeth, low and rough.
Twelve approached. "Sir, your vitals–"
"I said no." He straightened, forcing it, his free hand braced against the crystal wall beside you, now that sweat had broken out along his hairline despite the cold. "This is the spike before it breaks…It has to be. We modeled this."
"We modeled a spike.” Twelve corrected and for the first time there was something almost uncertain underneath the calculation. “Not this one."
"Clark, baby." Your voice cracked. Both your hands were on his arm now, gripping tightly enough to feel the tension underneath his skin, the controlled violence of him holding still on purpose. "Clark, please, if it's hurting you–"
"It's not going to last." He said it through gritted teeth, eyes locked on the chamber, on the violent pulse of green fighting against the gold. "It's a means to an end. It has to burn through, that's the whole point, it can't resist forever–" He cut himself off, breath hissing out through his nose and you felt his legs lock, refusing to let his body do what it wanted to do, which was fold.
"Gary," he called, "how much longer?"
"Unknown. The output is not behaving according to any modeled curve."
"Then we wait." His hand gripped yours again like an anchor. "We wait."
The green surged again and this time you heard him make a low and involuntary sound. His head dipped slightly as if something heavy had pressed down on him. His eyes shut for a second and every muscle in his jaw worked under the strain, the effort visible in the smallest movements of his face.
"Clark, look at me." You said as you stepped in front of him, both hands coming up to his face, so he’d look at you. His eyes opened and once they found yours, they held on. "Whatever this is about…it’s not worth the pain."
"It is…" His voice was barely above a whisper now. "You’ll see."
The green light convulsed one more time, violent and bright, the air around the chamber shimmering hard enough to blur the shape of it until it broke, the same way ice breaks, all at once, the resistance simply gone. The green collapsed inward on itself and the gold flooded in to fill the space it left behind and the hum of the concentrator dropped, smoothed out and settled.
"Isotopic activity," Gary announced and there was no mistaking the relief in it now, flat as he tried to keep it, "Twenty percent…Twelve percent...Six percent."
Clark's head lifted as he watched over your shoulder, eyes moving away from yours while yours simply couldn’t. He exhaled, long and shaking and you felt the tremor in his body ease as you too turned to watch.
"Two percent," Gary continued. "Zero point eight…Zero point three…Zero point zero…one." He paused. "Within acceptable margin…The sample is inert."
The column of light thinned, it drew back up into the ceiling and the panels above began to rotate closed and the machines powered down in sequence as the Fortress went quiet.
The shield over the chamber slid back and where the green stone had been, something else sat now, pale and almost colorless, holding the ambient light of the room differently than it had before, no longer pulsing or alive with that sickly glow.
Your lips parted at the sight as Clark straightened slowly, drawing himself back together piece by piece before stepping down from the platform and offering you his hand. You took it, following him as your eyes met his.
“It’s okay,” he said before you could ask. “I’m okay. It’s over.”
You crossed the floor behind him while every robot in the room stood motionless, watching him the same way you were. He stopped at the edge of the chamber and looked down at the stone for a long moment before reaching in and picking it up with his bare hand.
Nothing happened.
He stood there holding it, turning it slightly, watching the light shift across its surface and you realized you’d stopped breathing somewhere in the last minute and hadn’t started again. He looked up, found your gaze and set a gentle hand against your cheek.
“It’s safe now. You can remove your glasses,” he said, still looking at you.
Your hands were already moving. The Fortress returned in full, unfiltered color as you stepped closer to him, staring at Clark holding something small and pale in his open palm, like the last few minutes hadn’t happened at all, like he’d been waiting this entire time just to show you this.
You swallowed. “I think…we need a breather,” you said, mostly to yourself.
You were already turning toward the nearest corridor when Clark suggested he take you somewhere outside. It took him only a moment to follow your movement and you didn't see what all the shifting and movement among the robots behind you had been about but only felt the change in atmosphere as Clark caught up.
His arm slid around your waist and a second later, the ground dropped away.
Air rushed past as he lifted you into the sky, carrying you through the open structure of the Fortress until the cold Arctic light returned in full. He set down on a platform high among the tallest crystalline spires, where the wind moved freely and the horizon stretched wide and white.
Snow shimmered below and the sky was pale, endless.
“I don’t…” You let out a breathless laugh, the wind catching at your words. Your eyes swept the view once before you turned back to him. “I’m not sure what I just saw in there.”
Your voice tightened slightly. "And trust me, I tried to keep my eyes open through all of it, but you scared me." You gave his chest a firm hit with your fist. "What were you thinking, Clark Kent?"
The impact barely moved him, it only made him chuckle lightly.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze stayed on you, unreadable in that scary way that always came just before something important.
Slowly, he reached into his belt and your attention locked instantly.
He pulled out a carved band, holding it between two fingers like it mattered too much to be careless with. You could hear, or maybe just feel, your heartbeat speed up, loud enough that it felt like it filled the space between you.
He reached in again and produced a small, rough stone, one that bent the light in a way you'd never seen any diamond do, every facet catching a slightly different shade as it turned.
You watched as he closed his hand around it and when he opened his palm again, fragile shards fell away, revealing a small, clear stone underneath, which he carefully set into the first empty socket on the band.
You blinked, eyes following his hand as he reached in again and drew out another rough stone, this one glowing faintly the same way the untouched walls of the Fortress had. He crushed it the same way, the stone giving under his grip, not shattering so much as yielding, and a larger stone emerged from inside it, settling into its place on the band.
Then he reached into his belt one last time and pulled out the disabled kryptonite. Of the three, it was by far the clearest, though somehow it still caught the light in a way none of the others quite managed.
He crushed it in his hand and set the final ‘diamond’.
You stared at the ring as his eyes began to glow red, the heat focusing into two narrow beams that swept carefully along the edges of each setting, sealing the stones into place. Once he was satisfied they were secure, he lifted the ring to his lips and let out a slow breath of super breath, cooling the metal until it no longer shimmered with heat.
Your heart was pounding now, lips parting slightly as you watched him lower himself onto one knee, his eyes never leaving yours. When his knee touched the platform, he paused, drew in a breath that seemed to cost him more than it should have and swallowed. He held the ring up toward you and whatever he'd rehearsed every day for the past year caught somewhere in his throat.
"...Please."
Your brows lifted slightly, lips curving into a smile you couldn't have stopped if you tried, your heart stumbling so hard in your chest you thought you might actually faint.
It was all a blur of mumbled words, tears, tight embraces, breathless laughter and the strange sensation of height shifting under your feet as the hours folded into one another. You slid your glove off so he could finally slip the ring onto your finger and in the space of a heartbeat the both of you were already cutting through the sky, Clark holding you close as the arctic shrank into light beneath you.
What followed was a mess of emotion and surging energy you had never seen from him in that state. You made it home in record time and the first stop had been the bedroom, the both of you, but especially Clark, letting go of everything he had been holding back. Everything that had stayed trapped behind restraint finally spilled out, fast and unguarded, until the bedframe gave way under the force of it and you both broke into breathless laughter in the aftermath.
After that, everything blurred again.
You sat on the couch as a streak of motion moved through the apartment, Clark unpacking every box in milliseconds, placing everything exactly where you had mentally mapped it out. The remaining cardboard vanished just as quickly, carried away like it had never been there. He returned almost immediately after, kneeling at the edge of the couch in front of you with the same restless energy still burning through him, only now softened by relief and joy. You met it halfway on the carpet, where time stopped mattering in any real sense.
It was late when the rush finally eased into something his body could keep up with at a normal human pace. Only then did you think about food.
You ended up on the kitchen counter, one hand lifted as the ring caught the warm light and threw it back in shifting color. Clark stood at the stove shirtless, moving between pots and fridge with distracted focus, adding things, adjusting heat and insisting you needed to eat before you fell asleep. You had been fighting sleep for a while already, after so many rounds, caught between exhaustion and the aftershock of everything.
