Summary: Spencer has read everything there is to know about edging. Now it's time to find out whether the theory holds up in practice. His girlfriend is more than willing to help him with his experiment.
Genre: Smut (and a little fluff) 18+ mdni
Word count: 6200+
Warnings: Soft dom!spencer, established relationship, oral (fem receiving), fingering, vibrator use, edging, light bondage (wrist restraints), blindfold, Spencer talks her through it, Spencer explains the science behind what he's doing (my Google search history is... interesting), protected p-in-v (use protection my lovelies), aftercare. This is basically just porn guys. (Let me know if there's anything I've missed).
A/n: So... this is the first fanfiction I've posted in an incredibly long time, and definitely the first I've ever shared on Tumblr. But I fell headfirst into a Spencer Reid hyperfixation, and after reading so many incredible fics I finally decided it was time to contribute one of my own. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 💜
(I am absolutely open to any constructive feedback - as mentioned, it's been a while but I'm hoping to get back into writing again. Thank you).
The first thing she noticed was the way he put his book down. The paperback settled onto the coffee table with a soft thwump. It wasn't loud, but it carried the unmistakable weight of a declaration. As though, by setting it aside, Spencer had made a decision. Whatever came next was important enough that it deserved his full attention.
"Spencer?"
He was already turning toward her on the couch, one leg folding under him, knee pressing into the cushion between them. His fingers found hers. Laced. Squeezed once.
"I've been reading."
"You're always reading."
"No, I've been reading about..." he paused. He did the thing where his tongue darted across his bottom lip, a tell she'd noticed in the six months they'd been together. He was nervous. It meant whatever was coming next mattered. "...about something I'd like to try. With you. If you're open to it."
She angled her body to mirror his, bringing one foot up onto the couch. "Okay. That's not ominous at all."
"It's not ominous. It's neurobiology, actually." He spoke faster now he'd cleared the threshold. "Specifically the neurochemistry of prolonged arousal and its relationship to orgasmic intensity. There's a substantial body of research. Admittedly some of it more anecdotal than empirical, but the underlying mechanisms are well-documented, involving dopamine accumulation, oxytocin receptor sensitisation, and the role of the sympathetic nervous system in..."
"Spence" She squeezed his hand. "English."
He blinked. A flush crept up from his collar, and she watched it travel up his throat and along the underside of his jaw. Even after six months, that blush did something to her.
"Have you heard of edging?" He said. The word hung between them.
"Go on."
"I want to try edging you."
His posture shifted, shoulders squaring as he slipped into what she secretly called his Lecture Mode. But his thumb kept moving back and forth over her knuckles, and that small motion undercut the clinical delivery.
"When sexual arousal is sustained over an extended period without allowing orgasmic release, the body continues producing dopamine and norepinephrine without the prolactin surge that typically follows climax. Prolactin is what creates the refractory period - it's essentially a neurochemical brake. By delaying that brake, you're essentially building up a reservoir of excitatory neurotransmitters. The result, anecdotally and in the limited studies available, is a significantly more intense orgasm when release is finally permitted."
He paused for breath. She said nothing. His thumb stopped moving.
"I'm explaining it badly."
"No, you're not." She turned her hand over in his, palm to palm. "You're explaining it like you explain everything. Thoroughly."
One corner of his mouth twitched.
Warmth spread through her chest. She tucked that away for later examination. "Okay. Tell me the rest."
"The rest?"
"Spence, you've got that look. The one you get when you're eighty percent of the way through a dissertation and someone interrupts you. There's more."
His blush deepened, and she watched him regroup. She watched the way his free hand came up to push hair behind his ear, a nervous gesture that never stopped being endearing. "I'd like to incorporate elements of sensory deprivation. A blindfold. And..." He swallowed. "Maybe some restraints. Gentle ones. Nothing extreme. Soft cuffs, or even just silk scarves. Something that won't leave marks, and we'd establish a safeword beforehand, obviously, and I'd check in constantly, and nothing happens without your explicit consent at every stage..."
"Spencer."
"...and I know this might seem like it's coming out of nowhere, but I've been thinking about it for weeks, and I did the research, and I think - I think it could be good. For you. For us. But only if you want it. If you don't, we never speak of it again. I'm perfectly happy with..."
"Spencer."
He stopped. He looked at her, his honey-brown eyes wide and earnest.
"Breathe."
He breathed.
"I have follow-up questions," she said. "But the first answer is yes."
"Wait. Really?"
"I'm curious. And I trust you." She tugged his hand, pulling him slightly off-balance, and he caught himself on the back of the couch. Their faces were close now. "But you're going to have to walk me through the rules. Your research had rules, I assume."
His smile broke loose - not the polite one he gave colleagues, but the real one, the one that lit up his whole face. "Several. Would you like them enumerated?"
"I would like you to kiss me first. Then enumerate."
He did.
------
The bedroom was warm, lit only by the lamp on her nightstand. Amber light pooled across the duvet, catching the edges of things - the brass bedframe, the books next to her bed, the dark purple silk scarf folded neat and precise beside the pillow.
Spencer stood at the foot of the bed, rolling his sleeves up.
She watched him from her seat on the mattress edge, legs dangling, heels bumping the box spring. He had the same expression he got when approaching a complex geographical profile - furrowed brow, internal calculations running. But his hands were gentle as they finished cuffing each sleeve at the elbow, and when his eyes lifted to hers, calculation gave way to something softer.
"The safeword," he said, "is 'red.' Standard traffic light system. 'Yellow' means pause, check in, adjust. 'Green' means continue. If at any point you cannot speak - and you should always be able to speak, I'm not going to gag you, that's not part of this - but if for any reason you find yourself unable to verbalise, snapping your fingers three times will serve the same function."
"Three snaps. Got it."
"Say the safeword for me."
"Red."
"And the caution signal?"
"Yellow. Spence, I'm not going to forget."
"I know." He moved around the bed, mattress dipping as he sat beside her. The proximity brought his scent with him - coffee, old books, the sandalwood soap she'd bought him last month. "But hearing you say it matters. It matters to me."
She turned her head. His face was close enough that she could count his eyelashes if she wanted to. "Then I'll say it again. Red. Red means stop. Yellow means pause. And if I can't talk, I snap." She demonstrated. Three sharp clicks of her fingers. "See?"
"Thank you." The words came out a little rough.
"Your turn," she said. "Research. Sensory deprivation. Explain."
The shift into Lecture Mode was immediate, she could almost see the gears engage. But this time there was an undercurrent of something else. Anticipation, maybe. Or the particular focus he reserved for things he considered important.
"The neurological principle is straightforward. The human brain processes an enormous amount of sensory information at any given moment - visual stimuli, auditory input, tactile sensation, proprioceptive feedback. By removing some of those inputs, we force the brain to reallocate its processing resources. When you can't see, your brain amplifies what remains. Touch becomes more acute. Sound becomes more vivid. Every sensation is heightened because there's less competing data."
He reached for the blindfold - a simple sleep mask she kept in her bedside drawer, dark grey, elasticated - and held it between his hands like an offering.
"It's not just about intensity, though. It's about trust. Surrender. Removing sight means you have to rely on me to guide the experience. That's a vulnerable position. I don't take that lightly."
She looked at the blindfold. Then at him. "I know you don't."
"The restraints serve a similar function. By limiting movement, we eliminate the impulse to control, to direct, to participate actively. Not because you're passive, but because your role shifts. You receive. You feel. You exist entirely in your body without having to manage it."
His voice had dropped slightly, the pace slowing. She'd heard him lecture hundreds of times by now, at conferences, on video calls, over dinner when he got excited about some obscure fact. But this was different. This was intimate. This was for her alone.
"What if I want to touch you?"
"Then you tell me. And I remove the restraints. This isn't..." He paused, searching for words. "This isn't a BDSM power exchange in the formal sense. I'm not your dominant. I'm not going to deny you comfort or connection or anything you genuinely want. The denial is temporary. Controlled. It serves a purpose. The second it stops serving you, it stops."
"And if I want to come? Before you're done?"
