mutuals can always dm me but be warned i talk like your coworker who is trying too hard to get to know you and my response times are akin to the response times you might get if we were communicating by letter
Mutual pining is great, but you know what's even better? Mutual pining where they're both fully aware the feelings are requited, they just can't do anything about it for other reasons. Or maybe they technically could but they've had to choose not to, because of The Circumstances.
I went to see Parasite completely blind besides being aware (unavoidably) that there was a hard tonal shift at some point. I saw the poster and stuff, but that was it
the entire time I was bracing myself for it to shift into some sort of alien parasite psychological horror movie, which seems really presumptuous, except I saw Bong Joon-ho's The Host and that movie actually did have a giant monster in it, so I wasn't putting it past him
god the class dynamics in this movie are so stressful already... keeping up this double life while still taking care of your family...... and if that's not bad enough, they're gonna have to deal with The Parasite when it shows up
post so bad tumblr offers 5 delete buttons and no post button
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description: dex’s thirst for blood was nurtured, yours was nature.
pairing: benjamin “dex” poindexter x vampire!reader
genre: fluff, angst, smut [see warnings below], established relationship, hurt/comfort, vampire au, maybe even a bit romcom!
word count: 10.3k (it got away from me)
warnings: 18+ mdni!!, post-ddba s2, canon-compliant, canon-typical violence, blood/injury, bullseye!dex, explicit sexual content: mention of male masturbation, cunnilingus, face-sitting, unprotected vaginal penetration (but wrap it before ya tap it), creampie, overstimulation, nipple play, choking, cum-eating, dom/sub dynamics, soft dom!dex, praise kink, (in this world, vampires can still have sex idc); sexual humor, blood consumption in and out of the bedroom (duh), stalking, emotional manipulation probably, jealousy, slight religious themes cuz dex worships the hell out of you (i’m an atheist why does this keep happening), matt murdock being a nuisance to dex, the slightest crumb of dexmatt HAHA naturally, reader has no gendered pronouns, alcohol consumption, swearing
author’s note: based on this thought i had our vampy friend stacey is based off of stacey from vamps (2012) played by jessica jones krysten ritter!! (flexing that i saw her at a con last year, she’s so insanely gorgeous and our girl is coming back!!) this probably could’ve been more depraved (e.g. dex pouring whiskey from his mouth into reader’s) but i was worried about it coming off a little gross, so i chickened out sorry lolz this takes the cake for being the most depraved thing i’ve written and i feel so awkward writing smut but i think it’s pretty sexy if i do say so myself. i hope the buildup is worth the smut lol feedback and reblogs are very much appreciated, i spent a lot of time on this! if the people want, i might write a 2nd part with more plot this time. have fun, fellow dex whores :3
“It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.”
— Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
“I’m just not sure about it, is all.”
“Sure about what?” Stacey scoffs, swiping her scarlet lipstick—in the shade Vampire Love, which you always thought was a bit too on the nose—across her plump, bow-shaped lips, reapplying for what might’ve been the fifth or sixth time in the past two hours. “You said the guy’s with the CIA doing work he can’t talk about. And he’s a sniper, so like, two and two makes an assassin. Which also means he’s not afraid of a little blood and he’s probably loaded. He’s like a vampire’s wet dream—Is he big?”
Ignoring her very inappropriate, very irrelevant question—(Yes, huge.)—you release a puff of air, hunching over the bar to sip the fruity drink you can’t even name because she was the one who ordered it for you.
“But what if he’s, like, killing innocent people? You know the CIA is shady. Oh, God, what if he’s out killing village children and destabilizing foreign powers for the benefit of the American Empire?”
She narrows her eyes, looking contemplative. “I highly doubt the CIA is having a sniper offing little kids in some random village. You said he was crazy good at his job. Hey, maybe he had something to do with that senator who got stabbed a couple weeks ago—the one who got caught at a club full of underaged girls.”
Well, certainly no one would mourn him.
Your friend wraps her lips carefully around her thin, black straw, finishing off her cocktail before turning to look at the bartender a few feet away. Like a natural gossip, she adds, “I heard it was a playing card that did it—Excuse me!” She tilts her head and lifts up her empty glass. “I want another one of these.”
Despite only having a view of the back of her black-haired head, you can picture the sweet, girlish smile playing on her lips—playing him, pupils expanding across her eyes like a full black moon in a hazel sky.
The handsome ginger bartender blinks at her, cracking a whipped smile, and stops in the middle of making the cocktail currently in his hands to start working on hers. The guy whose drink gets abandoned huffs, swearing under his breath. Bitch.
“Are you gonna pay for it this time?” you whisper, looking at the back of her head very pointedly.
Without turning her head, she says, “Oh, and another Malibu Bay Breeze for my friend!”
You haven’t even finished the drink you’ve been nursing for the better part of the hour, too wrapped up in concern over your seven-week-old relationship and moving around imaginary sticky notes on the pros and cons list in your head. Unafraid of danger has been moving between pro and con like a child of divorce and ongoing custody battles for the last week.
“Don’t worry.” Stacey finally turns around, lowering her voice to a whisper with that grin you’d imagined. “The owner is a dickhead who cheated on his husband. We’re doing his husband a service by not handing them our hard-earned cash.”
“Other people do work here, y’know.”
“And they’re also all dickheads.” She pouts prettily, cherry red nails thrumming songs against her new glass. “They fired my favorite bartender after he punched the guy that I told you was harassing me a few weeks ago.”
“Well, then why are even we here?”
“The drinks are good.”
“But I thought they fired your favorite bartender?”
Her smile turns wicked. “He’s not my favorite because he makes good drinks.”
You chuckle, joking, “Well, is he big?”
Stacey blows a low whistle, eyes shining. “The biggest.”
“Text me when you head out tomorrow, ‘kay?” Stacey calls from the bottom of the steps leading up to the entrance of your brownstone. Her hands are shoved into the pockets of her trench coat to shield off the biting night. “Those bottomless mimosas better be bottomless.”
You snort, hand stuffed into your bag to blindly fish out your house keys. “Getting plastered by two o’clock is one way to spend a Sunday. How’d you even get a table? That place is so fancy, I thought it was booked for the next two months.”
Ugh, they’ve gotta be somewhere, maybe wedged between your wallet and your phone. You bring your bag closer to your face, staring down into the miserable abyss rather than the bottom of a purse.
Stacey shrugs. “I made a quick call and asked.”
You peer over the bag’s top zipper, eyes saying, Fat chance.
“Okay, so I did ask!” She holds up her pale hands defensively. “But they said they were full, so I told her to add a table for us.”