The cold air from the opened fridge brushed your bare legs and it brought back the memory of earlier that day without warning.
“Tell me again,” you breathed, eyes fixed on the ring.
Clark stopped, whatever he was doing was abandoned in an instant. He stepped closer, placing both hands on either side of you against the counter, caging you in gently without pressure. His gaze didn’t go to the ring at first. It stayed on you, studying your face and reaction, like that mattered more than anything else he had built.
“Jewel Kryptonite,” he started, voice calmer now.
His hand lifted slightly as he spoke, indicating the first stone.
“I found it in the Fortress but it comes from the Jewel Mountains of Krypton. Its primary function was amplifying psychic abilities…telepathy and mental projection for Kryptonians. In my case…” He hesitated, just briefly, choosing the right way to place it. “It represents my mind…my subconscious, dreams, grief and memories. The parts of me nobody reaches…the parts I want you to have access to.”
He shifted his attention to the largest stone, the one in the middle.
“The Fortress crystal…origin and inheritance. It’s everything I was given, my legacy, my people’s knowledge…Krypton on Earth and Kal-El’s home.” His eyes softened slightly as they stayed on you. “Which you've gone out of your way to love and accept too in ways I never expected or thought possible.”
A quiet breath left him before he continued.
“And the last one but not least…never that.” His thumb brushed lightly against your hand where the ring sat. “Disabled green kryptonite. That was the hardest part and the reason this took so long…It’s what I trust you most with, my vulnerability…but not the only one.”
His gaze lifted fully to yours at that.
You moved closer instinctively, arms sliding around his shoulders and pulling him in as if distance had become unnecessary. You raised your hand again, watching the ring catch the light between you both.
“Who you come from… who you are… and what you trust me with,” you murmured, more to yourself than anything else. Then something else caught your attention.
“What about the band?” you asked softly. You had noticed it earlier, the faint engravings when the light hit just right, the House of El symbol hidden in the design, it was subtle but definitely intentional.
It was clear nothing about it had been accidental.
He exhaled through a small smile. “Everything I am,” he said, quieter now, “set into the thing that led me to you.”
Your brows softened.
“I made it out of my ship.”
The confession pulled the breath straight out of you. “It took you a year,” you said, voice catching slightly, “and so much effort and thought and I–”
"I love you." His voice caught, eyes filling again as they held yours. "I loved you the day I met you…I love you today,” He paused, “Y/n, I'll love you long after we leave this Earth."
You sniffled as a tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized it had formed but still, you smiled, voice cracking with emotion. "And I'll love you as long as it exists."
Clark lifted a hand, thumb brushing the tear away with a tenderness that contrasted everything else about him and gently tilted your face toward his as he pressed his lips to yours, leaving no distance between what he had built and what he had finally given away.
He might have been unable to say anything when he was down on one knee, but that didn’t mean he had no words for you. He simply doubted they existed in any language and if they did, they had a terrible tendency to fall galaxies short.
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
CWs- The only one that really applies is a somewhat vague play scene of specifically consensual non-consent. No in universe rape or anything. Evan is talked about as switching between topping and bottoming. Reader was written as AFAB in one section but I tried to keep the rest neutral.
THIS ONE IS A DOOZY. I FUCKING LOCKED IN Y’ALL. this was written in mind as specifically only evan, no mentions of habit. this is for the other four people who want evan carnally. get out of the WAY, habit. i need this fuckass white boy!!!
Sub leaning switch and versatile, gladly. He doesn’t just put up with bottoming or subbing because you want him to, he actively wants it! I don’t care what anyone else says because this is my TRUTH. To ME.
It might take a little bit or maybe an embarrassing accidental subspace-adjacent moment for him to admit it, though. He’s used to being into like,,, gruff boyish things otherwise so it was his own entire journey coming to terms with it himself.
“If you’re not into it, that’s like, completely fine. I’m just. Y’know. Weird like that, I guess.”
But with you? Complete honesty, even if it makes him flush up, entirely sheepish about it. During the beat of silence of admitting it during cuddling, he sits up and starts an entire defensive speech while staring at his hands-
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You want him… Like that? No like… Joke or anything about it? Evan is just a little floored that you’re not expecting anything macho or that you’re into it wholeheartedly as well. The idea of a partner not humoring his submissive wants but actively wanting to participate and take care of him immediately does something to his brain.
You can quickly shut him up with “Oh no, I was kinda hoping you’d say something like that.”
-
When he’s topping, his fav position is face down ass up doggy but you’re throwing it back on him like he fucking owes you money. He wants to be tearing up and begging for you to slow down, to stop being so rough. He’s lying. Evan doesn’t want you to stop at all- He wants you to keep going even after he’s whimpering that he’s already cum.
Needless to say he gets a little excited. Maybe a lot excited. You can feel it against you.
-
When he’s bottoming his fav is missionary where you’re tucking his head into your chest and keeping him in place with your weight. He’s not allowed to move unless he’s going to leg-lock you. He will whine and moan like a bitch because this is the only time really where he likes feeling small. The best part is hearing him sob underneath you because he’s already cum three times and you won’t stop.
-
His fav activities with soft doms are:
Evan doesn’t really prefer any type of domming most of the time? He’s got a soft spot for gentle dominants but still loves it when you’re mean and slap him around.
-
Nonsexual - Sitting and your feet while you do something. While you’re barely paying attention to him besides an occasional petting, he gets all fuzzy brained and leans his head to lay on your thigh. Bro straight up looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky. Genuinely almost nothing is better than being able to turn his brain off and looking up at you while you do something you like to do. It makes Evan feel safe.
His fav activities with harsher doms are:
Sexual - Honestly? Nursing handjobs. He is a greedy man- AKA a boob AND ass man. If he could stuff his face between your tits and be taken care of forever, he would give into it in a heartbeat. He melts instantly when you play with his hair or stroke the side of his face with your other hand. Initially, he was really embarrassed to admit wanting this but now it is one of his absolute favorites when it comes to sex.
-
Nonsexual - The same as gentle dom but instead putting him in a stress position while you do something else. His favorite is just a classic- Kneeling with his arms cuffed or tied behind his back. Especially when you still end up petting his head but your praise becoming backhanded, dripping with pity. That or straight up simply mocking him for how he likes this. Evan is going to enjoy either one.
PLEASE PLEASE PUT A COLLAR ON HIM. HE DOESN’T GAF HE WILL BEG FOR IT. AND HE WILL BEG FOR YOU TO YANK HIM AROUND ON LEASH.
Sexual - It HAS to be overstimulating him while laughing in his face about how pathetic he is. He didn’t think he’d like CNC as much as he does but he fucking looooves trying to get away from you, only to be caught by his ankles and pulled back where you want him to be. Any sort of blaming language gets him in subspace so so deeply. Talking about how you know he wants this, how he’s a degenerate fucking loser who should be grateful for this.
-
He likes to be slapped. A lot. Anywhere you want.
His favorite thing on leash is when you make him crawl over to your open legs so he can give you head. He tries to be sweet by kissing your thighs but every time you roughly pull his head closer to your sex. And every time, his face heats up and his eyes kinda gloss over.
-
FINALLY. HOW TO DESTRESS AND CARE FOR YOUR EVAN AFTERWARDS.
SORT OF SEGUES INTO THIS. Strap or cock doesn’t matter because he will instantly turn obedient and craving if you slap yourself on the side of his face. He fucking adores the weight of it. I swear to god you can see his entire face and demeanor change when you do this.