"Then you come." No hesitation. "You tell me, and I get you there. The edging only works if you're genuinely invested in it. If it tips over into frustration or discomfort, we stop. I want this to be good for you. Only good."
Something in her chest loosened. She hadn't even realised it was tight.
"Okay," she said. "I'm ready."
"One more thing." His hand found hers again. "I need you to talk to me. Throughout. I need to know where you are - how close, how you're feeling, what's working. The science is useful, but your feedback is essential. I can't read your mind, and I won't guess. Not with this."
"I can do that."
"And if you can't do that - if it becomes too much to articulate - I need you to tell me that too. Just say 'I can't.' Or snap. Whichever comes first."
She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. "Spencer. I know. I trust you. I'm ready."
His exhale was long and unsteady. "Okay," he said, and it came out almost reverent. "Okay. Lie back for me."
---
She lay back, letting her head sink into the pillow. It was cool against her skin, a welcome contrast to the warmth that lingered in her cheeks. Above her, the ceiling was bathed in soft amber light, shadows stretching across the familiar crack in the plaster.
Then the blindfold settled over her eyes.
The world went dark. Not black, the lamplight filtered through the silk as a diffuse orange glow. But dark enough. She had a sudden, disorienting awareness of her own body in space, the way her arms lay at her sides, the flex of her ankles, the rise and fall of her chest.
"Tell me what you're feeling."
Spencer's voice came from somewhere to her left. Without visual input, she couldn't pinpoint him precisely.
"Floaty," she said. "Aware of my breathing. The sheets are cool."
"Good. I'm going to take your left wrist now. Same as we discussed."
His fingers found her - warm, dry, slightly calloused from all that pen-and-paper work he refused to give up. He guided her arm gently upward, toward the headboard, and she felt silk wrap around her wrist, the careful loop, the knot that was snug but not tight. Two fingers slipped between the restraint and her skin, testing the gap.
"Too loose? Too tight?"
"Good. It's good."
"Flex your fingers for me."
She did. The silk held, but there was no pinch, no restriction of circulation. She'd seen him practice the knot three times that afternoon, tongue caught between his teeth, murmuring about pressure points and nerve pathways.
"Right wrist now."
The process repeated. When both arms were secured, she gave an experimental tug. The restraints held, but the give was generous - she could twist her wrists, curl her fingers, find comfortable positions. Enough to feel contained without feeling trapped.
"How does it feel?"
"Secure." She searched for a better word. "Safe. Like a weighted blanket."
She heard his smile. "That's the oxytocin. Physical restraint can trigger a parasympathetic response when administered in a context of trust. Your brain interprets the pressure as a hug."
"You're lecturing me while I'm tied to the bed."
"Force of habit."
"I didn't say stop."
A soft laugh. The mattress dipped, and she felt his weight shift beside her. Then nothing. Silence. The absence of contact became its own sensation - a prickling awareness of where he wasn't touching her.
"Spencer?"
"I'm here. I'm looking at you."
Heat rose to her face. She was suddenly intensely conscious of her own body - the thin cotton of her tank top, the shorts she'd worn to bed, the way her hair was fanned across the pillow. She couldn't see him seeing her. That was the point. That was the whole point. But the vulnerability of it struck her all at once, a wave of self-consciousness that tightened her shoulders.
"Talk to me." His voice was soft. "Where did you just go?"
"Self-conscious."
"About what?"
"Being... looked at. Not knowing what you're seeing."
"I'm seeing the woman I love." No hesitation. No self-consciousness of his own. "I'm seeing her trust me enough to do this. I'm seeing how beautiful she looks in this light, with her hair spread out like that, and I'm thinking I should have told her that before I took her sight away, because now she doesn't know, and I want her to know."
The tightness in her shoulders eased. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Keep going. I want to hear it."
So he did. His voice became a current she could float on, telling her how the lamplight caught the curve of her neck, how her breathing had changed when he mentioned the oxytocin, how he could see her pulse in the hollow of her throat and it was faster now, wasn't it, and that was his doing, and he liked that. He liked it very much.
His fingers brushed her collarbone.
Her whole body jerked. The touch was featherlight, barely there, but without sight to dilute it, the sensation bloomed across her skin like a drop of ink in water.
"That's the neural amplification I mentioned." He traced the line of her clavicle, slow, deliberate. "Your skin has approximately four million tactile receptors. Without visual processing competing for bandwidth, your somatosensory cortex dedicates more resources to each one. Every touch is..."
"Spence."
"...I know. I'm talking too much." His laugh was soft, self-deprecating. "Tell me if you want me to stop. Tell me if you want me to be quiet. I can be quiet."
"No." The word came out faster than she intended. "Don't stop. I like it. I like hearing you. Just..." She swallowed. "Maybe touch me somewhere that isn't my collarbone."
"Where?"
"You're the one with the research."
Another laugh, warmer this time. "Fair point." His fingers left her collarbone, trailing down. They skimmed the neckline of her tank top, tracing the edge of the cotton where it met her skin. "Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to remove your clothes. Slowly. You won't know what I'm going to touch next, or when, or how. That's the point. The anticipation..." His fingers dipped beneath the strap of her tank top. "...is part of the neurochemistry. Dopamine isn't just released at the moment of pleasure. It spikes during the anticipation of pleasure. The wanting is as powerful as the having."
Her breathing had gone shallow. "More science."
"Always more science." He eased the strap down over her shoulder. The fabric dragged against her skin, and she felt every thread. "Lift your hips for me."
She did. The shorts came off, then the underwear beneath. His hands - both of them now - skimmed up her legs, from ankle to knee to thigh, and she felt herself open to him, felt the cool air of the bedroom on skin that was suddenly very bare.
"The tank top," he murmured. "I'm going to take it off now. But I'll need to..." He paused. "I should have done this before the restraints. I'm going to undo them temporarily. Once for each wrist. Then I'm putting them back on. Is that okay?"
"Green."
"Good. Left wrist first."
She felt the silk loosen, his fingers guiding her arm free. He worked the tank top up and over her shoulder, her head, then paused. "Other wrist." The process repeated. The tank top vanished somewhere, she heard the soft whisper of it landing on the floor. And then her wrists were being guided back into the restraints, the silk snugging into place, and she was naked.
Completely naked.
The awareness of it swept through her like a fever. She was spread out on his bed, arms bound, eyes blindfolded, and she could feel him looking at her. The weight of his gaze was a physical thing, a pressure on her skin.
"Beautiful." His voice had changed. The lecture cadence was gone, replaced by something rawer. "You're so beautiful. I wish you could see yourself. Maybe next time. Next time I'll get a mirror. But tonight..." His hand settled on her stomach, palm flat, fingers spread. "Tonight you're just going to feel."
She arched into the touch. His palm slid up, over her ribs, the underside of her breast, and she made a sound she didn't recognise. A small, desperate noise that came from somewhere deep in her chest.
"That's it." His thumb found her nipple, circled once, feather-light. "Is this good?"
"Green. Very green. Don't stop."
"I won't." His other hand found her other breast, and he worked both nipples in slow, asynchronous circles. The dual sensation was maddening. She couldn't track both at once, couldn't predict the rhythm. One would tighten to a peak while the other was still soft, and then he'd switch, and the pleasure zigzagged through her nervous system like lightning.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. She lost track of time the way she always did with him, but this was different. Deeper. The blindfold created a pocket of timelessness. There was only the dark, and his hands, and the sound of her own breathing.
"Spence..."
"I'm here."
"I'm..." She licked her lips. "I'm getting close. Not yet. But. Soon."
"Thank you." His hands stilled immediately, and she almost sobbed at the loss. "That's perfect. That's exactly what I need. How close? On a scale of one to ten?"
"Six. No, seven. Seven and climbing."
"Then we pause here." He shifted on the bed, and she felt his weight settle beside her hip. "Breathe with me. In..." He inhaled audibly. "Out." She followed, matching his pace. Her pulse slowed. The urgency receded from a roar to a murmur.
"Back to a three," she reported. "Maybe four."
"Good." He kissed her shoulder. "You're doing so well. I'm going to start again now."