“You told a poor, probably underpaid hostess to add extra seats to the restaurant? Don’t tell me you got her fired.”
“No, I asked the owner,” she corrects you. Like it’s obvious. “She happened to be there when I was calling. Hey, at least I didn’t take anyone’s reservation.”
You sigh, trying to figure out whether you’re more exasperated by her antics or your inability to find your damn house keys that are definitely in your bag. Somewhere. You had double, triple-checked before you even stepped foot out of your bedroom this morning.
“Aha!”
You feel the familiar ridges of metal, but before you can even pull them out, Dex swings open the door to your apartment building.
“Dex?” You stare up at him, wide-eyed, mouth gaping dumbly like a drunken fish. “What are you doing here?”
He holds up a set of keys, identical to the one you were about to pull from your bag like a rabbit out of a magic hat like you were Mary Poppins.
“You asked me to fix your A/C,” he reminds you, left arm still crossed against his chest. “I was just waiting for you to come home.”
“Oh, I forgot.”
He smiles, making his crow’s feet more noticeable, to which your unbeating heart betrays you and performs a somersault like a professional gymnast. “Who’s your friend?”
Stacey appears next to you in an instant, and you can feel the excitement oozing from her pores at the chance to finally meet your elusive, assassin (Alleged assassin!) boyfriend.
“Hi, I don’t believe we’ve met.” For a vampire, she grins awfully like a fox. “I’m Stacey, this one’s best friend.”
“Dex, this one’s boyfriend.” He shakes the eager, freezing hand she offers him. “Nice to finally meet you.”
She grins, appreciating him matching her abnormally firm handshake. Unafraid of strong women, she notes pleasantly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Not that much,” you mumble under your cold breath.
“Likewise,” Dex lies.
You’re private, extremely private. Boyfriends don’t tend to stick around when they find out their partner’s heart atrophied around the time they were in diapers. And drinks blood like it’s water. For some reason, the latter tends to be more of a dealbreaker among the New York City dating pool. But so what? It’s not a crime to be a private person. Maybe to Stacey, it is. You’ve been attached at the hip for nearly thirty years, so she’d expect to be more than Nameless Friend in your dating life. You’re grateful for the save anyway.
“Okay, it’s freezing, and I have twelve drinks in me. We can do the whole best friend-hazing-boyfriend talk another day.” You lean into Dex almost like an instinct, your body already preparing to fall into his comforting embrace before your brain can catch up. You bid her goodbye, a quick Text me when you get home!
“Text me when you get some—Ow!” Stacey yelps, scurrying off, stilettos clacking against the concrete.
Together, you step into the warmth of your building with the kind of familiarity that makes you wonder when Dex began to feel so natural in your rather lonely life. He places his hand on the small of your back while you make the short trek to the elevator, and your body betrays you again by shivering. You glance at him in your peripheral, taking in his strong profile. He’s so handsome, it makes your head hurt sometimes. Or maybe that’s the alcohol squeezing your lungs, cutting the already small amount of oxygen that circulates to your brain.
You don’t know how you didn’t smell his musky scent earlier while you looked for your keys for half a century. It’s so strong that you should’ve gotten a whiff five blocks down the street. Maybe your senses are more clouded by the alcohol than you realize.
“Did you just work out?” You fail to keep the words in. That had been an inside thought!
“Yeah, I went on a late run. I was just about to use your shower when I saw you from the window. How’d you know?”
“I can smell it. I have a really strong sense of smell.” You wince, quickly adding, “But you smell good!”
God, what a loser you are.
He half-chuckles, thankfully not seeming offended by your comment. “I do? Don’t worry about lying. I can take it.”
“No, no, you really do smell nice. I like it,” you admit sheepishly while he presses the button to your floor. “It smells like you.”
“What do I smell like, then?”
“Good, just really good.”
You think you’re going to have to call Stacey in the morning and tell her you’re quitting alcohol for the rest of your undead life because why can’t you flirt for shit when you’re intoxicated? Shouldn’t it be easier with a loose tongue? You facepalm internally, Dex totally oblivious to your inner turmoil working like it’s a job that pays well.
Say goodbye to bottomless mimosa brunches.
You finally make it inside your apartment after Dex unlocks your door, stuffing your borrowed spare keys into his night bag while you toe off your shoes a mile from the shoe rack.
“You hungry?” he asks, coming up behind you to slink his arms around your waist.
You shake your head. You never are. At least not technically. Sometimes you crave things that don’t involve human blood, like meals you enjoyed in your mortal life. Consuming human food makes vampires a little sick with indigestion, but the body in death finds the comfort to be worth the ache of your digestive system.
“Tired?”
You shake your head again, more gently this time, mindful of the head he rests on your shoulder.
“Well, I still have to take that shower… If you want, we could maybe save the planet and your water bill. Two birds, one stone.” He noses your cheek playfully.
“I like the way you think, Poindexter.”
Dex shrugs. “You keep me around for a reason.”
The world’s deadliest assassin has a partner, the life kind. The kind that he talks to about his day and holds him when he’s thinking too hard and the world is screaming at him. It’s a nice thing, to be wanted by you, cared for by you, loved by you. He’s never had anything like that before. So naturally, Dex likes to watch over you, see how you spend your days when he’s not with you—But most importantly, keep you out of harm’s way.
Not only because he’s the world’s deadliest assassin and with a title like that, you tend to make a few enemies, but also because he knows intimately that the world is a dangerous and despicable place that does not deserve to know you the way he does. The way you step with a heavier heel when you’re tired of work, or lighter when people drain you and your body automatically prepares itself to flee. The way your breaths change when the seasons do; shallow during the dead of winter and into a blood red scarf that calls your neck home for half the year, deeper in the spring to savor the smell of the rain and the flowers even though you inevitably end up in a sneezing fit.
You sneeze three times without fail, like your nose has taken third time’s a charm a little to close to the heart and wants to summon a genie. What would you wish for? He knows what he would say.
Dex has already spent two seasons of his life with you.
He doesn’t hope because hope isn’t for men like him, who do bad things to piss off good people for no better reason than the thrill and to wedge himself under their skin like shrapnel. But Dex hopes to make it four. He’s rather excited for when summer hits and you suddenly decide clothing is optional around the house. Maybe he’ll even break your air conditioner to persuade you to stay over at his. The air flow is better at his place anyway.
Right now, he’s perched on a cold rooftop, watching you walk through the empty streets of Hell’s Kitchen through the scope of his rifle. A soft, toothy smile aching his jaw. Just seeing you makes him breathe a little easier, knowing you’re okay. Knowing he’s there in case some asshole tries something. Dex likes being there for you.