-
He doesn’t really experience subdrop but he does need a lot of reassurance after scenes or play in general. Evan had a lot of searching to do to find this part of himself and he needs someone to tell him it’s okay to want stuff like this. He doesn’t deal with any regret but he does feel a bit. Well. Vulnerable aftwards, naturally.
His favorite form of aftercare is just… Existing with you for a while after play. He’s usually really hungry afterwards so it’s best to keep a snack that’s ready to eat for this.
Snacking on something while you stroke his back and tell him how he did good for you is a way to make him instantly have another, calmer this time, wave of good feelings.
This is one of the only times really where Evan is completely quiet. He likes to soak in how you made him feel during play and how you’re making him feel now. It’s really cute, actually. When he looks at you, it’s like a tired puppy. Exhausted but truly happy. Just the way he ought to be.
Ser Duncan the Tall x fem!Baratheon bastard (NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTIONS)
Overview: You've traveled alongside Egg for a year now. And he's always been stubborn, but deciding to squire for an oafish hedge knight is a new one for him.
What's a bastard-born to do when she finds herself falling for that hedge knight and a Targaryen prince seems set on destroying him?
a/n: I just binged the show and need me that big, strong man
(spoilers for the show below, canon-compliant violence, absolutely ZERO physical descriptions of the reader. That’s one of my gripes with GoT fics: a house name always comes with house features. NOT HERE, baby!)
wc: 9.2k
“Truly, Egg?” The young boy glanced from you to the lamb cart and you let out a scoff of disgust. The farmer spat into the mud, shuffling impatiently as he waited for you to cough up a copper. Just enough for you and Egg to get to the Ashford Tourney.
He’d gotten it into his head that he ought to be a squire for a true knight. And, somehow, that lumbering oaf of a hedge knight that had come in this night past was just that. You’d never understand the boy's reasoning, but you wouldn’t argue with your prince.
Egg stared up at you, arms crossed.
“Fine, you hellion," you grumbled, and Egg let out a triumphant hum. You hiked up your skirts, clambering into the back of the wagon with the animals. You tossed some coins in the farmer's hand. Just as you’d reached down to help Egg up, the wagon began to roll forward.
“This better be fun,” you warned him, grimacing as a lamb butted its head against you. The beasts smelled foul.
“It will be,” Egg swore. “You’ll see, I’ll be a great squire.”
You snorted, "Certainly better than any of your brothers.”
“What the hell are you doing here? Are you trying to thieve away my horses? I ought to clobber your ear.” You heard the knight admonishing Egg.
Your brows rose as you stepped out from behind the oak tree. Dunk, as he called himself, straightened up when he saw you. A flush rose to his cheeks that you found rather endearing.
“I didn’t know knights to be so cruel to their squires,” you taunted, dropping the basket of washing to the grass. Dunk’s eye darted between you and Egg, his mouth parted as he stuttered over his words.
Egg introduced you, saying your name with a small smile. “This is my traveling companion.”
“Hardly a companion, just trying to keep little man out of trouble.” You reached for one of the shirts you'd cleaned and clipped it to the line you’d strung up. “Are you trouble, Ser?”
Poor Duncan still seemed entirely unsure of what to do with himself. Standing in his pathetic little camp were two complete strangers. An obstinate boy he’d met at an inn only a day past. And a woman he’d never seen before. You had told Egg you ought to introduce yourselves first. But he was insistent on cleaning up Dunk’s camp, on proving his merit as a squire.
“I ain’t no trouble,” Dunk finally responded, shifting uneasily on his feet. You surveyed the man, appreciating just how large he was.
“Certainly not,” you teased, laughing at the irritated look Egg shot you. “Well, I’ve laundered your clothes as best I could. Hopefully you’ll smell less like a... hedge now.”
You wipe your hands off on your skirt and begin to make your way from the camp. Dunk frowns and watches you warily. “Where're you going?”
“I’m not your squire, Ser. I don’t have to answer to you,” you reminded him, sending him a sharp smile as you made your way onto the road.
You could hear him turn back to the boy, still sputtering slightly. “Who are you two?”
Egg let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m your squire, Ser. And she’s my companion.”
“That’s not a bloody answer.”
You’d heard your father was to be at the tourney. Not a surprise, seeing as he was a glutton for any sort of excitement. But a house as large as his showing up meant it was more likely than not that the Targaryens would be here as well. All of them.
The presence of Egg's family was inevitable, but you still prayed that Aerion might fall ill during the journey and miss the tourney.
If the Gods did not see fit to answer your prayer, you hoped that Baelor and his sons would join them as well. You quite liked Valarr’s company, and that side of the family seemed to keep the more wild Targaryens in check.
Being a bastard born of a high-born house should hardly make you any better than a low-born. But your father had a particular weakness for his daughters. So, you’d been raised alongside his legitimate heirs. And he had tried to have you legitimized, but you weren’t interested in being married off to a Lord of some far-off land. You'd rather live your life.
And Egg had been so enamored by your stories that at the last tourney you’d attended, he’d ask your father for your company a while longer. It’s how you’d ended up traveling with him, flitting between different houses as you let the wind chart your path. As any proper Stormborn would.
It’s also how you met his brother Aerion. A dragon would never sully himself with a bastard or lowborn, of course not. But that didn’t stop him from taking joy in tormenting you. You swear, if the Other had a face, it would be his. Dragon born he was not, just another spoiled, cruel son of a second son.
He enjoyed the power he held over a Baratheon. You provided him with the entertainment of torturing another powerful house with none of the consequences. Hopefully, you and Egg would be able to skirt by without attracting his attention too long at the tourney.
As you made your way through vendors and tents, you searched out the loudest crowd. Your father was like to be in the middle of it. And with the sun going down, it wouldn’t be too long until he got so deep in his cups he wouldn’t even recognize you.
Eventually, you came upon an obnoxiously large tent covered with stag horns. The guards paid you little mind as you stepped through, assuming you to be another dancer come to entertain your father’s men.
Someone followed in behind you and you frowned, glancing over your shoulder. Egg’s hedge knight lingered behind you, eyes wide as you caught him following you.
“Are you stalking me, Ser?”
“No- no, ‘course not. I’m just looking for,” his eyes darted around the tent before they lit up at the sight of the dessert table. “Supper, looking for supper.”
You raised a brow and smirked. “Then help yourself. And stop following so close, you fool.”
Dunk flushed and ducked his head, a poor attempt to make himself smaller as he made his way toward the food. You watched him for another moment before shaking your head and turning toward your father's table.
“Oi,” he hissed out your name as you passed. Eyes widening when he saw your target. “What’re you-“
You made it to your father before Dunk could properly stop you. Lyonel’s eyes lit up at the sight of you, whatever he was drunkenly going on about, forgotten. “My daughter! Returned to me,” you grinned, rounding the table as you threw your arms around his shoulders.
“And who is this?” He muttered. You turned to see that Dunk really had foolishly followed you. There was a half-eaten tart still in his hand, eyes wide as they took you in.
“Ser Duncan,” you told him. “Kind enough to help me find my way here,” Dunk choked at your lie, and you let out a little laugh.
“Sorry, you’re his….”
“Daughter,” you finished, popping off your father's ridiculous stag crown and placing it on your own head. “Don’t you see the family resemblance?”
Dunk's eyes darted helplessly between the pair of you before your father let out a bark of laughter. “Good, you shouldn’t! She takes after her mother, bless her.”
“Thank the Gods,” you nodded, placing your father's crown back on his head.
“You,” Lyonel’s eyes narrowed with a scoff. “You are very tall. Be tall! Stop skulking about and curling into yourself.”
Dunk shook his head, mouth still slightly full of tart. “I don’t skulk.”
“You do,” you interrupted, taking off your cloak and tossing it to one of your father's men. “I’ve always found dancing to be a good way to loosen the shoulders. Would you try with me, Ser?”