His hand slid down her stomach, lower this time. Fingers brushed through her pubic hair, then lower still, and when he touched her clit she whimpered. It was barely a touch - just the pad of his middle finger, resting there, not moving.
"Tell me what you feel."
"Pressure. Warmth. Your finger."
"What else?"
"I want you to move it. Please."
"Since you asked nicely." He moved. Slow, lazy circles that sent ripples of sensation through her pelvis. Her hips began to roll, chasing his rhythm, and he matched her pace and then exceeded it, building the pressure incrementally. His other hand found her breast again, thumb working her nipple in counterpoint, and the combined sensation was like a chord struck inside her body.
Her thighs tensed. Her breathing went ragged. "Close. Eight. Eight and a half."
He stopped.
She groaned, a frustrated sound that bordered on anger. Her hips bucked once against empty air. "Spencer."
"I know." His voice was impossibly calm. "I know. Breathe."
"I don't want to breathe. I want..."
"What do you want?"
"You. Your fingers. Inside me."
A beat of silence. Then: "Okay. But we're going to build again from the bottom. Start at a one."
"You're torturing me."
"No." He kissed her hip, then her stomach, then the inside of her thigh. "I'm building something. Trust the process."
His finger slid inside her. One. Just one. He crooked it forward, finding the spot behind her pubic bone that made her back arch off the mattress. The pressure was exquisite. Not enough to tip her over, but enough to remind her body what it was reaching for. He began to thrust, slow and shallow, and his thumb found her clit with just enough pressure to keep her hovering.
"Talk to me."
"Four," she managed. "No, five. That's... that's really good."
"Good. Stay there." He added a second finger, stretching her, and she felt her body adjust to accommodate him. The fullness was a relief and a new kind of torment. He fucked her with his fingers, patient and methodical, and when she hit seven and a half he stopped again.
"Goddammit, Spence."
He laughed, genuinely laughed, and the sound of it made her laugh too even through the frustration. "I'm sorry. I'm not sorry, but I'm also sorry." He kissed the crease of her thigh.
"That's number three," he said. "How does it feel?"
"Torturous. Perfect. I hate you."
"You don't hate me."
"No. I don't hate you."
He waited until her breathing slowed, until the tension in her body began to ease.
"Three? Or still high?"
"Three. Maybe three and a half."
"Good. I'm going to use my mouth now."
Her whole body tightened in anticipation. "Okay. Yes. Green."
His tongue touched her clit.
It was barely anything, just the tip, a single point of wet heat. But after the build-up, after the denial, after everything, it hit her like a freight train. She cried out, hips jerking, and he pressed a forearm across her pelvis to hold her steady. His tongue traced a slow line from her entrance to her clit, then back down, then up again, painting her with saliva.
The sensation was too much and not enough at the same time. She heard herself making sounds - small, desperate, animal sounds - and she couldn't stop them. His tongue was relentless, dragging her up toward the edge with terrible precision.
"Close. Nine. Nine and a half. Spence, I'm going to..."
He stopped.
The whimper that escaped her was almost a sob. Her body was shaking. Her thighs were slick with her own wetness. She could feel her pulse in her clit, a hot insistent throb that demanded satisfaction and received none.
"Breathe," he said. "You're doing so well. You're incredible. Just breathe."
"Spencer." His name came out broken. "How many more?"
"A few. Can you give me a few more?"
She swallowed. Her throat was dry. "Yes. Green. I can."
"Thank you." He kissed her knee, her thigh, her hip. "Thank you for trusting me."
He gave her a full minute to come down, stroking her stomach and murmuring praise. When her breathing steadied, he shifted again on the mattress.
"I'm going to use both now. Fingers and mouth. It's going to be intense. I need you to tell me when you're at seven. Not eight. Seven. Can you do that?"
"Y-yes. Seven. Got it."
"Good girl."
The words hit her somewhere primal. Before she could process them, his fingers were inside her again - two this time, crooking forward - and his mouth was on her clit, and the combined sensation was so overwhelming that she nearly screamed. He sucked, gently at first, then with more pressure, and his fingers kept a steady rhythm against that spot inside her that made her vision do strange things.
"Seven. Seven. Seven..."
He stopped.
Her whole body was shaking now, fine tremors that ran from her shoulders to her calves. Sweat beaded at her hairline. The blindfold was damp with it. "I can't," she gasped. "I can't do that again. That was..."
"You can." His voice was steady, certain. "You're doing it. You're doing it right now. Three more. Can you give me three more?"
Three. Three more edges. The number felt insurmountable. But his hand was on her stomach, warm and grounding, and his voice was her anchor in the dark.
"Three," she agreed. "Three more."
The next one came from his fingers alone, three this time, thrusting deep while his thumb circled her clit. She rode it to eight and called warning, and he withdrew, and the comedown was almost worse than the denial, her body so primed for release that the absence of touch felt like grief.
Then tongue and fingers together again, pulling her up faster this time, and she barely managed to gasp "seven" before he stopped.
Then another pause. Another descent. Her mind was going strange at the edges, time dissolving into a series of peaks and valleys, and she wasn't sure if she was speaking out loud or only in her head, wasn't sure where her body ended and the bed began.
"Last one," Spencer said, and she heard the hum of the vibrator before she felt it.
Her legs tried to close on instinct. He'd never used it on her before. It was hers, a small bullet-shaped thing she kept in her nightstand, that she only ever brought out when Spencer was away on a case. The buzz filled the quiet room like a purr.
"Lowest setting first," he said. "Just the toy. Nothing else. I want you to tell me what it feels like."
The silicone touched her clit.
If his tongue had been a freight train, this was electricity. The vibration radiated outward, into her labia, her pubic bone, the root of her clit where it branched deep into her pelvis. She hadn't known a sensation could be so localised and so diffuse at the same time.
"Talk to me."
"It's..." She struggled for words. "It buzzes. I can feel it in my teeth. My bones. Everywhere. It's unrelenting."
"Good. Close your eyes. No, wait..." He laughed at himself. "You can't close them. Forget I said that. Focus on the sensation. Where exactly do you feel it?"
"Everywhere. No - front. The front of my clit. The tip. But also deeper. Inside."
"That's the internal clitoral structure. The external glans is only about ten percent of the total organ. The rest extends internally, wrapping around the vaginal canal." The clinical description was undercut by the way his voice had gone rough. "I'm going to turn it up now. And I'm adding fingers."
The buzz intensified. Two fingers slid inside her, and she was suddenly full in both directions, the vibration from above, the pressure from within. Her hips began to move of their own accord, grinding into his hand.
"Close. Seven. Eight."
"Not yet. Hold it. Just a little longer."
"I can't..."
"You can." His fingers crooked, finding her g-spot, and the vibrator jumped to the next setting. She heard herself make a noise that wasn't a word, wasn't even a moan - something guttural and desperate that came from the base of her throat.
A third finger stretched her open. The vibrator kicked up again. The dual stimulation was so intense it bordered on pain, but it wasn't pain, it was something beyond language, a pressure building at the base of her spine like a wave preparing to crest.
He worked her with the vibrator, his other hand still inside her, still pressing against her g-spot. She was babbling now, words that weren't quite words, prayers and pleas all tangled together. Her thighs were trembling, her stomach clenching, her hands white-knuckled around the restraints.
"I'm going to... I'm so close, I'm going to..."
He stopped.
She wailed.
He watched her fight it. Watched the battle between her body's need to climax and her mind's determination to hold on, and felt a surge of something fierce. Pride. Adoration. Awe.
Then her voice cracked. "I can't. I can't anymore. I need... Spencer, I need to come. Please. Please let me come."
Everything stopped.
Then his hand was on her cheek, his thumb wiping sweat from her temple. "Okay. Okay, sweetheart. You're done. You did it. You were perfect."
"Please." She was crying now, tears soaking into the blindfold. "I need - I need you inside me. I want to see you. I want..."
"I know what you need. Hold still."