But then, one blink and you’re gone from his sight. And he’s left to view a dark alleyway that looks more like a portal to a different dimension. Bullseye is already on his feet before he can even register what’s happening, sprinting to the end of the rooftop where he can hopefully get an eye on you somewhere in that distant abyss. Blood rushes to his ears. His heart pounds, loud and low like a church bell in the morning.
When he finally gets you in his line of sight, the tiniest bit of relief washes over him—except, you’re soaked head-to-toe in a deep ichor shade you weren’t wearing before. His blood runs cold, finger hovering the trigger of his weapon like a good soldier waiting for a command from you. But there’s nobody to shoot, he realizes.
You should’ve been unconscious or dead with the amount of blood on you. Why weren’t you? He watches the rise and fall of your chest, pounding away just like his had been. His eyes tilt a hair down to discover the body at your feet, neck torn wide open like it had been fed to a starving lion. He couldn’t even make out its flesh, only a bloodbath.
You lick your hands, looking as unbothered as Mrs. Smithers’s cat Mr. Meowgi does when he cleans off his tiny paws. He watches your tongue swipe over your red lips the same way you do when you eat ice cream. Dex thinks about his old neighbor again in an attempt to will away the blood that starts to rush down south. Nice old lady. Not hot, possibly vampire lover.
He determines a better question to ask you would be What the hell were you?
You’re annoyed.
By your standards, it had been a pretty good day. Work was fun, you got to eat at your favorite lunch spot in Flushing that usually sports a mile-long line (because transplants are unemployed masochists who love waiting in a line), and you have a date with your TV tonight because your boyfriend is out of town. (It’s technically not cheating, and you’ve slept well so far knowing that your TV stays even when your boyfriends don’t.) You had an unusual pep in your step today. You almost felt like you could be on one of those Life is Good(R) stickers with the smiling stick figures that have like three lines on their head to resemble hair.
Famous last words.
Terrible last words, you amend.
That’s how you get staked in the heart, so stop saying stupid shit as often as you do. But maybe it’s also because you haven’t faced a vampire hunter in nearly a decade. It’s made you comfortable, soft even, forget what it feels like to rip a soul out of its shell with your bare hands. The sheer strength it takes, which you carry in your fingers. It’s a horrible sensation. You love it. You hate that you love it. You blame vampire biology and still know it’s a lie. You blame having the heart of a monster. Maybe if the organ still tremored, you’d feel more. Enough—
—Whole.
Yeah, you kissed that chance goodbye thirty years ago when you died.
“Asshole,” you grumble, sucking your fingers clean. “At least you taste good.”
The thing is, when you choose to be a pacifist with the biology of a Bloodsucker, it’s like going cold-turkey vegan when you’re a carnivore. Diet wise, you still drink human blood because animal blood can only carry you over for so long.
But all the blood you drink is ethically sourced. There are plenty of online forums and other places on the web where humans sell their blood to vampires. It’s a whole thing. It’s convenient. It’s like DoorDash. All regulated and vetted, of course. With the insane fees too. Vampires don’t want bad blood. Smart vampires take extra care to not touch it. Other than it being as revolting as the odor of a carcass that’s been sitting under the desert sun for a fortnight, it’s also bad for the body. Can cause illness, or worse, zombify you. But you don’t really wanna think about that right now. Too horrifying. And you’ve got a body to dispose of before someone sees you.
“God, what’s wrong with you?” you mutter, slinging the corpse over your shoulder like it’s a feather. “He’s away for two days, and now you think you can smell him everywhere.”
You let out a huff of annoyance, finding a smelly dumpster to leave the body in and wonder morbidly if he told anyone where he was going, so they could at least recover his body. Did vampire hunters tell trusted adults where they were going before a hunt? Maybe they should start trying the buddy system. For their sake, not yours.
“Nobody’s watching you, you self-centered idiot—Fuck, vampire hunter head, please do not fall off. You’ve already ruined my clothes. Don’t ruin my night too.”
That’s when you hear it. Your head whips at the crunch of footsteps against the gravel. To the assassin Bullseye staring you down with not horror but curiosity.
You groan, short and loud. “Fuck me. You can’t be serious.”
This is perhaps a new low for vampire hunters across the board. Hiring an assassin to come kill a vampire? Cowards. Shit, maybe he’s the trusted adult. You have a half a mind to ask him if you were holding his buddy now.
Well, maybe he’s not here to kill you. You’re still alive, and he’s known as the deadliest assassin in the world. Kind of overkill for a vampire, you think. But if he wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be thinking this right now.
You drop the vampire hunter on the ground, making a wet splat against the gravel, and stare at him pointedly. “Are you going to be ruining my night?”
Everything but his eyes are covered. Strong, intense eyes, they are. Thick, arched eyebrows too. You aren’t scared at all, you realize. He feels familiar. Intimately. Wholly.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.
Two and two make assassin.
“I thought you were out of town,” you say, shoulders relaxing before your mind nags at you to stay alert. This is new territory, after all.
Bullseye glances at the body you plopped at your feet and then back at your face. His dark eyes smile for him.
“I lied.”
“And why’d you do that?”
“I did have a job.” He shrugs, answering around your question. “Just didn’t say where.”
You click your tongue, eyes never leaving his. “Can I finish dumping this body, Bullseye?”
He extends a casual palm out to you. “Be my guest.”
“Thanks.”
Bullseye even lifts up the lid of the green dumpster for you before you haul the corpse in with the rest of the garbage because he’s still your boyfriend and a gentleman. The hunter’s dead weight ruffles the plastic trash bags filling the container, squelching obscenely. It’ll manage to be even more rank-smelling by tomorrow. He shuts the lid quietly, brushing imaginary dirt off his gloves.
Naturally, an awkward silence is called for in this kind of situation, and it shows up on time.
You can’t help but stare at him in his dark blue, tight-fitting costume—With crossed arms, his biceps strain against the fabric like they’re planning a prison break.—for a few lingering moments before your eyes dart away. But then you remember it’s not against the law to ogle your own boyfriend.
Your tongue kisses your teeth. “So…”
“So?” By the raise of his arched brows, you can tell he finds this humorous.
“Have you been… following me?”
“Yeah.”
Well, at least he’s honest now that the jig is up.
“Cool.” You nod, pursing your lips together. You’re taking this better than you thought you’d be. “Why?”
“To protect you.”
You stare at him again. It’s kind of sweet, if not a bit creepy—pretty creepy.
Dex quickly adds, even a bit sheepishly you might say, “Though it doesn’t seem like you need much… protecting.”
“The thought counts?”