You held out your hand and your father crossed his arms, motioning toward you in a way Dunk could hardly refuse. “Well,” he offered tensely. “Who doesn’t like to dance?”
Dunk is a giant; you can offer him that grace. And no one ever said a giant made a good dance partner, but he certainly tried his best. His elbows flexed awkwardly at his sides, like a headless chicken trying their hand at graceful footwork. You laughed as you looped your arm through his, leading him through the dance.
Despite his stature, he was quick enough to follow your lead, grinning to himself as he ducked his head and let you control the movements.
But your father was always quick to get jealous of the fun. You cheered along with the rest of the crowd as he jumped atop his table, motioning for the musicians to play an even rowdier tune.
You backed into the circle, leaving Dunk unawares as your father approached behind him. You offered a sympathetic grimace when he smashed his foot on top of Dunk’s worn boots. You swear, the way your father dances is like a male bird trying to mate and a praying mantis lopping off her lover’s head, all the same.
It’s violent, without rhythm, and something you’ve never tried your hand at. But it was surprising how quick Dunk was to catch onto the game. To bring his foot down just as hard, so badly you could almost hear the crunch of your father’s bones.
And then Lyonel was letting out a howl of joy, spinning back into the dance and snatching up your hand as he went. He tossed you back to Dunk, who was feeling confident enough to tug your right back into a dance with him.
By the time the reverly had settled, you were breathless, your temple damp with sweat as you sat in the chair beside the hedge knight, listening to your father recount his wild true tales.
“Ooh,” he let out a groan and shook his head. “I am drunk.”
“You always are,” you chastised, chuckling slightly as you leaned against Dunk’s thick frame. He stiffened at the movement before relaxing slightly, grinning over at you. You can’t tell what was more fun for him tonight, the dancing, or the turkey legs as large as his arms.
“My beloved daughter,” your father took your hand, placing a chaste kiss on it as he clambered over his table. “I retire!” He announced to the dying crowd, drunkenly making his way from the tent.
You shook your head with a grin, taking another sip of your cider. “If I may,” Dunk started, and you hummed, glancing over at him. “I’ve never met a noble lady who acted as you do.”
You chuckled, “Is that a question or an insult, Ser?”
Dunk’s eyes went wide and he shook his head, jerking back from you. You let out an aggrieved sigh as your head slipped from his shoulder, and he even apologized for that. “Meaning no offense, my lady.”
“Relax, my noble knight of the hedge.” You didn’t miss how he flushed at that. “I am a bastard. Perhaps the luckiest bastard in all of Westeros to be sired by a father who cares for his daughters. No matter their title.”
“Then why,” his brows furrowed and you could smell the ale on his breath. Thoughts already seemed difficult enough for him to form. You imagined it was that much worse when he was drunk. “Why are you with Egg?”
“I was bored and looking for an adventure. The boy seems to have a keen eye for them,” you lied easily and with no guilt. Egg wanted his family name kept secret, and you would not betray his trust. It did not matter if one knew your name. Bastard is hardly a name at all. Targaryen, though, that was an ask for trouble.
“Suppose you’re right,” Dunk muttered, taking another deep swig from his cup. Your eyes narrowed at the size of it in his massive palm. It looked like a child’s plaything when he held it. You can’t say you’ve ever had the pleasure of being with a man as large as him.
But you could tell his type. He’d probably only ever lain with a handful of women. Each bedding more bashful and red-cheeked than the last. Shaking your head, you banish the thoughts from your mind. The alcohol has gotten to you and burned away what remains of your sensibilities.
“I think we ought to retire,” you tell him.
His head snaps up as you stand, seeming disappointed. “Aye,” he reluctantly agrees, “you’re probably right. It’s best to have fresh eyes tomorrow.”
“Mm,” you hum, taking hold of his arm and letting him help you out of the tent. “Egg will be jealous he missed the fun, I’m sure.”
“Meaning no offense, I don’t think your father’s the type to be allowed ‘round children.”
You barked out a sharp laugh, your smile only widening when you saw the look on Dunk’s face. “You do have a fair point, Ser. I believe I was five the first time he let me attend a tourney. And hardly eight when I stepped foot in my first brothel.”
“Brothel?” Dunk stuttered, shaking his head. “A lady shouldn’t be setting foot in no brothel.”
“Well, how else was I to see my mother?” At the scandalized look upon his poor face, you’re sure your laughter woke up the rest of the camp.
“Now! Now!”
“Egg,” you groaned, clutching your pounding head. “Not so loud.”
The boy crossed his arms and glared. “It is not my fault you got drunk. I won’t miss the puppets because of you.”
You screwed your face up at him, sticking out your tongue as he ran in front of you. Dunk was missing from your trio, off to beseech knights to try and remember his Sire’s name. You doubted anyone would help him enlist in the names. All these high-born sons only cared about themselves, not helping a hedge knight make a proper name for himself.
Egg darted between the legs of the crowd and you cursed, hiking up your skirts as you raced after him. By the time he’d gotten this squire’s itch out of his system, all your decent dresses would be stained brown with muck and mud.
You caught him just before he slipped into a large yellow tent. Ducking in after him, you were thankful for the shade the performer’s tent provided for a moment. Your eyes darted across the crowds and your shoulders relaxed when you saw Egg’s bald head seated right at the very front.
The stage was still empty as you hid in the back of the crowd. Despite Egg’s complaints of your laziness and too-slow demeanor, it seemed he’d gotten you both here far earlier than he needed to.
A hand clamped around your shoulder and you shot forward with a gasp. There was an airy laugh behind you. You whipped around with a wide grin. “Tanselle!” You admonished, “Seven hells, you scared me.”
She pressed a finger to her lips, smiling as she took your wrist and led you to the back of the tent. You shot Egg a smug smirk as she led you behind the stage and he watched with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.
“What are you doing here?” She demanded, dropping you in the familiar bustle of the puppeteers readying themselves for another performance.
“I heard about the tourney, found myself a young squire and a giant knight to travel along beside.”
She grinned widely, letting out an impressed scoff. “Do your adventures never stop?”
“I take after my father, what can I say?” A sudden thought popped into your head and you took her hand. “Though the knight I’m with, he doesn’t have a sigil of his own. Just carries around his master’s old shield. I wonder, could you do an old friend a favor? Paint him something new?”
Her eyes narrowed and she hummed. “That’ll come at a cost…”
“A performance,” you both said at the same moment. Her eyes lit up and you shook your head. “Alright, I don’t see much harm in it, anyhow.”
“Perfect,” she clapped her hands and led you toward the back. “I’ve been working on something new, I think you’ll love it.” Your eyes widened as she brought you before a giant mastery of puppeteering. The towering form of a dragon. “Feel like slaying the beast?”
You smiled, but something settled poorly in your stomach. This didn’t seem like it would end well for you.
“Typically, one says thank you when a friend does them a favor.”
“Oh, and are we friends now?” You drew back, arms crossed, as Dunk came to a slow stop. He turned with a grimace, already knowing he’d said the wrong thing. “I didn’t mean-”
“No, if you don’t want my help, then fine. Don’t get yourself a new sigil. Don’t get yourself a better shield. Suffer,” you spat, storming past him. Egg’s eyes darted between the pair of you. When Dunk remained still, he kicked him in the ankle and motioned him forward.
Duncan shot him a harsh look before following after you. “I am sorry, lady,” he offered. “But I would have liked to choose my own sigil.”
“Oh,” you spun around on him and he nearly tripped over himself. “I didn’t choose your sigil, you lumbering fool. I just had a friend agree to create you a new one. Now,” you let out a sharp huff. “Thank you?”
Duncan pursed his lips, chin dipping between his shoulders. “Thank you, lady,” he muttered, sounding properly admonished.