He slipped the blindfold from her eyes. The lamp was blinding after so long in the dark, and she squinted against it, her vision swimming. She blinked, her eyes glassy and wet, her face flushed and beautiful. Spencer's face materialised above her, his hair disheveled, eyes dark with concern and desire and something that looked a lot like awe.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi." Her voice was wrecked.
"I'm going to undo the restraints now." He reached for her left wrist, working the knot with steady fingers. "How are you feeling? Talk to me."
"Desperate. Empty. I need you inside me. Now."
"Working on it." The left wrist came free, then the right. He brought her hands down to her sides, massaging each wrist in turn, checking the skin. "Any numbness? Tingling?"
"Spence, I swear to God..."
"Circulation first." But he was smiling. "Then orgasm. Those are the priorities."
Her wrists were fine. Her whole body was fine, if you defined fine as vibrating at a frequency that might shatter glass. She grabbed his shirt in both fists and pulled him down, kissing him hard. He tasted like her, and the realisation made her moan into his mouth.
She touched his chest. "I want to see you. All of you. Take your clothes off."
He obeyed with a speed that would have been comical under other circumstances. Shirt over his head, pants shoved down, boxers kicked somewhere into the corner. His erection sprang free, thick, heavy and already leaking, and the sight of it made her mouth water.
"Look at you," she breathed. "Look what you did to yourself. You've been hard this whole time."
"Ignored it." He settled between her legs, fingers tracing the length of her thighs. "This isn't about me. It's about you."
"It's about us. I want you to feel good too."
His eyes found hers. "Believe me. I'm about to feel very, very good."
He reached for the cushion he'd prepared earlier - a firm throw pillow from her couch. Sliding it beneath her hips, he tilted her pelvis upward, creating the angle he needed. She reached between them, wrapping her hand around him. He was hot and hard and so sensitive that he flinched at her touch. She guided him to her entrance, and the first press of him against her made them both gasp.
"Ready?" His voice cracked on the word.
"Green. So green. Please."
He pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Her body, after all the denial, was exquisitely sensitive, every ridge of him, every vein felt magnified. She was so wet, so ready, her walls clenching around him the moment he entered. He slid in to the hilt in one long, smooth stroke, and the fullness of it made her cry out.
He groaned, his forehead dropping to hers. "You feel incredible."
"You do too. Please. Move. Please."
He moved.
The rhythm was precise. He'd mapped her body over the past months, cataloged every response, every trigger, every spot that made her gasp. He knew exactly where her g-spot was, exactly what angle would hit it with each thrust, exactly how much pressure would push her closer without pushing her over.
"Oh God. Oh God, yes."
Not yet. Not yet. Spencer shuddered above her. "You feel... I can't... give me a second. I need a second or this is going to be over very quickly."
She clenched around him deliberately, and he groaned. "You're not helping."
"Sorry." She wasn't sorry at all.
He took a breath, steadied himself. Then he lifted her leg, hooking it over his shoulder, and the new angle shifted everything. He was deeper now, pressing directly against her g-spot, and when he started to move again - slow, deep thrusts that dragged against every sensitive place inside her - the pleasure was so sharp it almost hurt.
"The vibrator." He fumbled beside her hip, finding where he'd dropped it. "Highest setting now. Are you ready?"
"Yes. Yes. Do it."
The buzz filled the room. He pressed the silicone against her clit, and her back arched off the mattress. The dual stimulation of his cock driving into her g-spot and the vibrator humming against her clit was more than she'd ever experienced. More than she'd known was possible.
She screamed.
It was a raw, broken sound. Not pain, but pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. Her eyes went wide, her mouth dropping open, her whole body convulsing around him.
"Look at me." His voice was strained. "I want to see your eyes when you come."
She opened her eyes (when had she closed them?) and met his gaze. His pupils were blown wide, his expression fierce and tender and completely focused on her. He thrust harder, faster, the rhythm building toward something catastrophic.
The pleasure was accumulating. Not building, that word wasn't strong enough. This was something else. Every edge she'd endured, every peak she'd climbed and then fallen from, was still inside her somewhere, and now they were all rising at once, a symphony of sensation that was too much and not enough and...
"Spence, I don't... it's too much...I can't..."
"Yes, you can." He thrust harder, the vibrator steady on her clit, his cock hitting her g-spot with each stroke. "Look at me. You can. I've got you. Come for me. Let go. I've got you."
Something broke.
The orgasm didn't build. It detonated.
She came with a cry that was almost a roar, her back arching off the mattress, her nails raking down his arms. The pleasure was so immense it stopped being pleasure and became something else entirely. An out-of-body experience where she was just sensation, just light, just release. Her walls clamped around him harder than he'd ever felt, and he felt a rush of liquid, hot and sudden, as she gushed around his cock. The sensation sent him over the edge. He came with a groan that was torn from somewhere deep, his own release pulsing inside her as she continued to convulse around him.
Her vision - she'd tell him later - went white. Pure, blinding white, like staring into the sun.
She was still trembling, still gasping, when the world finally faded back in.
The first thing she registered was his voice.
"...got you. I've got you. You're okay. You're amazing. You're so amazing." The words were murmured soft and steady against her hair. She was being held, she realised. Cradled against his chest. His arms were wrapped around her, his body curved around hers.
"Spencer?"
"I'm here. I'm right here."
He held her close, fingers combing slowly through her hair, murmuring how amazing she was. Then, reluctantly, he let go. She was acutely aware of the loss that followed, of the cool air hitting her overheated skin.
Then his weight left the bed entirely.
She blinked, her vision slowly clearing.
A warm washcloth pressed against her inner thigh, and she realised he was cleaning her.
"Hold still," he said. "I'm almost done."
He finished cleaning her with gentle, careful strokes, then tossed the washcloth aside. When he lay down beside her, she turned into him, her body curling against his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been turned inside out. In the best possible way. That was incredible. I didn't know it could be like that."
His smile was so bright it almost hurt to look at. "The research was accurate."
She laughed weakly. "Did you just cite your research right now?"
"Force of habit." He kissed her forehead. "Stay here. I'm getting you water."
He was gone again. She heard the kitchen faucet, the clink of a glass, his bare feet on the hardwood. When he returned, he helped her sit up - her arms were still shaky - and held the glass to her lips.
"Small sips. You lost a lot of fluid."
"I'm aware." She drank, and the water was cold and perfect. "Did I really...?"
"You did. It was..." He set the glass aside, pulling her against his chest. "I don't have words. And I always have words."
She curled into him, boneless and spent. His arms came around her, one hand threading into her hair, the other rubbing slow circles on her back. His heartbeat was steady under her ear, a counterpoint to her own still-racing pulse.
They lay in silence for a while, the lamp still lit on the dresser, the city humming outside. Her body was humming too. A pleasant, exhausted thrum that seemed to vibrate in her bones.
"I can't feel my legs," she said.
He laughed. "That's probably temporary."
"It better had be. I have things to do tomorrow."
"What things?"
She thought about it. "Absolutely nothing. I have absolutely nothing to do tomorrow."
"Good. Then we can stay in bed all day."
"Deal."
He pulled the covers up around them, tucking the edges around her shoulders. She closed her eyes, listening to his heartbeat, steady and familiar. Her anchor. Her home.
"Was it worth it?" he asked quietly. "All the stopping and starting? Were the edges worth the destination?"
"Spence." She tilted her head to look at him. "I saw God."
He burst out laughing, and she felt the vibration of it through his chest. "That's a new one."
"I'm serious. I transcended. I left my body and visited another plane of existence."
"Should I be jealous?"
"No. You should be proud." She settled against him again, her eyes growing heavy. "You did research. And then you applied it. Very thoroughly."
"That's what I do." He kissed the top of her head. "Sleep. I've got you."
She was already halfway there, floating in the warm dark of his arms. The last thing she felt before sleep claimed her was his lips against her hair, and the soft murmur of his voice saying something she was too far gone to hear.
Introduction: You had always been inexperienced when it came to life, it wasn't until you met your next door neighbor that you began to realize just how much you were missing out, and how intoxicating belonging to a dangerous man can be.