“You aren’t weirded out?”
You tuck your lower lip between your teeth, tilting your head thoughtfully. “I feel like my thing is weirder than yours, so I don’t think I’m of any authority to judge. Are you weirded out?”
“I’ve seen weirder.”
“Really?”
“No,” he answers with a slight grimace that you can even see through the dark blue balaclava he’s wearing. “But there’s a green giant running around the city, so this… isn’t that crazy.” He pauses then, gives you a once-over, and goes, “Vampire…?”
“Yeah,” you admit. “World’s deadliest assassin?”
“Guilty.”
“You off the clock now?” You know the answer is yes, considering you’re the clock, but you ask anyway.
“Yeah.”
Maybe it’s a mistake, but—“Wanna head to my place?”
“Yeah,” he says, softer this time, and the syllable hits you square in the chest, probably right where he aimed it.
Maybe it’s not a mistake, but even if it was, you don’t really think you care. Not when Dex helps you out of your ruined, blood-soaked jacket and wipes your face clean with it.
“So the man’s been to prison.” Stacey gives you a little shrug, popping a cherry into her mouth. She plucks the stem, tossing it into a small dish that’s been turned into a graveyard for cherries. “I’ve dated a few felons in my lifetime.”
You scoff, deadpanning, “Any mass murderers or domestic terrorists on that list?”
Her hazel eyes narrow at the ceiling as she’s pulled into a thought. “Terrorizing a Chanel store to get me a bag counts, right?”
Your head tilts down, eyes looking very pointed. “Stace, he dropped the fake gun onto his foot and cried.”
“It was a sweet gesture.” She tucks a loose strand of black hair behind her ear and spits the clean seed into the dish. She pops another cherry into her mouth. “I just can’t believe you didn’t Google him.”
“I think it’s an invasion of privacy!” you argue indignantly, clutching her fuzzy pink throw pillow to your chest.
“He literally stalks you.”
“Well, I didn’t know that!”
“Well, we wouldn’t be having this conversation if you just Googled him.”
You did end up Googling him. After your little encounter the other week. And a list of blue links populated on your laptop screen that mostly echoed the same sentiment the top search did, a New York Bulletin article that read:
FBI INVESTIGATES ONE OF THEIR OWN
ANONYMOUS TIP TRIGGERS PROBE INTO SHOOTOUT DURING WILSON FISK TRANSER
Followed by various articles detailing his very public trial and prison sentence, a list of innocent and not-so-innocent victims, and spats with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.
Have you been living under a fucking rock?
You knew about Wilson Fisk and most of the atrocious crimes he’s committed. Everyone in the tristate area did. But you never caught the name of the FBI agent who had aided him in this circus. The one who’s trying to convince you he’s turning a new leaf. You smush your face into the throw. The groan you precede to let out is muffled by the fluff and the pink.
“Okay, stop freaking out.” She then starts listing out on each polished finger, “He told you he’s back on his meds and that he’s trying to right his wrongs.”—“Balance the scales” had been his exact words.—“He thinks it’s hot that you’re a vampire and not even in a creepy, fetishy way. That’s honestly more than most men can say.”
“How do you know he thinks it’s hot?”
Stacey gives you a look when you peer at her over the pillow. “Honey, I could smell his arousal from thirty blocks down the street when he came to brunch. And he offered to drain his kills for you like a meal subscription service! Which you pay for by sucking off a beefy hot man! Don’t be stupid.”
Well, when she puts it like that… But Dex has been gone for almost a week now to go to some frozen tundra, which also means a week without his dick in your mouth.
She makes another observation, “And you wouldn’t be so on the fence about breaking up with a stalker assassin if you didn’t care about him enough to try it out.”
Unfortunately, she has a point.
You huff, grabbing a cherry for yourself. “Who told you you could be this sensible?”
“I have some decent qualities,” she says proudly. “And he seemed genuine when he said he wanted to do good deeds now. If not, you could always kill him.”
“I’m not killing my boyfriend!”
“What? He’d be your ex.”
Stacey has the audacity to shrug like you’re the weird one.
“I don’t kill,” you tell Dex in the middle of patching him up one night, slicing open the comfortable silence that filled the space of your bathroom.
He arches an eyebrow at you, staring incredulously from where he’s perched on your toilet cover, knees encasing your legs.
You sigh into your hand, amending, “I don’t—normally.”
“So when do you?” he asks curiously, fingers teasing the hem of your shirt—or rather, his shirt. He’s made a habit of this, of touching you, of playing with things: coins, trinkets, knives. Always itching to do something with his hands, but if you had the world’s deadliest hands, you’d be too.
“Um, well, when I’m being hunted—like that night.” You finish disinfecting the wound near his hairline, wiping away the rusted red off of some sandy strands between your fingers before it stains them. “If I don’t, they’ll just find another target. Or keep looking for me, and I’d rather sleep soundly at night, you know? Don’t feel like waking up to a stake in my heart.”
You try to keep your voice light, but it falters across syllables. He can tell that it bothers you more than you’d like to admit. He squeezes your hip with one hand, the other slipping under the back of your shirt to get his warm skin onto yours. You’re always running cold. His hands are like furnaces to you. Your eyes fall shut for a second before opening them again.
“And when it’s necessary,” you continue, just as quietly.
Dex doesn’t ask what you mean. He knows.
You bite your tongue, but tell him anyway because the way he’s looking at you right now—with all the intensity in the world—leaves your defenses utterly weak, “I like it. I like the violence, and every time I kill, I like it more. That scares the shit out of me. That’s why I avoid it. I want to keep my humanity, or what’s left of it, if anything.”
“Humans can lose their humanity too. There are ones who’ve done much worse things than you.” Dex looks you right in the eye, piercing you with his honest gaze. It frustrates you sometimes, the selectivity of his truth. It frustrates you more how his honesty still affects you. “I know I have.”
“You lost yourself,” you reason, perhaps attempting to be comforting. You peel the butterfly closures open, the wrappers crinkling under your touch. One-by-one, you place them onto the open gash on his forehead, right above a set of wrinkles. You barely had the chance to form wrinkles before you’d been turned. You drive the thought away before it tears open one of your own wounds, an old one you thought had already scarred over. “You just had to find him again.”
“I don’t think I ever found him,” he admits, fingertips still dancing against your warming skin. “Not before I met you.”
“Well, I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve based your entire identity off of me.” It’s a bit of a tease laid over a truth.
“No, it doesn’t. It means I didn’t know who I wanted to be before you. Everyone else in my life have just been paintings, only for me to see but never touch. Nothing real. You listen to me without expecting anything out of it. I’m not another patient to you, or a colleague you make small talk with. You know the worst things about me and still believe that I can be good, even when I sometimes don’t.”