“Cheer up, Dunk, you’ll soon be a proper knight,” you took his arm in your own as you walked him through the camp. “And don’t say hedge knights are just as good as any other. I know that, but they,” you motioned to all the men milling about. All the fancy high-lord knights in their pretty armor. “They don’t know that. It’s on you to show them.”
Duncan straightened up, rolling back his shoulders as he gave a firm nod. You bit your lip so you wouldn’t laugh at him. He took your words to heart so easily; if he wasn’t careful, your ego would soon start to consider you important.
A bellowing horn blew through the camp, shaking the ground beneath you. Duncan frowned, glancing around as people began shoving past one another to see who was coming. Egg shot you a worried look as Dunk broke away from the pair of you. You took the boy’s hand in yours, following closely behind your knight.
You had a feeling you knew what family would make such a grand entrance. But you prayed to the Seven you were wrong. Dunk glanced over his shoulder as you approached, making room for you and Egg in the crowd. He lifted the boy onto his shoulders while you positioned yourself in front of him.
You should have known yourself better. Rarely were you ever wrong.
Riding onto the tourney grounds was a family of black and red, their dragon sigil flying high above their knights' heads. The Targarayens had arrived, fashionably late and with a dramatic entrance, as always.
Egg lightly kicked out from where he sat on Dunk’s shoulders. You glanced up to see worry etched along the boy’s face. “Oi,” Duncan swatted his thigh, “don’t go kicking people,” he scolded. The poor thing was completely oblivious to just how much danger his squire had put him in.
“Come,” you urged. “There are plenty of fancy lords to gawk at. I bore of this,” Dunk frowned as you brushed past him. He set Egg on the ground and trailed behind you. Egg was quick to rush to your side, tugging on your cloak as he sent you a frantic look.
“Worry not, boy, you’re bald as a babe now. I doubt anyone will pay you much attention. Much less recognize you.”
“That hardly makes me feel better,” he scowled. Such a cantankerous young prince.
“What’re you scheming ‘bout, now?” Dunk asked, glancing between the pair of you suspiciously.
“Nothing,” you smooth over. “Just wondering what ridiculous sigil you might choose for your new shield.”
“Oi, it ain’t gonna be ridiculous. It’s gonna be…” Dunk’s eyes narrowed as he glared down at the mud. You raised your brows, waiting for his grand idea. When he fell stubbornly silent, you let out a slight snort.
“We’ll help you think of something,” you reassured him. “After all, what’re squires for?”
“You’re not a squire,” Egg corrected and you shot him a glare. “Though you would make a good one,” he quickly corrected.
“I would, wouldn’t I?” You muse, glancing over at Dunk, he nods, but you feel like it might just be because you scare him.
You dine in your father’s tent once more. Egg has scurried off somewhere. You think he might be playing with some of the other children. But he would never admit that, the title squire has made him take himself far more seriously than the title prince ever had.
The start of the tourney will be underway soon enough. Which means the people here are more boisterous and overexcited than they typically are. The tent is near bursting at the seams with people, and the tables are overcrowded.
It leaves a lady like yourself little place to sit unless it’s a man’s lap or standing room at the back. Dunk seems wholly unaware, eagerly scarfing down his meal (and half of yours). You scoffed as you noticed him stealing from your plate. But you’re certain that half of this hunger stems from his nerves at being so close to competing.
You’ll allow him the thievery this once.
A drunken lord slams down on the bench beside you, jolting harshly against your side. You let out a hiss of pain as his elbow connects with your ribs. “Oi!” Dunk reaches around you, shoving the man away. He’s either too strong or the man too drunk, because he goes toppling to the floor.
Dunk flushes as the man’s friends haul him up with laughter. “My brave knight,” you muse, glancing down at his spread legs with a scowl. For all the space he takes up, he can’t spare you some? He notices your glare and offers a sheepish smile.
“Sorry,” he mutters. He reaches for your waist and you let out a sharp huff of surprise. You’re certain he’d been trying to move you away from the reverly, or create more space for you. But the hilt of your dagger catches on the tale and before he can move you over his lap, you’re stuck in place. Sat right on top of those nice thighs of his.
You certainly aren’t complaining, but Dunk’s face has gone so red he’s liable to catch fire. “Apologies, lady,” he stutters.
“Nonsense,” you wave him off, picking at some of your food. In the midst of the crowd, you’re certain you see your father dancing, too distracted to notice you and your knight.
“Dunk,” you question, and he hums. “Have you ever heard the fable about kissing a maiden for luck?”
His brows furrow and he shakes his head. Good, you’re making this up, slightly desperate for something from him other than his apologies and honor. “Well, the tourney is soon to begin. A noble hedge knight such as yourself, surely you might like a little extra luck.”
You turn in his lap, one arm wrapped around his shoulders as you get yourself settled nicely against his thick frame. You catch the way his eyes drift to your cleavage before quickly shooting back up. “Are you,” he clears his throat uncomfortably. “Are you a maiden?”
You let out a scandalized gasp, slapping his shoulder. “Are you questioning my virtue?”
Dunk’s jaw drops and he shakes his head wildly. “No! No-”
You don’t let him finish his panicked apologies, dipping forward and pressing your lips to his. Dunk’s hands drop from his plate to your lap, one palm squeezing anxiously at your gown. You pull back with a smug grin, quite enjoying that glazed look in his eyes.
“I’m not,” you tell him.
“Huh,” he mutters, eyes trained on your lips.
“A maiden,” you clarify with a laugh. “But it’s worth a try, eh?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dunk mumbles, head already dipping back down to your own. You let out a small laugh against his lips at how eagerly his large palms wrap around you. One tightens around your thigh, the other squeezes at your waist. His lips part against yours, tongue eager to taste you.
You almost pull back, caught off guard by such a bold move. Perhaps he wasn’t the blushing virgin you’d thought him to be. His hand creeps along your back, wrapping around the ends of your hair and tugging your head back so he can get a better angle.
A moan slips, involuntary, from your mouth as you move yourself higher up his lap. You’ve always been known to have little self-control. Were it not for the blaring horn that now rings through the camp and sharp cries of the men around you, you probably would have taken Dunk right there in that tent.
Instead, you were jolted apart by eager knights and drunk men. You let out a breathless laugh as Dunk pressed his forehead to yours. “Think that ought to bring you some luck?” You teased.
“I believe I already am lucky, lady,” he swore, smiling far too proudly and widely.
Egg ran up to you both, “Ser! Ser! It’s happening,” he stopped short when he saw you on Dunk’s lap, nose wrinkling with disgust. “What are you two doing?” he demanded, utterly scandalized.
“What’s happening, Egg?” You demanded, smiling as Dunk stood and offered you a hand up.
“The tourney!” Egg snapped, completely exasperated by the two of you.
“Really?” Dunk demanded, cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming. “Come on, then,” you let out a little yelp as he yanked you after him, snatching up Egg with the other hand. You were tucked into his side while he lifted Egg so the boy might have a better view above the crowd.
With his size, it was easy enough for Dunk to split through the crowd, finding a nice spot at the front for you all to watch the first matches. A crazed knight rides forth, he rips the head of a dead fish and swallows it whole. You’ve been to plenty of tournaments in your life and that tradition still makes no sense to you. What boldness are they proving except that of their bowels?
Egg lets out a disgusted scoff as he forces Dunk to set him down. He rushes in front of you both, climbing up the fence to be even closer to the action. You push aside some people to join him, Dunk coming up behind you, his arms bracketing both you and Egg.
Someone in the crowd shouts, “Lord Ashford fucks his sheep!” And the resounding cheers seem to spur the knights on. Before you can blink, lances are cracking against shields, riders dismounted from their horses. You're deaf to your own screams as you shout for the victor, jostling Egg’s shoulders as the boy cries out encouragements.