Request
CW: SMUT, No use of Y/N, Readers features are never described, Implied that reader is smaller than Dex but he's so broad that most people are, He's a freak, You're a freak, Knife play, Clothes Ripping, Unprotected sex, Porn WITH a lot of plot
Word Count: 11.5k (4k of this is just smut lol)
AN: I love the diner scene so in this story I based Dex’s characterization off of that. Reader has mommy issues and trauma but it's build up for smut. Somehow I managed to outfreak Touch Me!Dex with this one, enjoy!
The threshold of the small, one bedroom apartment felt less like a physical boundary and more like the precipice of an entire world. To anyone else, the compact square footage, open-concept kitchenette, and the isolated bathroom were simply standard urban housing. But to you, standing perfectly still with your palms flat against the cool frame of the doorway, it was everything. All that you had spent years praying for, laid out in front of you.
You took a single, heavy breath, inhaling the sharp, unfamiliar scents of fresh paint, old plaster, and the distant, metallic tang of the city outside. You made it here to your new life. You arrived despite everyone's prediction of your failure, every quiet doubt whispered in the dark, and every loud, toxic absolute hurled at your head before you left. You crossed an entire continent with nothing but five thousand dollars in your pocket and a beat-up car crammed to the ceiling with your entire life. Somehow, the fragile hope of your survival had held together, delivering you straight ownership of this apartment in New York.
Your feet moved on their own volition, carrying you across the space as you began to map your new home. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath your weight, full of knots and individual character. Your gaze tracked the deep bay window that overlooked the elevated train tracks. Watching the late afternoon sun pierce through the glass, illuminating a slow, rhythmic dance of dust mites suspended in the air of your empty space. This was a life you could get used to loving, perhaps the life you should have been promised since the very beginning. One filled with serenity and the promise of stability within these walls. A life where you didn't have to balance on a tight rope on a daily basis, where home could foster growth and ambition rather than squander it. This is what it should have been like, not the terrible cards life had dealt you.
Suddenly triggered by the calm, an immense, suffocating sensation flooded the center of your chest. Your throat tightened to a painful knot, and your heart began to hammer against your ribs with a relentless, frantic tempo. It was a volatile, agonizing cocktail of pride and still resonating, white hot anger. Your fists clenched at your sides, your knuckles turning white as your eyes locked onto the pathetic, sparse collection of cardboard boxes sitting in the center of the empty room.
Fuck everybody.
The words echoed in your mind like a mantra. Fuck them all.
Your jaw locked so tightly your teeth ached. In the sudden silence of the room, the memory of your emotionally incompetent mother’s voice flooded back, louder and more invasive than the rumble of the subway outside the glass. Years of belittling, of being told you were useless, of being overlooked and treated not as a daughter, but as an unwanted burden. None of it held any leverage over you anymore. Because you were free. You were thousands of miles away, while they remained entirely stagnant, rotting back home, working themselves into an early grave at the same exact, unfulfilling job your mother had held for fifteen miserable years.
For over a decade, you had navigated the landmines of an emotionally abusive parent who viewed her own flesh and blood as direct, threatening competition. But the war was over. In a way it felt like victory. You won your freedom.
And that single realization should have been enough to calm the internal storm, but the peace felt incomplete as you stood there. Perhaps it was the empty space that left you wanting more. A deep, visceral part of you still craved violence. The quiet, dignified exit of the "being the bigger person" narrative society forced down your throat, felt unsatisfying compared to the scale of the damage. You felt a raw need to physically tear that woman apart with a knife, to make her feel the exact same pain she had inflicted upon your childhood. The concrete image of it flickered in your mind, vivid and bloody, because being better wasn't a currency that bought back the years that had been stolen from you.
Her lingering voice was still a tenant in your head, she was the internal structure that spoke and criticized every waking minute of your day. Yes you had gotten away but in some ways she was still here. The heaviness settled right back over your shoulders, bringing the anger and a deep, nameless starvation along with it. You couldn't even identify what you wanted at this moment as you stewed. Did you want validation? Did you want happiness? Or did you simply want the dark daydreams of shoving a cold knife into her body to finally become real? And were you regretting not doing it before you left…
"That's interesting," a voice muttered from the hallway.
The sound shattered your trance immediately, pulling you back from the depths. Your head snapped toward the doorway, your gaze averting to the apartment door you had left wide open. Cussing yourself out silently for it as you schooled your expression and kept the emotions at bay.
Standing across the narrow, dimly lit corridor was a man. He had been in the exact middle of unlocking his own door before your rigid posture caught his eye. His sharp brows parted slightly as his cold eyes took in the sight of your moving boxes, your tightly clenched fists, and the mean, hostile frown you didn't even realize you had been wearing as you zoned out.
Dex studied you for a fraction of a second. To his hyper acute mind, you were a sudden, unregulated pawn in his clean, quiet hallway. He made the deliberate decision to pocket his hands, leaving the keys dangling on his lock as he began to walk directly toward your open door.
Your mind scrambled to re-engage with reality, your feet carrying you forward to meet him halfway at the threshold. Dex's focal moved with precision, immediately logging the sparse contents of your life: exactly four small boxes and a half-disassembled mannequin laying on the bare hardwood. His focus honed in on the heavy packing tape sealing the cardboard shut, explicitly stamped with a small, red maple leaf.
"Hi, I'm your new neighbor," you said.
Dex’s internal wiring instantly analyzed the pitch. Your words were incredibly tense, the register high enough to suggest performance of pleasantries, but there was a distinct strain underlying the syllables. He tracked the rigid alignment of your shoulders, noting how the tension made your collarbones stand out sharply beneath your skin.
"Not from New York?" he asked, raising a single brow. He already knew the precise answer based on the tape, but his programming needed him to hear the confirmation roll off your tongue.
"No," you shook your head, your posture remaining stiff.
"You sew?" Dex nodded his chin down toward the dress form resting on the floor.
"Um... yeah," you offered, your response clipped and protective. You had absolutely no desire to delve into how that purpose was the singular anchor of your soul, or how you had abandoned the little shred of safety back home just to pursue it here.
"Hm. Keep the noise down past ten. Thin walls," he said plainly.
You eagerly, rapidly nodded your compliance. Dex lingered for a moment, his body weight shifting. By all accounts of his daily routine, he should have walked away. Conventional human interactions were a tedious, exhausting ordeal that rarely benefited him unless they served a specific purpose. But the absolute immediacy of your agreement, the way you submissively shrunk back under the order, made his mind pause. He sees people afraid on a daily basis as Bullseye, yet you, for some odd reason, were already on edge before he even made his presence known.
"I'm Tony," he quipped, the introduction sounding just a fraction too rehearsed, a carefully selected line from his mental archives. His eyes flicked back down to the foreign maple leaf on the box before a low, quiet intensity crept into his voice. "But my friends call me Dex."
"Dex," you tested the name, the word falling softly between you.
A faint hum of genuine satisfaction vibrated in his chest. It had been an exceptionally long time since he had heard his actual name spoken by someone who wasn't a target or a handler.
"Don't let Mrs. Smithers hear you call me that," he said, offering a sudden, sharp grin that didn't quite reach his dead, unblinking eyes. There was an invisible, dangerous undercurrent to the words, a hidden threat wrapped in domestic clothing. "I'm serious, or else she's gonna start thinking we're not as close."
His delivery possessed a sudden, calculated charisma, a charm that successfully baited a small, hesitant half-smile from your lips.
"Knock at my door if you need anything," he added, throwing in a brief, practiced wink before he turned on his heel. He didn't truly understand the psychological impulse that had driven him to offer the concession, but his research on human integration had taught him that these specific gestures effectively relaxed women. He had already decided you wouldn't be a problem for his daily structure.
In the weeks that followed, you went to extraordinary lengths to avoid apartment 20B. It wasn't that the initial interaction had been explicitly unpleasant, but an invasive, persistent nervousness had settled deep in your stomach whenever you heard his footsteps in the hall. Dex’s presence made you feel extremely anxious, exposing a raw, aching deprivation of basic social interaction that you weren't ready to face.