You swallow thickly, stunned by the rawness of Dex’s words. He’s never been so open to you before. Maybe you’re finally getting somewhere.
“Do you want to be good?”
“I want to be good, and I want to deserve you. I’m trying to make things right for myself, but I’m selfish and greedy.” He clutches you tighter then, but never hard enough to hurt you. He never would. “And I want you all to myself.”
Dex squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling deeply the warm, dizzying scent of you. He exhales in a count of four. “I know it’s unrealistic. I won’t ask that of you.”
“I’m my own person,” you begin slowly, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t be all yours either. You consume me, Dex. It’s terrifying. Sometimes, you’re all I can think about. It’s bothersome. It’s exhilarating.”
His eyes grow wide in awe, pinning you down with the heavy weight of his astonishment.
Dex knows then, that whatever your souls are made of, his and yours are the same.
Mornings with Dex are quiet.
Quiet with the low hum of the A/C, with the murmurs of people on the sidewalk, with the steady thrum of his beating heart. You like to press your ear above where it lays and listen to the faint ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. You haven’t heard the sound of your own heartbeat for nearly his entire lifetime. You’ve forgotten what it felt like when it followed you everywhere—where it pulsed inside your chest, raged when you got angry, missed a beat when you grew flustered.
You do this every morning you wake up in the same bed together. You like feeling how alive he is. You think it might be because it makes you feel alive again too.
You don’t need to sleep as much as Dex, which really isn’t saying a lot since he can do with about five or six hours, but you’ve been staying in bed longer these days anyway. Just to watch him, admire his face and the way it scrunches when he’s dreaming. The way his dusty pink lips slightly part when he snores, which he vehemently denies doing. Like he’d know.
He looks younger when he sleeps, much more boyish than he does when he’s alert and worried. Always worried, thinking too much, trying hard not to spiral and lose control. To punish himself. You like seeing his softness now, the kind he doesn’t believe he’s capable of.
But listening to his lifeline is also a sorry reminder that he is still as human as anybody else, capable of growing old and dying—unlike you. Forming new worry lines that you think you might even be responsible for. The wrinkles you do sport soften out with every drop of ichor you taste.
Years don’t feel as long anymore either. They slip away in seconds for you, while you’re left behind to watch the world continue spinning around you. You’re fortunate enough to have Stacey by your side, a dear friend who knows all the same aches and pains of your life and faces them with strength and determination. It’s not so lonely.
But maybe it is when Dex could be it for you.
Your very own reckoning.
He stirs then, neck rolling and with a heavy inhale. Green eyes blinking blearily at the cream-colored ceiling, short fingernails scratching away the crust at the corners of his eyes. He finally looks down at you to find you already staring up at him, and smiles crookedly. Fondly.
You weren’t just another dream too good to be true.
“You’re distracted again.” Stacey sighs, quickly fixing her blunt, black bangs across her forehead. She arches a thin eyebrow. “Does it have something to do with lover boy?”
You apologize, willing your antsy fingers away from your deadly silent cellphone. “Sorry, sorry. He’s away again. For two whole weeks this time. I’m a bit nervous, is all. He usually texts me by now.”
You’ve been watching her try on new dresses for the last two hours, and this was still only your first department store. You tried on a few items earlier, too, but each time you stared at yourself in the mirror, you wondered if Dex would like how it looks on you. What he’d say if he were here. If he’d grow flustered or smirk lopsidedly.
“Don’t worry. You’re happy, and I’m happy that you’re happy. You deserve it, y’know. I’m sure he’ll text soon. But pay attention. This is important.” She holds up a dress beside her figure. “Red or black?”
“Whichever one is shorter.”
“And this is why you’re my best friend.” She flashes you one of her signature smiles—the kind that makes her eyes light up—before disappearing back into the tiny room once more.
You chuckle, leaning back on the plush, rose ottoman you’ve been sitting on, eyes darting around the slightly tacky looking dressing room. The doors are all lined with hot pink fur, and you’ve been hoping that it’s synthetic. Not a legacy you’d prefer if you were a fury animal.
Ding.
Benjamin Poin(Dex)ter sent you a message:
Sorry, got caught up with work. Text me when you get home.
“Sometimes, I think I was made to be prey. Why, otherwise, would I have been born to be a monster?”
Your quiet confession to Dex arises on a dark and stormy summer night by your living room window, with whiskey-coated lips and eyes that hang far away from him and the rest of the world. The soft-spoken utterance you trust him with resonates deeply, more than he’d like to admit, reverberating inside his chest where a heart might go. But it’s a display of vulnerability, one you seldom offer to anyone. He can appreciate that.
It’d only been a few months since he found out you what you were: a vampire—a label you didn’t particularly find very kind, but nonetheless true.
You had grown up with a normal life over fifty years ago. Loving parents and a grassy backyard in a cozy, working-class neighborhood. A tuxedo cat that never scratched, only purred. You had friends that would come over for sleepovers, where you’d stay up way past bedtime and play pretend like you were untouchable in a dangerous world that could be tamed.
For Halloween one year, you had even dressed up as a blood-sucking, candy-loving vampire, terrorizing the street in a flowy midnight cape. Maybe it had been a sign; your destiny in a cotton-polyester blend.
“I missed out on getting married, buying a house, and having kids like everyone else my age,” you whisper, resting the side of your head against your window frame. You huff, tracing with your finger the raindrops that slide down the glass, merging together like a sad meteor shower. “They’re grandparents now—I could’ve been someone’s grandparent now.”
“Would you have wanted that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. The thought of a normal life is nice. And so is not being hunted down like a deer because I’m a monster.”
“You’re not a monster,” Dex tells you with utmost confidence, head shaking like it’s an instinct, words as steady as his perfect aim. “You couldn’t be. You’re too beautiful.”
“Some monsters are beautiful.”
“Monsters don’t care about killing either,” he points out, before his hand strains. “You wouldn’t even let me take out that douchebag who harassed you at that bar last week. He deserved it for talking to you like that. For looking at you like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like he’s undressing you in his mind,” he grumbles, jaw ticking and tensing at the memory. “Like he can just take what’s not his.”
“So you were just jealous,” you comment with thinly veiled amusement, trying to smooth the tension in his cheek.
His broad chest expands, sturdy lungs filling with a quick, agitated breath. “Of course, I was jealous. You know how special you are to me.”
Your eyes fall shut to savor the tender sound of your name on his confident tongue, spoken like it’s the only word in his dictionary.