By the time the first matches are over, you can scarcely speak, your voice is so wrecked from all the cheering. “That was incredible!” Egg grins. “Did you see those squires? And the horses,” he shakes his head with a laugh that makes you smile. “They have to be so fast, so strong,” he picks a stick up from the road, swishing it through the air. “Take that Blackfyre bastards!”
You chuckle as he runs ahead toward the camp, shouting insults at lesser houses all the way. But Duncan remains quiet beside you. You turn to him with a frown, concern burrowing deep when you see the disenchanted look on his face.
“Ser?” You question, reaching out to hold his arm. That seems to jolt him from his reverie and he shoots you a tense look. “Cold feet?” you question, tone teasing but not malicious.
“Ser Arlan never won a tournament. He was no champion or renowned hero. Half the men here have forgotten his name.” Duncan’s hands flexed at his sides as he glared down into the mud.
You pursed your lips, hand absentmindedly rubbing along his arm. “Perhaps, but Baelor Targaryen remembered his name. He vouched for you, got you enlisted. Ser Arlan might not have been as famous a knight as someone like the Grey Lion, but that does not mean he was unimportant or a poor knight. It is overwhelming, Dunk, facing a crowd as hungry as that one. But I believe you have all the makings of a grand knight. So does Egg. You just have to show them who you are.”
He spared you a glance, smiling slightly as you took his hand in your own. “Come, we should catch up before Egg curses the wrong house with that stick of his.” Dunk let out a small chuckle, nodding as he followed behind you.
The next morning, Egg had stolen off with one of Dunk’s horses, Thunder, and Dunk’s sword. You worried that by the time he returned, Dunk might make good on all those promises to clobber Egg’s ear.
“I am going to perform. Perhaps not in as violent a show as you, but you might enjoy it,” you tell Dunk.
He glances up from his sewing with raised brows. “Perform?”
“Yes,” you hum. “My friend, the one painting your shield, puts on a puppet show with her family. They came to entertain at Storm’s End during my half-brother’s name day. I enjoyed their show so much that I traveled with them for two years. You would like her,” you glance up, laughing at the astonished look on his face. “What is it now?”
Duncan shook his head, glancing back at his sewing. “Nothing, it’s just-” he shot you a look out of the side of his eyes. “You’ve lived a more exciting life than I could ever dream of.”
You tilt your head with a smile. “Your life is not yet over, Ser Duncan the Tall. There is plenty more excitement for you to have. Will you come, then? To Tanselle Too-Tall’s show and mine?”
“Tanselle Too-Tall?” He questions, incredulous.
“I told you, you’d like her.”
The sound of hooves echoed through the small camp and you looked up to see Egg returning with Thunder. It was a wonder the effect that boy had on animals. The last time you’d tried to pet the horse, he’d nearly kicked your pretty smile off.
“And where have you been?” Dunk snapped, glaring over at the boy. You shook your head with a small sigh, taking your leave so you don’t have to listen to the scolding.
“Did you see the Targaryens ride in?” You stand in Tanselle’s tent, arms out as she measures you for your costume.
Her hands paused on your waist, her tape dropping to her side as she stepped in front of you. “I recognize that tone,” she accused, eyes narrowed.
You let out a huff, arms dropping back to your sides. “Is it wise? Putting on this grand show of dragon slaying while the dragons are present?”
Tanselle rolled her eyes. “I do not put on this show to insult the Targaryens. It’s only the truth. The dragons are dead and there were many who were slain before then. Besides, when do high-borns such as themselves bother coming down to watch silly puppet shows?”
“I watched yours,” you remind her with a grin.
Tanselle shot you a firm look and shook her head. “High-borns, I said.”
You scoff, reaching over to swat her, when a horn rings out. The signal to start another match. You step from the stool she’d set you on with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I must find Dunk and Egg.”
She waved you off. “That’s fine, his shield should be ready by evenfall.”
You nod and run from the tent. Turning toward the tourney grounds, you search across the crowd until you spot the only head towering above the rest. Shoving through, it’s easy enough to reach Dunk’s side.
“There you are,” he muttered, glancing down at you. Egg was already positioned along the fencing. Dunk helped you push forward, setting you beside the boy.
“Who’s fighting today?” You ask, scanning the field. When Egg doesn’t answer, you frown, glancing over to see his already pale face even more colorless than usual. He seemed quite ill. You wonder if Dunk might’ve poisoned the boy with too much salt fish.
“Egg?” You whispered. The horn bellowed before he could answer and you forced your eyes back to the pitch. Suddenly, his sickly look made sense. Aerion rode out onto the field, lance held high as he took his position.
“Gods,” you groaned, stomach tightening with fear. In all the time you’d known Aerion, you’ve never once known him to play a fair match. Dunk shoots both you and Egg concerned looks, but you can scarcely meet his eye. Your attention has been wholly stolen by the Targaryen prince.
The match is set off on a rocky start immediately. Aerion doesn’t try to drive his lance into his opponent. Rather, he dives out of the way, forcing the man to nearly fall from his horse. And when he turns, he doesn’t wait for the other knight to recover. No, he tucks his body low and his lance even lower.
“No,” you whispered, just as Egg shouted, “Kill him!” Your head whipped to his in concern. He hated his brother, sure, but such violence was concerning. By the time you turned back, Aerion’s lance was piercing the neck of the knight’s horse, and its dying scream was enough to make you shut your eyes.
“Oh, that weren’t right,” Dunk muttered, shaking his head. His attention fell to you when you began to push your way out of the crowd, not allowing yourself to look back. You couldn’t watch the horse suffer or listen to its rider’s cries of pain as his leg was smashed beneath its body.
Aerion was cruel and delusional and the worst sort of twisted mind you’d ever met. But knowing that didn’t make facing it any easier than before. It wasn’t long before you could hear heavy footsteps racing to catch up with you. A cold hand reached for yours, and you glanced down to find Egg’s eyes watery and reddened.
“It’s alright, little man,” you reassure him, but you both know it's a lie.
“You have to be strong,” Dunk told him and you shot him a glare. He shook his head helplessly. “Accidents happen, Egg-”
“That wasn’t an accident,” Egg snapped, sniffling as he glared up at Dunk. “He did that on purpose.” You frowned, wiping the tears from Egg’s cheek. But he jerked out of your hold, running ahead of you both.
“That was horrible,” you muttered, eyes tracking Egg as he rushed through the crowd.
“Are you alright, lady?” Dunk asked, and you smiled at the soft tone of his voice.
“I am Stormborn,” you reassured him, taking his arm in your own. “We persevere, Ser.”
By the time of your performance, you hadn’t bothered checking the crowd to see if Dunk was there. You had been too busy learning the movements of the show, the cues to duck beneath your shield before Tanelle did her fire tricks.
She had you decorated in chainmail and armor so shiny it was practically a mirror. You took up the shield she gave you, grinning as you stepped onto the stage. That grin fell, though, when you saw the stark white head of hair waiting in the crowd.
Immediately, your eyes fell to where Egg sat in the front row. But he seemed oblivious to his older brother’s presence or uncaring. Aerion’s brows rose from where he stood, head tilting as he took you in. You were quick to turn around. He knew that wherever you went, his brother was not far behind. Hopefully, he had yet to recognize you.
Tanelle began her story. One of a knight whose name was lost to time but whose touch was carved forever into history. You did as the puppeteer instructed, diving when they dipped the dragon’s head low. Slashing up your wooden sword as you tried to slay the beast.
The crowd cheered behind you, the pupteers hissed as the dragon’s voice, but you could enjoy none of it. You could scarcely appreciate the familiar feeling of being back with the performers. All too terrified of the princes that stood behind you. Of what might happen when they saw each other. It was certainly no secret that Aerion had hatred for his kin.