But the avoidance strategy completely collapsed on a Tuesday evening over a remarkably stubborn jar of marinara sauce.
You had spent twenty-five agonizing minutes exhausting every trick in your arsenal. You had sandwiched the thick glass between your thighs, twisting until your skin was raw; you had hammered the metal lid with the heavy handle of a butter knife, praying for the vacuum seal to pop. Nothing worked. Looking back at your tiny kitchenette one final time, at the pathetic pot of rapidly cooling noodles and the messy counter, your feet began to move toward the hallway before your brain could protest.
You stood before apartment 20B and knocked once.
The sound had barely dissipated before the door swung wide open. Dex stood beneath the frame, wearing a plain white muscle shirt and a pair of loose gray sweatpants. His broad, heavily muscled shoulders completely blocked the view of his interior. He raised a single, questioning brow.
You pathetically shook the glass jar once in front of his chest. "Open," fell from your lips in a flat, monotone whisper.
Dex blinked, his gaze dropping to the jar.
"I mean- um, can you please open this? Please?" you tried again, your voice cracking with embarrassment.
Without a word, his large, calloused hand reached out and took the glass from your grip. With one smooth, effortless twist of his wrist, the metal lid popped open with a loud snap. Your eyes involuntarily darted to the thick expanse of his bicep, watching the muscles flex and shift beneath the skin with the casual display of strength. A sudden, suffocating feeling of intrusion washed over you, making you feel entirely out of place.
You frantically snatched the opened jar back into your possession, attempting to execute a rapid speed-walk back to the safety of your home before he could engage.
Dex watched your skittish retreat, a faint flicker of amusement piercing through his usual apathy. Conventional neighbors were loud, unpredictable nuisances, but you were different. You stayed entirely within your perimeter, exactly how he preferred it. You made no noise, you never slammed your doors, and you never returned home late. In fact, Dex had realized he almost never saw you leave the building at all. You treated apartment 20A like a hiding hole, a sanctuary against the outside world.
Perhaps that was the exact reason his mind felt inclined to participate. To actively engage and solidify the illusion of "Tony" as a real breathing person that cares about others.
"What're you making?" he asked, his voice a low interrogation that stopped you in your tracks.
"Um, one-pot pasta?" you murmured over your shoulder.
Dex's sharp brows furrowed instantly, his gaze narrowing into a harsh, hyper-focused line. You instinctively clutched the marinara jar tighter against your ribs.
"What the fuck is that," he cussed out, the sheer lack of culinary skills genuinely offending his sense of order.
"It's... pasta you make in one pot," you shrugged, your voice defensive.
The concept thoroughly grated on his compulsive need for proper sequencing. Before you could offer a verbal protest, Dex stepped over the boundaries of his apartment, his tall frame moving right past you and directly into your private space. You stood frozen for a second before silently trailing behind him.
His linear, tracking eyes scanned your apartment, and a cold weight settled into his chest. My god, it was sad.
In the center of the kitchenette sat the offending, solitary pot, filled with starch and water. Your bed wasn't even a proper piece of furniture; it was merely a single mattress dumped onto the floor, heavily dressed up in expensive duvets and a mountain of pillows to overcompensate for the lack of a frame. A small lap-table sat on top of the blankets instead of a proper dining set. Five long, perfectly level shelves lined the walls, crammed with meticulously folded fabrics. By the bay window sat an ancient, cast-iron sewing machine that looked at least a century old, positioned next to the dress form wearing a stunning, intricate gown that looked entirely too beautiful to exist within this depressing space.
"You're not okay," Dex deduced immediately, turning his rigid frame around to face you.
A nervous, fractured laugh broke from your throat. "What?"
"You're not okay," he repeated, stating it not as an insult, but as an absolute fact as he walked back over to the stove to inspect the cursed pot.
"I'm fine," you muttered, peaking through the kitchen archway, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. Jar forgotten beside you, a bystander in this weird conversation.
"Then why do you live like this?" His tone was sharp, accusatory, mildly insulted that any functional human being would willingly subject themselves to such a lack of domestic structure. It bothered him. It bothered him an extraordinary amount. Too much for him to resume his usual disregard of others personal business.
"Um, for the record, I live fine," you raised a single finger to defend yourself.
"Your bed is on the floor," he countered, his expression entirely unamused.
"There's a rug! And it's cozy!" you pointed down to the plush pink faux-fur rug stretching beneath the mattress.
"It's sad," Dex noted flatly. He deeply disliked the specific deregulation this room was forcing onto him. Without asking permission, his hands began to move, instantly taking ownership of the kitchen, determined to fix the failure of your meal. And you could only do nothing but watch in bewilderment as your next door neighbor moved with clear certainty in your home.
"What's that about," he asked after a moment, jerking his sharp chin toward the elaborate gown by the window.
"Someone's paying me to make it," you offered softly.
"So you're a designer?" he questioned, his large hands efficiently raiding the contents of your refrigerator. You tried your absolute best to ignore the terrifying reality that an exceptionally attractive, intimidating man was currently taking control of your life.
"No. Designers get people to buy their clothes because of their name. I just... I just make clothes." You clarified, shifting your weight on your feet.
"You have people buying your clothes for how they look. How's that any different?" Dex questioned, because truthfully your logic made no sense.
"It just is, okay!" your voice finally spiked, a sudden rush of raw, defensive emotion breaking through your shy exterior. "They have degrees, and money, and connections, and I just have a bed on the floor!" You pointed a trembling finger at the mattress.
Dex stared at you for a long second before a low, genuine laugh slipped past his lips. He bit down a smile, turning back to the stove to completely salvage your atrocious food. You amused him. Your strange, combative nature hidden beneath your meek form was fascinating enough to make him stay. So he kept cooking in the silence, letting you calm down from your outburst. For a while the only sound echoing the room was rhythmic cutting as he minced garlic with efficient speed.
"How'd you get that scar?" you blurted out suddenly when you decided to speak again, your eyes tracking the pale line slicing through his features. It was a brave question to ask, perhaps the wrong one, but it'd been the only thing you could focus on since the minute you met him. And you decided on impulse, that if he got to invade your life, you at least earned the right to ask an equally invasive question.
Dex’s muscles tensed for a solitary second, his fingers tightening around the kitchen knife. His mind instantly executed recalibration, regulating his breathing just as he had rehearsed a thousand times in institutional therapy. He locked the bloody, violent memories away in a vault, forcing a normal, charismatic mask over his face.
"It's New York," he said plainly as if that was enough of an explanation, which in a way it was. "What I wanna know is why you chose here over Canada?" He turned his head, his gaze drilling straight into your eyes.
"I didn't like it there anymore..." your voice dropped into a hushed, incredibly heavy register. The sheer, concentrated depression radiating from your small form filled the room like dense fog. It irritated him. It irritated him because a creature with your specific, meticulous talent shouldn't be radiating the scent of a wounded animal. He hated the lack of coordination between what you were capable of creating and how you viewed your own worth.
"Taste," he ordered softly, lifting the wooden spoon directly to your mouth.
Your lips parted in a slight hesitation, your eyes locking onto his as you slowly leaned forward. Dex watched with a hyper-focused intensity as your mouth closed over the wood, taking in the rich, perfectly balanced sauce.
"That's really good," you nodded, your cheeks flushing a brilliant pink as you stepped back, suddenly shy.
“Isn't it," he murmured in that attractive, playful lilt of his. The gesture and tones of his voice are a characteristic you'd come to associate with your odd neighbor. Without a hint of hesitation, Dex slid the exact same spoon into his own mouth, tasting the leftover sauce, his eyes never leaving yours.
That night he left you standing there in the center of the kitchen with a perfectly prepared plate of fresh food, not even bothering to sit down or have a meal with you. His mission for the day had been executed, leaving you thoroughly confused and breathless in his wake.
The confusion only deepened when the exact same sequence repeated itself the following morning. You opened your door at nine o'clock, only to be firmly pushed aside as Dex hauled a heavy canvas bag of groceries directly into your space.
"What're you making for breakfast now?" His voice carried a dry, biting edge as he interrogated you.