“You keep me hooked around your finger,” Dex continues, reaching for your free hand. There’s a bit of blood on the first knuckle of your index, splattered drops dried from when you’d fed on some dumb European socialite he’d been assigned to dispose of by the CIA. A real cunt who did the books for a trafficking ring in East Asia.
“You keep me from going too far.” He then wraps his lips around the finger, gently sucking it clean. “That should make you a saint. I already worship you.”
“Saints have to perform miracles when they’re dead, Dex.”
He glances up at you then, looking like sin. “You are dead.”
“Resurrected.”
“Would you leave my metaphor alone,”—he huffs—“or do you want me to call you Jesus?”
You let out snort, shaking your head quickly. “I’m far from being Jesus.”
The assassin stretches his arm out, reaching for the half-empty bottle of whiskey left standing on your windowsill like a guard on duty. He lifts it up to his lips, slipping slow to enjoy the burn, before guiding it to yours.
Dex’s other hand takes your jaw between his fingers, coaxing your mouth open like he does when he’s pulling his cock out for you. He pours the amber onto your tongue and watches with keen eyes as it travels down your throat. He smirks like he just can’t help himself from baring teeth, wet lips brushing against yours.
“Let me remind my saint what true devotion feels like.”
Usually, he’s not so fidgety before plane rides, but Dex’s fingers twitch with the hopes that you’ll call or text before he departs like you typically do. His discman sits on his lap, ears tucked under his headset, where the drums of “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out” by The Smiths kick familiarly.
Last night, when he was packing his things and you watched him from the foot of his bed, you coyly gifted him a new CD player with a new set of discs you had spent the entire day burning. All his favorites with the addition of some of yours and songs you thought he’d enjoy. Lots of 80s music, naturally. He’s glad he likes your taste in music.
You seem to like a bit of everything though, and you prefer physical media over digital—CDs, vinyl records, VHS tapes—talking about their invention as intimately as you would a lover and with the kind of crystal clarity most people had for important life events like weddings or funerals.
He wondered if vampires remember their whole lives, or if they even had the capacity to. Humans certainly didn’t. Of course, Dex remembered more things than most, often to do with you or previous fixations he’d had. Limerence, his new therapist had called it.
But it wasn’t with you. Dex loves you. He knows that for a fact, the way he knows water is necessary for sustaining life. And he thinks you love him too, even if you wouldn’t admit that it was that yet. But he knows.
But Dex hadn’t known what to say when you pulled the new discman and CD case from behind your back like a cute magician who likes to perform magic and miracles with a shy smile. Just if you lose it, you’re not losing the one from your childhood. I couldn’t bear to lose something valuable to me like that. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given him such a thoughtful gift before, much less a gift at all. The strings of his heart whirled then, knotting around his lungs like hair and choking a glottal stop in his throat.
So he instead spoke one of the only languages you were both fluent in, pleasure, and made you forget what you even did in the first place to earn it.
You call minutes before the plane is set to take off, and his thumb is already hovering over the button to answer. And when you say “hi” to him in that sweet, quiet voice of yours, he can hear the fond smile resting on your face because he didn’t even let the phone ring once. Loyal as a dog waiting for their owner by a front door.
Missions start to feel increasingly longer each time he leaves, whether they last two weeks or just even a day, he grows to dread it. You seem to dread it too. But he tries to make up for it by returning with fresh blood, enough to sustain you for a couple weeks.
Once, you complained to him about all the popular blood donation services in the vampire community.
Inflation is insane, you grumbled like an old person whose catchphrase was “Back in my day”, I used to be able to get ten gallons worth of blood for just fifteen bucks. So what does he decide to do because he’s a great boyfriend? He decides to cut the middleman altogether and become your supplier. You joke that he’s your dealer now.
But you’re grateful. With all the money you save on blood, you can spend on dates with him. Not that he’d let you pay anyway, but he finds it’s cute you think that. But you’ve resorted to buying him gifts now. You’re a menace, really.
You were worried about drinking from Dex’s kills when he first suggested it. He tried to soothe your guilt by telling you the kind of people they were. Bad, bad people who didn’t really deserve to see another day, unlike you.
Murderers and corrupted politicians.
A bad thing for a good person. He called it balance.
It seems to work, and he thinks that you might even like hearing about the kinds of awful, despicable people he gets to rid the world off. Every act of violence they’ve committed, the people they’ve hurt, all the pain and suffering at their hands. It’s a good thing they’re gone, you said then. That they can no longer do any harm.
He does, however, leave out some of the more unsavory bits. Things he’s done that even you would be unable to reckon with.
But you get this look in your eye when he recounts his own violence to you—every bullet and blade, perfectly fired and aimed. The way they slice through the air with perfect accuracy, the squelch of them separating blood from flesh and bone. He can see you imagining every movement in your mind, the acts of gore he’s capable of with hands that know you intimately. And something in your irises dances like wildfire, the rings of color flashing dark and bright all at once. It’s like looking into a mirror.
I love you, Dex thinks each time without fail.
“What are you?” the Devil asks you one night, appearing on your firescape.
Dex had just left your apartment not ten minutes ago, and his (former?) archnemesis has decided to show up at your doorstep. Well, your window, the one you specifically left unlocked for Dex when he comes home from a fight, a little worse for wear.
You blink dumbly at him. “What?”
He couldn’t have known what you were, could he?
“I can’t hear your heartbeat,” he says, like that’s a normal thing to say. “Are you a member of the Hand?”
“The Hand?” you repeat, confused, and because you couldn’t help yourself—“That a rock band or something?”
Daredevil exhales exasperation through his nostrils. “Okay, never mind. But why can’t I hear your heartbeat?”
“Probably because it’s dead,” you deadpan.
He frowns. You’ve made the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen frown. The dark red costume looks stupid up close, you observe. Though technically you’re a biased party, you like your boyfriend’s suit much more. The mask Dex wears isn’t so… creepy. But you also liked when he stares into your soul, not so much when it’s the Devil himself. Not when it feels like he’s looking right through you.
“Vampire,” you explain like one word is enough and not a fat can of worms that warrant full-length novels.
“Seriously…?”
“Seriously.” You flash your fangs at him, which you hate doing because it feels like a cheap party trick, but you feel like if the Devil calls for it, so be it.
He looks rather unimpressed, however. You’re starting to get why your boyfriend doesn’t like this guy so much. You’re never showing your fangs to anyone ever again unless it’s for Dex. At least he likes them.
“What are you doing with Poindexter?”
Now, the Devil has made you frown.
“What do you think couples do?” You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. “I know. And he knows. It’s a thing. We’re still a thing. It’s nice.”