The puppeteers threw their pollen and lit their match. You ducked behind your shield, feeling the fire bounce off it.
Your final cue.
Your heart raced painfully as you got to your feet, sword held high. You brought it down against the fabric neck of the dragon and red, shredded pieces of paper flew at you. The puppet’s head dropped with a thud, the beast defeated.
But the crowd did not roar; they did not applaud the performance. Even the performers did not bow. You turned and found the reason why standing just before the stage. Aerion’s hand flexed around his sword as he glared at you.
“Seize her,” he commanded. The guards stormed the stage just as you spotted Egg fleeing from the tent.
“Dunk!” Egg shouted, storming his way into Raymun Fossoway’s tent. Dunk’s head jerked up, shooting the boy a confused look. “Dunk, he’s hurting her!”
The wheels turned slow in his mind as he regarded Egg’s terrified face. But there was only one woman that Egg might be so worried about. He thought of you, the performance he was missing, and leapt from his seat. Raymun stood as well, casting a confused glance between the two.
Neither Dunk nor Egg stopped to explain. Duncan stormed from the tent, racing through the mud toward the sound of screams and the billowing smoke of fire. The performance tent was being destroyed, set pieces were being broken down and set alight.
In the middle of the tent, you were dressed in a knight's armor, forced to your knees. The prince stood over you with a malicious look. Duncan tried to storm toward you, but the guards leapt in front of him, shoving him back.
“There is that face I’ve missed,” Prince Aerion muttered and Dunk hadn’t a clue how you could possibly know the prince. “Perhaps we should finish this in my tent, hm?” He hummed to himself as he took hold of your hand.
Dunk broke through the guards just as Aerion snapped your finger in half, bone ripping through the skin as your scream echoed throughout the night.
Duncan should have gotten your father. Bastard or not, Lord Baratheon wouldn’t just stand by and watch his daughter be mutilated. But Dunk was half a fool and hadn’t the forethought. Still, he couldn’t stand idly by and just watch you be beaten.
Aerion’s head whipped up, surprise painting his features as Dunk ran at him. The prince had little time to prepare as he grabbed his collar, tossing him to the floor as easily as he would a doll.
“Dunk, don’t!” You called out, but he was already driving his fist across the smug bastard’s face. He would have kept going if the guards had not come to rescue the blonde prick. It took four of them to finally hold him back, and he still managed to get a decent kick to the boy’s face.
“Aerion,” you pleaded behind him. “Please, I was the one who mocked you!”
Aerion spared you a brief glance, spitting blood from his mouth and rubbing his jaw. Cold eyes fell to Dunk’s. “You’ve loosened my tooth. For that, I ought to take all of yours.”
Duncan was flipped around. He fought brutally against the guard’s hold, but they still managed to knock him to his knees. He bit down on a finger as they tried to pry his mouth open. Blood pooled from his lips, but they did not relent, pressing his open mouth to the edge of the stage.
“Aerion,” you let out a strangled whimper as the prince moved to stand behind you. He jerked you back by the hair, forcing you to watch.
“Stop!” Your eyes widened as Egg’s voice echoed through the tent. Aerion paused, his hold on you loosening for a moment.
“Get out of here, boy!” Dunk warned, but neither of you paid any mind to reason. You scrambled to your feet, forcing the guards away from him as Egg approached. What surprised Dunk most, though, was that the guards obeyed. Not you, but the boy.
“You harm him and you will answer to my father.”
Aerion sneered as you helped Dunk to his feet. “What did you do to your hair, you little rat?”
“Cut it,” Egg snapped. “So I wouldn’t look like you, brother.”
You’d followed a servant girl through the maid’s entrance and managed to sneak your way down to the Ashford dungeons. Were you to be caught, you’re certain that not even your father could save you. Aerion was declaring Dunk a traitor to the crown. And Daeron’s claim that Dunk had kidnapped Aegon was not helpful in the least.
Being caught with him was a risk to your own neck, but you could not stand the idea of Duncan being left to rot in the dungeons. You slipped the poision laced cloth from your pocket as you approached the entrance.
Lord Ashford thought himself to be an important man. But he did not have a truly powerful man’s coffer or a good man's guards. Only one stood before Duncan’s door. You leapt onto his back and pressed the cloth tight to his mouth. It wouldn’t kill him, but the sweet-smelling poison would knock him out long enough for you to speak with Dunk.
Slipping the keys from the guard’s belt, you stepped over his body and undid the lock of the cell’s door. Dunk glanced up as you walked in, eyes wide as he rose from the muck of the cell floor.
“Lady, you,” he shook his head, glancing around your shoulder. Most likely, spotting the unconscious guard behind you. “How did you-”
“Are you alright?” You rushed out, not wishing to linger long on your crime.
Dunk’s eyes dropped to your right hand, to the thick bandage around your fingers. “Are you?”
You let out a soft laugh and nodded your head. “Yes, my brave hedge knight. I am fine. It is not my hand I worry for, anyway. Have they said anything to you about the trial?”
Dunk sank back against the wall as you approached and he shook his head. “Nothing. I have not even seen,” he cut himself off, eyes darting to yours as you moved to stand in front of him. “Did you know?”
You bit your lips, not able to meet his eyes as you took his hand in your own. “I swore to protect my prince’s secrets long before I met you.” Dunk scoffed and tried to move away, but you held firm, lifting your face to his. “Dunk, please, you must understand. If I had betrayed Egg’s trust, told you who he was, I wouldn’t just be putting myself in danger.”
“I am a fool,” he muttered. “I thought you might have been as lost as I was.”
“He was not acting maliciously,” you promised him, tugging on his hands until he finally met your eyes. “He’s a boy, Dunk. And you have seen the cruelty of his brother. What boy wouldn’t want to escape that?”
Dunk’s eyes dropped to your hand, his thumb briefly running along the edge of the bandage. “You’re sure you’re alright?”
You nodded, “I think I’m quite lucky, all things considered.”
Dunk scoffed, “I could use a bit of luck, myself.”
Pressing up on your toes, you left a brief kiss on his cheek. “There, a maiden’s luck.”
He offered a small smile, one hand wrapping itself around your waist. “You’re no maiden.”
You let out a little laugh and glared at him. “Pretend for a moment,” you implored him. Dunk nodded, and you pressed up once more, this time, pushing your lips against his own. He sank easily into you, hand tightening its grip as you leaned further into him.
You broke away only when you heard the door to the dungeons open above you. “Damn,” you cursed. “I would take you with me but-”
“They’d take both our heads,” he answered.
You nodded and, with a small smile, left one last kiss on his cheek. “When Egg gets you out of here, and he will, you’ll have more luck than you can handle,” you promised. Dunk offered a sad tilt of his lips. He didn’t quite believe you, but he’d allow himself the hope.
You wished to say more, but the steps were growing closer, and so was the chatter of the guards. You hoped the flask you’d planted on the guard outside would be enough to explain why he’d collapsed to the floor.
Forcing yourself back, you pulled on your hood and slipped from the cell before anyone could see you. You hid behind the columns of the dungeon and watched Egg enter to speak with Dunk. Slipping behind the group of guards, you ran up the stairs and headed to the stables, just as Egg had instructed.
A few minutes later, the group was coming back out, Dunk now with them, his wrists in chains. Egg fell back from the group, hovering for a moment before he rushed toward you.
“My uncle will tell him to demand a combat by trial,” Egg rushed out, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one could see you. “But I know my brother. He’ll demand a trial of Seven.”
“Trial of Seven?” You questioned, it’s not something you remember from your lessons.
“Yes,” Egg nodded. The boy had limited patience for stupidity. “Dunk will need six men to fight by his side. Six knights.”