"I don't normally eat breakfast," you muttered, leaning against the counter.
Dex’s brows furrowed deeply. Wrong. That was incorrect in every preferable scenario to him. The human brain required proper nutritional fuel the precise moment it transitioned into an awake state in order to function throughout the day. And yet you skipped breakfast regularly.
"I brought proper food," he noted, emphasizing the word proper. Safe, balanced foods that didn't emerge from an aluminum can.
You paused, staring at the broad expanse of his chest, then down to the fresh produce, and then back up to his sharp features. "Why?" you asked, your voice small, genuinely confused why this terrifying neighbor cared enough about your life. Maybe he did care, or maybe the sheer lack of order in your existence simply violated his internal programming in an incomprehensible way. It didn't take much for you to realize that Dex most likely had OCD, judging by what you've observed from him, he was a very one track minded man.
"Why're you doing this shit," he countered, his hand gesturing vaguely to the fabrics, the mattress, the entirety of your isolated world.
Your brows knit together, trying to parse the exact thing he was attacking. You made an educated guess that he was referring to the fundamental reality of all of you.
"I moved here because I believed in myself," you said, trying to sound firm.
But the delivery was a far cry from actual conviction. To Dex’s tracking eyes, you looked like a frail, hyper-vigilant thing that was merely surviving the days rather than actively living them. It didn't look like belief; it looked like an escape. But Dex could respect the raw, stubborn determination underlying the performance. He had recognized your immense talent within the first sixty seconds of entering your apartment. You were a creature of singular focus, prioritizing the creation of a beautiful dress over basic human comfort. He wasn't one to judge an obsession. You possessed the spark required to carve your name into the stone of the city; you simply weren't fully convinced of your own gravity yet.
It reminded him entirely of his old, fractured self, desperately searching for a script to prove he was allowed to exist. Maybe that was the exact reason he couldn't just let you go. He tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing as you visibly squirmed under the pressure of his gaze.
"But you still sleep on the floor," he said slowly, taking a deliberate step into your orbit.
"But I still sleep on the floor..." you confirmed, your voice hitching as you took a small step backward. He continued to advance, completely abandoning the grocery bags on the kitchen island.
"You should be sleeping in a bed made for royalty. Not that," he noted, a faint trace of dark amusement in his voice as he watched you try everything in your power to avoid his proximity.
"That requires princess money," you countered with your chin held high, your heel catching slightly on the edge of the faux-fur rug.
"That's not how the story goes. Isn't the fairytale answer to marry a king?" He crossed his massive arms over his broad chest, blocking out the light from the window with his form.
You stopped moving, taking a long, deliberate look at the rigid picture of his features. "Are you mocking me?" you asked after a heavy silence. "Is this a joke to you?"
"What? No,” he spat out with equal conviction.
“You are not a joke," the concept genuinely offended the man. You were everything but.
"I don't need help, Dex," your voice suddenly cracked, an exasperated, rushing tide of buried rage spilling through the seams of your composure. He had unknowingly poked at a raw, unhealed wound you didn't even know you had. "I don't need anybody. I've made it this far entirely on my own, and I-"
"I didn't say you needed it," the words rolled off his tongue like velvet, cutting through your fervor. "I'm offering it."
"Why?" your eyes narrowed into suspicious, defensive slits. You were a guarded little thing.
"Because you're alone. In a dangerous city," he pointed it out as if it were a fundamental law.
Truthfully, his conscious mind didn't fully comprehend the psychological reasonings driving his desire to intervene; he simply knew that his system demanded it. Perhaps it was merely basic human nature to seek out a companion. Or perhaps he decided that for "Tony" to maintain his flawless civilian disguise, he required a friend. Tony was a good citizen. Tony helped his neighbors; Tony fed the old lady's cat on the third floor; Tony fixed the plumbing for the single mother upstairs. Tony was a pillar of the community. Though it wasn't just that. Dex knew you had resonated with him, with your awkward self and unpredictable outbursts hooking him. Despite how it looked, he wasn't trying to fix you, he was in no position to be handling another person, instead he felt the urge to provide you with the support he never had.
"Sit down," he ordered simply, turning his back to you as he began to masterfully prepare the fresh ingredients he'd brought.
"You have talent," he said twenty minutes later after the silence got too heavy, his hands efficiently wiping down the counter space while you consumed the meal he made. You sat up a fraction straighter at the validation. "But talent without exposure doesn't mean anything."
You almost flinched at the sharp accuracy of the statement.
"You should be out there. Not locked in here all the time," he continued. By now, Dex’s surveillance of your habits had mapped your highly dysfunctional sleeping patterns. You remained awake through the entire night, whenever he left for an assignment or returned in the pre-dawn hours, the golden light from your windows were always visible. You spent the daylight hours sleeping, unless you were forced to leave for your underappreciated assistant position at the Daily Prophet.
He turned his head to look at you, tracking the way your soft lips parted slightly as you absorbed his assessment.
"You're a pretty woman. Here in New York, that's enough to open most doors," he said. The words weren't delivered as a compliment or a cheap attempt at flattery; it was simply a cold, structural fact.
A fact that caused you to violently choke on your eggs, a brilliant crimson blush detonating across your cheeks.
"You okay there?" he asked, his hand pausing its polishing over the mug in his hand. You urgently nodded your head, frantically reaching for a glass of water. Dex kept wiping the porcelain clean, a dark, thoroughly amused smirk settling onto his features.
Life with a man in your orbit was an entirely surreal reality, especially when that man was a massive, hyper-stabilizing force looming permanently in your background.
Dex had helped you source a proper, high-backed "princess bed" frame, assembling the heavy wood with a silent, terrifying efficiency. In return, you began to prepare your meals with his specific caloric needs in mind. You found yourself dressing in the mornings with the absolute certainty that you would be looking into the cold watchful eyes of your neighbor before the day concluded. No longer donning old sweats with thread stuck onto them, instead you chose more curated lounge wear. Nothing that suggested you were trying too hard but cotton sets and satin shorts that helped remind you that you were a girl. A girl with a very attractive man coming to her apartment on a daily basis. By the third month of this unspoken arrangement, Dex possessed a key to your apartment. You couldn't recall the exact moment he acquired it, nor did you feel any concern that he had it. Dex had proven himself to be so utterly dependable, so fiercely protective of your sanctuary, that you never once questioned the breach.
You simply allowed him to appear. Sometimes you would open your eyes in the morning to find him silently reading by your bed; other times, he wouldn't slip through the door until the dead of night. He had informed you, in his flat register, that his operational hours were highly dysfunctional as well due to his past employment with the FBI and his current status as a private contractor. It was the explanation that perfectly accounted for the jagged, violent scars lining his well maintained body.
The routine fractured slightly on a stormy Thursday evening. A violent thunderstorm had completely knocked out the power grid across your section of Brooklyn, leaving your apartment illuminated by the flickering, amber glow of a dozen candles. You sat across from him at the small table, the ambient silence magnifying the heavy, intrusive thoughts you normally managed to suppress. Without the distraction of your sewing machine or the television, the ghosts of your past were entirely too loud to ignore. It was better with Dex around, but tonight it was oppressing.
"You still with me?" His quiet, gravelly voice sliced through the dark.
"Yeah. I'm sorry," you nodded quickly, your shoulders drawing inward.
Dex’s eyes tracked the movement. He often wondered why that specific word, sorry, dropped from your lips with such automatic frequency, even when you committed nothing wrong. He had analyzed the way your entire system would shut down, retreating into a silent, unreadable fortress whenever you perceived even a flash of tension in his tone. He had logged it during his first critique of your mattress, and again when he regulated your breakfast habits. You would instantly succumb, allowing him to rewrite your parameters without an ounce of resistance.
It didn't align with the true matrix of who you were. It didn't fit the woman who possessed the fierce, unyielding determination to cross a continent alone for her art. You had been systematically programmed by someone else to react this way. It was a defect in your confidence, and it bothered him. He wanted to understand the code, but his lack of conventional empathy made the vocabulary invasive. He didn't know how to ask how you had been broken. He only knew that over the past five months, his motivation for being around you had completely evolved from a selfish need for a civilian disguise into an undeniable reality: he thoroughly enjoyed your company. You were awkward in a specific, quiet manner that made his own internal fractures feel normal. It was almost funny.