Daredevil looks like he’s trying to imagine what Dex in a relationship would look like, his masked face turning into the embodiment of the loading screen of doom. To be completely fair, if you weren’t literally dating the guy, you’d probably be confused as well. You think he must’ve timed out because now he’s saying:
“Just be careful,” he warns. “Know who you’re dealing with.”
“Appreciate the concern, Daredevil, but he’s my boyfriend, not my loan shark.”
He disappears into the warm night without another word.
“Okay, so, don’t get mad but—“
Dex furrows his brows at the way you’ve chosen to start your sentence.
“—Daredevil visited me last night.”
“What.”
“Yeah, so like right after you left,”—you chuckle awkwardly, eyes darting around like the barista over there is suddenly of more interest, with palms out and a mild shrug—“he just showed up at my window.”
The one Dex uses to get into your apartment when he’s bleeding as Bullseye.
His voice grows unusually tight in his throat. “What did he want?”
You wince at his reaction like he’s mad. He’s not.
“Well, he figured it out. Kinda.”
“How?”
Your hand pats the spot above your heart twice, the place where it no longer beats. “Apparently, he could hear it—or not hear it. Isn’t that freaky?”
“You also have superhearing,” Dex deadpans.
Licking your lips, you reach for your iced fruit tea and take a long sip. “Yeah, but I’m a—” You lean in across the table and flash your fangs at him with a flirty smile, tongue running seductively under the pointed edges of bone.
He unzips his fitted windbreaker and sits back in his seat, arms crossed with an adorable little pout, his ears and neck suddenly hot and not from this morning’s run. He clears his throat, pointing out in a voice that’s strained in a different way than before, “You’re gonna get sick if you keep drinking that.”
“Eh, I’ll live.” You shrug, tipping the mouth of the lid up to yours again.
You love vampire humor. Dex hates it. Or pretends to.
“He asked about you, too,” you drop casually.
His whole body stiffens.
“Asked what I was doing with you,” you clarify before Dex gets the chance to have meltdown. “Told me to be careful.” And because you can’t help yourself—“He your boyfriend or something? Sounded jealous. Should I be jealous?”
“No! Obviously not.” He huffs, his pout deepening. “I’m your boyfriend.”
You giggle at his embarrassment, leaning over the table again to cup his cheek and press a sweet, lingering kiss to his pouty mouth. “Sorry, babe, you just make it so easy.”
From the way Dex relaxes immediately at the feeling of your sweet, fruity lips, he probably isn’t too mad anymore.
Dex’s bloodied mouth is ravenous, affixing itself to yours with a craving you were innately familiar with. Despite the sweet taste of his crimson on your tongue, and through better judgement, you place your hands on his chest and push just hard enough to free your lips from each other. You have one knee on the edge of the couch and beside his hip, the other bent with the familiar ache of spending so long fixing him up after a fight.
“Are you sure you don’t want to clean up first?” you inquire with a soft hesitance in your cooing voice, the kind of concern that’s reserved only for him. “I just stitched you up. And baby, there’s blood all over you.”
And there is. A thick streak of it stains his pretty face from his thick, left eyebrow all the way down to his jaw in the shape of a hook. A smaller smatter alongside his nose bridge. And most pressingly, ringing his mouth like lipstick in a shade that would be called something like Bullseye Blood.
He grunts, annoyed that his mouth has left yours. “I don’t care—lick it off me.”
It’s like your reward for taking care of him so well.
Your tongue darts out right when the permission leaves his lips, the hot muscle kissing the blood clean on his stubbly skin. The blond hairs have started growing in darker, even going a little gray, and you just can’t help that you find it so damn attractive. You make a note to yourself to help him shave tonight, or in the morning if you’re both too tired to do anything but fall asleep after this.
Dex sucks at the supple skin along your neck until bruises form and begin littering your throat, drawing the most saccharine of whines out of it. He pulls you right onto his lap, where his hardening cock twitches at the desperate, pulsing heat of your core. You grind yourself against his growing erection, hungrily licking into his mouth like a bitch in heat. Your hands fly to above his crotch, where his belt rests, and quickly make work of his black-blue tactical pants.
“Off,” you demandingly gasp, lifting your weight off of him.
Right away, his hips peel off the leather couch just enough for you to hurriedly pull his stiff cock out of his white boxer briefs. Dex groans needily, watching as your mouth falls open and a long stretch of saliva drips down onto the flushed head like honey. You wrap your dominant hand around him in a strong grip, slicking up his warm, aching dick with your runny spit. Eagerly, you slink down the length of your couch and wet your lips, wrapping them around the leaking tip of his twitching dick.
“Need to be inside you,” he finally breathes, hazel-brown eyes hazy in that way he knows you can’t say no to.
You thumb his sensitive tip one more time before nodding and pulling yourself back onto his strong thighs. A gasp rips out of your mouth when you hear the sound of your underwear’s waistband being sliced open on both sides, eyes falling down to see Dex already dropping a small knife onto the coffee table. Where did that come from? You thought you’d collected all of his weapons after he dropped on the sofa like a dead body.
His other hand, with bruised knuckles that remind you of his earlier escapades tonight, pulls the front of the ripped fabric towards him with ease, forcing a delicious whimper out of you when the damp gusset slides through the shiny lips of your cunt before landing on the floor somewhere.
Another ruined pair of your panties for his collection, to be fucked and soak up his cum when another mission inevitably sends him to some shithole halfway across the world and away from you.
Dex then wraps his hand around his hard cock, slipping it through your arousal. The weeping head catches on your clit, making you inhale as you dip your nose into the crook of his neck, sniffing his blood and sweat like a meal. He tries not to shudder when he feels your sharp fangs gently scratch his pulse point. One bite, and you could end him.
His dick gets even harder at the thought. His life in your hands, at the restraint of your awaiting mouth. But you’re his. He’s got as much control over you as you do him. Two deadly monsters intertwined in an endless dance with the ability to ruin the other if they so pleased. He’d love to ruin you. He’d love to ruin you the same way you have him.
But maybe he already has because here you are—you’re whining, pleading for him to stuff you full of his fat cock.
And who is he to deny you that?
Simultaneous sighs slip out of your mouths when Dex’s dick begins to stretch out the first ring of your tight muscles. The lack of prep makes it sting more than usual, but it’s almost nice. And you’re more than wet enough just from tasting his blood to compensate.
When he finally reaches the bottom of your little cunt, the hot skin of your hips meeting, only then does he remember to take a breath.