“Gods above,” you cursed. “I’ll speak to my father,” you promised. Egg nodded once before he went racing after the others.
Your father was not as drunk as you’d been expecting. Aerion’s attack seemed to have left him slightly sober. You hadn’t seen him since the bastard had broken your fingers, you’re almost hoping your father doesn’t know what happened.
Of course, though, you’re wrong. The moment you stepped into the tent, your father rushed over to you. “What happened?” He demanded, voice firm for once. His men had been dismissed for the night; only your uncle and a few cousins remained.
You tried to hide your hand from Lyonel, but he offered you a sharp glare before forcefully pulling it from your cloak. “I have been looking for a reason to fight the bastard.”
“Good,” you huffed. “Dunk defended-”
“Dunk?” Your father questioned, brows furrowing as he led you to take a seat.
“Oh, for- The giant, father,” you clarified. “He defended me against the prince. Now Aerion’s aiming for his head. There’s to be a trial of seven at dawn.”
Your father paused, leaning against the table as he surveyed you. “You like the boy, don’t you?”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “Oh, that is beyond the point, I think.”
“That’s exactly the point, I think.”
With a sigh, you glanced down at your hands. “He protected me, Father. No other man would have stood against a Targaryen like that.”
Lyonel nodded his head with a low sigh. “No, certainly not one with a working mind, at least. Let me guess, daughter? You’ve come here to curry my favor.”
“Actually,” you corrected. “I’m here to give you a reason within the bounds of legality to bloody up some Targaryens.”
He wagged his finger in your face chidingly, taking a long sip from his cup. “You should have led with that, sweets.”
At dawn, you rode up with your father to the gates of the field. Dunk’s court by sword. Egg was already there, and three other knights stood behind him. The boy had been far busier than you’d thought. You supposed that’s what made him such a grand squire.
“Lady,” Dunk called, rushing over to you. You smiled down at him as he took your waist in his hands, helping you from your horse. You braced your arms on his shoulders, letting your weight linger against his for a moment before your father cleared his throat.
Dunk jumped back when he realized Lyonel was standing there. His hands tucked tight to his sides as his eyes darted between you two. “My lord, I-”
“Relax,” he grinned, clapping Dunk on the shoulder. “She’s no lady, Ser. Don’t fret so much for her virtue.”
You snorted and shot your father a glare. “Thank you, father.” He winked and you shook your head. “He’s here to fight for you, Dunk. Egg told me of the Seven, my father’s a finer swordsman than most.”
“And far more lustful for dragon's blood than any knight you’ll ever meet,” Lyonoel added, a wide grin on his face.
You shot him a perturbed look, “Yes, well, they don’t call him the laughing storm for nought.”
“Huzzah,” your father cheered, pulling a flagon of wine from his belt and taking a deep swig. You shook your head and took Dunk’s hand in yours, leading him from the others. He watched you with a concerned gaze, and you smiled at his compassion.
“Be safe, noble hedge knight, I do have a promise to fulfill, after all.”
Dunk shook his head, a confused smile upon his face. “A promise?”
You tilted your head with a coy smirk. “All the luck you can handle? Come, you don’t think I actually meant luck, did you?” You asked, taking his hands and setting them low upon your back as you stepped closer to him.
Dunk let out a startled cough, choking on his words as he glanced at the men around you. They were hardly paying the pair of you any attention. Mainly laughing about the royal blood about to spill. “Lady-”
“As my father said, Ser, I am no lady. Do not be so worried for my virtue.” You press up on your toes and cup his cheek. “Just keep this head firm between your shoulders,” you commanded.
Dunk nodded and you pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He almost seemed disappointed and you laughed. “The luck comes after your victory. So, swear to me you’ll be triumphant.”
Dunk grinned and nodded, “I swear, m’lady.”
A horn bellowed through the early morning air as the gates beyond him began to open. His hands squeezed around you once before he stepped back. You waved him off and smiled as your father winked. But you did not stay to see the trial.
No, you mounted your horse and rode south. You had to find Tanelle; you’d sworn to help get her and her family on a boat back to Dorne. Where their names would be long forgotten by the vindictive prince and her neck would be safe from the executioner’s blade.
By the time you made it back to Ashford, Tanelle was long gone and the trial was over. The news had reached you on the road. It had already shocked its way through the majority of Westeros. Prince Baelor, dead by his own brother’s mace.
The funeral was over when you returned. Servants were scurrying about the fields, packing their lords' things away and preparing for a grim departure home. You leapt from your mare, searching through the rushing processions for any familiar face.
“You must be happy,” you stilled, heart stuttering at the voice behind you. You turned as Aerion pushed away from the fence he’d been leaning on. “Your pathetic knight’s life is safe.”
“Pathetic?” You questioned, surveying the deep gouges in Aerion’s face and the bandages down his neck. “If a pathetic man did that, then what does that make you?”
Aerion lunged forward. You just barely jumped out of his way. His hand swiped through the air, scarcely missing your face. His eyes narrowed as he growled, “Careful how you provoke the dragon.”
“My father is still here, your grace. I would not test the Stag’s patience.”
Aerion snorted, “There is little your father can do if I try you for a traitor. You still have not answered for your crime of that farce of a show.”
“This is not answer enough?” You demanded, holding up your mutilated fingers.
“Hardly,” Aerion sniffed.
“Fine,” you gritted out, and his eyes widened ever so slightly with surprise. “You may try me. But I would demand a trial by combat. And you have already seen what my champion can do to you.”
Aerion’s eyes narrowed into slits; he reminded you more of a rat than a dragon. “Leave this place,” he commanded, storming past you. His shoulder shoved into you and you let out a hiss of pain.
Someone called your name before you felt a small weight smashing against your legs. Glancing down, you found Egg wrapped tightly around you, face buried in your cloak as he muttered something you couldn’t understand. “What’s that?”
He tilted his face up, chin pressing against your side. “Father’s named me Dunk’s squire. I’m to travel with him!”
You glanced up as Dunk approached, a shy smile on his face and a new cut along his cheek. “Is this true?” You demanded, bewildered by Maekar’s perceived kindness.
“Aye,” Dunk nodded. “It’s true. The boy’s mine to clobber as I see fit, now.”
Egg released you and rolled his eyes at Dunk. He ran off to collect your horse and the others. You watched him go before turning to Dunk with an easy smile. “Well, you’re a proper Ser now, aren’t you? Fought alongside and against royals, all in one go.”
Dunk scratched the back of his neck, a flush on his cheeks as he shook his head. “I don’t know ‘bout that.”
“Would you have room in your party for a maiden fair, Ser?”
Dunk shook his head. “Ain’t no maiden.” Your lips parted with astonishment, and then he was wrapping his arm around your waist. “But I say you're fair enough,” he hauled you up toward him, cutting off your protests with a kiss that left you breathless.
You smiled against his lips, reaching up to wrap your arms around your neck just as you heard a disgusted little, “That’s horrible!”
Dunk parted with a laugh and you shot Egg a half-hearted glare. He handed you your horse’s reigns and Dunk helped you onto the saddle. “Well,” you glanced over at your knight. “Where’s your next adventure, ser?”
“The Red Lake!” Egg shouted, before Dunk could even answer.
He shot Egg a firm look, but you laughed. “You must admit, he has a keen sense for adventure.”
Dunk sucked in a sharp breath before turning his horse toward the road. “Fine,” he grunted. “The Red Lake it is.” Egg raced ahead of you both and you laughed as Dunk shouted after him. Threatening a clout to his ear if he didn’t slow down.
They’d certainly prove fun enough.
Here's a little smutty follow-up: A (K)night in the Hedge
prguitarman
kianamaiart
annaxmalina
snowghoul
stormborns
dailybridgerton