Impatient hands paw at your tight tank top, tugging the dark blue fabric under your breasts. Long, calloused fingers tweak one of your nipples while his tongue laves at the other. Your head falls back, moaning blissfully at the wet warmth of his mouth and the thick cock bullying itself into your velvety insides.
You tilt his face up, pulling his mouth off of you to lick his cheek clean. The metallic taste of his blood and the salt of his sweat excite you, makes you embarrassingly more wet around him. Your lips find the other side of his face, where his cheek scar laid, a wound cut so deep it would never heal right. It angered you whenever you thought about someone hurting him like that, but even you could admit it was also insanely hot. You almost wanted to thank the asshole who did it.
“Fuck, this cunt is tight.” He taunts, staring at your bouncing figure appreciatively, “You really like my cock, don’t you?”
“Love it.” You sigh out, hips rutting faster. “Love this cock so much, Dex.”
You whine, movements still quick but slowly growing sloppy from exhaustion. You’ve practically licked his whole face clean, greedy mouth already on its way to his suck on his bloody glove. But he’s a good boyfriend. He already knows what your body needs.
“You need to feed, baby? Want to drink up my blood? You can have it.” Dex’s head tilts up, stretching his neck and baring to you his pulse point. His large hand guides yours to his collar, where you give his throat a light squeeze. Dark, lust-glossed eyes stare up at you, fluttering like he’s drunk just off the sight of you on top of him, half-naked and wanton. Ironic, considering you’re the one who’s about to drink him. Literally speaking. “As much as my sweetheart needs—I won’t even be mad if I pass out again.”
The hand you have on him slips to the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching the hairs there, forcing a shiver to rush down his spine. You wet your lips, bringing your head down to sniff him, quickly finding the vein. Dex’s heart races, the sound of his blood circulating with great intensity is music to your ears.
Your fangs protrude, slicing open a small cut into his skin in a hurried but precise manner that speaks of practice. Not enough to bleed him dry, but enough to replenish your energy. You suck at the fresh wound, drawing out his heady dark ichor down your throat. Dex’s blood is unnaturally sugary, probably due to all the sweet treats he indulges in. But you don’t mind it the way you would anyone else. It’s almost endearing.
“I taste good, don’t I? Better than anyone else, right? Than all those shitheads I kill to drain for you.”
You hum, careful not to drink up too much this time. You use your renewed stamina to ride him faster, slamming down onto his cock. “So good, baby.”
You’re so slick that it slips out, but Dex is already guiding it back inside you before you can pout about the loss.
“Maybe you should only drink from me from now on,” he muses, groping your breast. His calloused thumb lazily flicks over the nipple, still glossy with his spit. “I’ll keep my blood on standby, just for you. I’ve got money. Could just stay home all day to fuck and feed you. Wouldn’t that be nice, sweetheart?”
It would be nice, you think, coming home to Dex every day at your disposal. Where you stay in bed together for the whole day, everyday. You ignore the practicality of it for a moment, reveling in the fantasy. You’ll never go a day hungry or unsatisfied or unloved. It’d be perfect.
The sensation of his dick driving into you has your poor pussy clenching harder. How his movements don’t falter at all, seemingly staving off his climax and in spite of his fresh stitches and purple bruises, amazes you.
But Dex is nothing if not disciplined.
“You want me to fuck my load down your throat later, too? Wouldn’t my cum taste good with my blood?” He lets out a guttural moan when you squeeze around his dick and suck more of his blood. Hand leaving your hip to press against your bulging tummy to feel himself in there. “Oh, this fuckin’ cunt loves the sound of that. You gonna come, baby? Gonna come on this fat cock?”
You’ve got a hand in his sweaty hair and another on his firm chest for support when you begin to nod frantically, blabbering helplessly, “Make me come, please, Dex!”
“I’ve got you,” he says with his usual smirk, wetting his thumb with his saliva to slick up your throbbing clit. “You’ve already been taking me so well, even though it’s been a week since this perfect pussy has taken me. You’re just so good for me, huh? Don’t even need me to stretch you out anymore.”
“Uh-huh!”
You’ve lost all ability to speak, forgotten all language except the hard, unrelenting thrust of his hips, working his cock so deep into you you cry. The meaning of it all too clear even through the dense fog that’s become of your brain—you’re his.
And you’re even more his when you finally tip over the precipice of your orgasm at the onslaught of his precise thumb on your puffy clit, triggering his own climax. Dex works you both through the height, maintaining the eager snap of his hips into yours. His hot cum spilling into you in ropes and waves as you cry out at the overstimulation.
Dex doesn’t give you any time to rest before he’s dragging you onto his face, suffocating him between your thighs. His large hands wrap around them, holding you down, so that you can’t move. You might be physically stronger than him, but your mind is still hazy from your release.
A raspy gasp escapes the bottom of your throat in surprise, scrambling to grab the back of the couch for support when his hot tongue dives straight into your messy hole. He’s licking up your shared cum the way you lick up blood—needily, greedily, like you’re eating for the first time in your life. His strong nose stimulates your abused clit, making you whimper with each brush.
Your thighs tremble when you begin to feel the familiar bloom of pleasure seep through your bones, this time faint but warm. It’s nothing like the quick and dirty feeling that had squeezed you from the inside just now. Dex worships your cunt, lazily making out with it until he coaxes another slow climax out of you, slurping up your second release the same way he does a good soup.
Benjamin Poindexter has certainly got a mouth on him, alright. And it seems to only ever shut up for your pussy.
Gentle hands pull you back, laying you on top of him. The combined huffs of your heavy breaths spread through the quiet silence in your living room, only disrupted by the soft hums of passing cars outside.
A few minutes later, you murmur into his neck, “Probably should shower and get ready for bed before we fall asleep here.”
“I want to stay here for a little longer.” Dex’s smooth voice stretches honestly as he runs a loving hand down the length of your spine like it’s fragile porcelain.
It’s the deadliest hand in the world.
“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
Chad who is actually super clingy when it comes to bedtime. He is spooning and cuddling, legs tangled together, and nose pushed against any skin surface he can find.
Which Herm doesn't mind at all because his powers normally mean people don't want to snuggle him. And he's so touch starved that he is actually giddy before bedtime some nights. Even faking headaches just to get under the sheets and into Chad's arms sooner.
But the one thing he doesn't like about Chad being a stage five clinger is that he is not allowed to pee. Because Chad will grip tighter, he will whine louder and whimper and beg all while half alseep for him not to leave, even for a second.
That's how Herm ended up here. Half asleep, looking down at the toilet bowl and almost missing because he's got Chad clinging to his back like a koala. Carrying him through all the motions as he smiles and hums, just happy to not lose any snuggle time to Herm's stupid bladder.
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