He searched his mental archives, selecting a play designed to foster emotional trust. Because he wanted you to trust him, he needed you to.
"You say that a lot. You okay there?" he asked, his chin gesturing toward your tense form. He worried the phrasing was either too forward or completely off the mark.
"Um, yeah. Sorry. It's just that..." You took a long, ragged breath, the amber candlelight catching the wet sheen of your eyes. "I grew up in a reactive home… and quietness kinda makes me uncomfortable" You nodded to yourself, tasting the bitter, familiar poison on your tongue as your throat tightened. Growing up was like navigating an active minefield. You were always criticized rather than praised. Everything you did was wrong. At some point, you just learn that it's safer if you shut down completely and don't engage.
Even now, miles away from the source, the conditioning remains a permanent tenant in your nervous system. It was an agonizing process trying to dismantle years of trauma; when you were raised by a monster, accepting genuine care or praise felt like a trap. You would hyper-fixate on every single micro-mistake you made throughout the day until isolation felt like the only true sanctuary available to you.
Dex offered a slow, deliberate nod. He lacked the capacity for conventional comfort, but he forced himself to try.
"My parents weren't really that involved," he offered, his voice a flat line of history.
Before he could expand on his own dark childhood, you cut through the quiet. "It was just me and my mom." You paused, your fingers tightening around the edge of your napkin. "But sometimes... I really wished it was just me."
Dex’s brow raised a fraction, a sudden spark of intense interest flaring in his irises. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean... I've definitely imagined pulling the trigger on her fucking head more times than I've said 'I love you,'" you said, a sharp, dark laugh breaking from your lips.
Dex’s jaw involuntarily ticked, smile flicking though his eyes remained ever dead.
Huh.
He never once suspected that you possessed such a beautifully morbid, violent architecture within your mind. You were laughing, your head tilted back, but Dex’s hyper-calibrated focus recognized the truth instantly: you were only partially joking. He knew that specific, cold look in a human eye; he had seen it in the mirror, and he had seen it in the field. He knew with absolute certainty that if a weapon were placed in your hand in that exact moment, you would have executed the directive without an ounce of hesitation.
This was an extraordinary development.
"Was she that bad?" he tested, his voice dropping into a low, predatory register.
You took the bait instantly, your fingers wrapping around the handle of your silver dinner knife with a white-knuckled, bruising grip. "She's an emotionally immature woman who never accomplished a single thing with her life, and she chose to take her anger onto me. She's a fucking bitch who was entirely content being the other woman to some married man rather than-"
You cut yourself off abruptly, your chest heaving as you realized you had allowed the floodgates to open entirely too wide. But Dex didn't pull back in horror. Instead, his focus was completely locked onto the violent, white-knuckled grip you maintained on the knife handle.
"Sorry," you whispered, trying to force your features back into a polite, submissive mask. "That was too much."
"It's alright," Dex murmured, his voice incredibly steady as he leaned across the small table, his shadow completely enveloping your form. "I wanna hear whatever's bothering my woman."
The phrase fell from his lips with an absolute, seamless finality. Your entire body locked up, your breath catching in your throat, but you didn't offer a single word of protest. My woman. You didn't argue the timeline; you didn't ask when the boundary had shifted. Instead, you slowly lowered the knife, took another quiet bite of your dinner, and tried your absolute best to suppress the small, genuine smile forming at the corners of your lips. You were somebody's woman!
To Dex, the word girlfriend was inadequate. It belonged to the fragile narrative of normal society, and absolutely nothing about Benjamin Poindexter was normal. He had initially categorized you as a necessary component of his disguise, but you had evolved into something infinite. The transition into ownership had been effortless, occurring somewhere between the hours he spent selecting your furniture and the quiet moments he spent watching you create. Girlfriend was a childish title. His woman possessed posture. It possessed permanence. His woman was a creature he took exquisite care of; his woman was an asset he would dismantle the entire world to protect if she asked. And now, he realized with a sick surge of adrenaline, that his shy but explosive woman might actually possess the exact same dark, violent streak that lived inside his own ribs.
He made the decision to test that thought on a violent, rain-slicked Saturday night.
The window to your fire escape rattled violently before swinging wide open, and Dex tumbled into your bedroom, his broad frame covered in dark fabric, heavily smeared with fresh, steaming blood.
"Oh my god! Dex!" You instantly bolted from your sewing machine, rushing across the hardwood without a single second of hesitation. You didn't scream; you didn't question the firearm strapped to his chest or the array of lethal tactical knives lining his thighs. Your system immediately engaged in operational mode. "What can I do? Tell me what to do."
"Need those hands of yours," he groaned through his teeth, his face pale as he collapsed onto the edge of the bay window, his large fingers frantically tugging the heavy curtains shut to kill the view. "My girl's amazing at sewing, yeah?" It was a desperate, raw plea masked as a casual question as he violently yanked his dark shirt upward. "Need you to deal with this for me."
Your eyes locked onto the jagged, deep gash splitting the skin over his ribs, the blood welling rapidly. You offered a sharp nod, your voice entirely steady. "I'm gonna clean it first, okay? I need to see exactly what I'm fixing up."
"Do what you gotta do, baby," he sighed, his head falling back heavily against the covered glass pane as his eyes closed.
Your small, nimble fingers moved with an extraordinary, professional efficiency. You didn't have medical-grade thread, but you swore by the integrity of your heavy-duty Guterman spool. You guided the needle through his flesh, weaving a series of incredibly precise, perfectly spaced navy-blue stitches to seal the breach. Dex remained entirely silent, watching your face through a haze of acute physical pain. His compulsive mind felt an immense, soothing wave of gratification at the perfect symmetry of your stitches. He found it incredibly, beautifully intimate that you had chosen a deep navy thread to match his clothes.
"So," you whispered, your fingers snipping the excess nylon. "Is this a common occurrence for a private contractor?"
"It's not normally this bad," he graveled out, his breath hitching. "But I ran into the devil tonight."
"And did you leave him looking worse?" you asked as you peered up at him, wiping the remaining copper from his skin.
Dex let out a low, ragged laugh, a fierce surge of pride warming his chest. It was an extraordinary response; a normal person would have demanded an explanation, but his woman's primary concern was the dominance of his performance.
"Mhm," he hummed in deep satisfaction.
From that exact night onward, you became a non-negotiable axiom in his existence. You were the absolute anchor of Dex's reality. Your domestic skills were remarkably useful, but more than that, he liked you. He liked you in a manner he had never experienced with another living entity. It boarded on enamored infatuation now. You remained your quiet, skittish self during the daylight hours, but Dex noted that your defenses dropped significantly whenever he returned bloody and damaged. You became infinitely more generous with your physical touch when he was vulnerable.
Yet, the conditioning of your childhood still dictated your movements. Whenever you sat on the velvet sofa together to watch the news, you automatically maintained a strict, ten-inch barrier between your bodies. Whenever you walked down the crowded concrete stretches of Brooklyn, you never reached for his hand; it was always Dex who had to reach out, wrap his massive arm around your shoulders, and physically drag your frame against his side to close the distance.
Dex began to wonder if your mind truly comprehended what it meant to be his woman. You didn't have to exist on the defensive; you didn't have to carry the weight of the world in isolation because his weapon was entirely at your disposal. But your broken programming prevented you from understanding intimacy. Reading your desires was like parsing ancient hieroglyphics, he was forced to rely entirely on your micro-expressions. Because apparently you would rather die than verbally articulate what you wanted. But at the same time you'd get silently pouty whenever he couldn't read your mind, which was almost never but it has happened once or twice. And that was more than enough times for Dex to start picking through your preferences.
Dex knew with absolute certainty that you liked his hands; your eyes would track their movement whenever he was using a blade to prepare food. And his hyper-calibrated focus had noted the way your demeanor changed when he altered his training regimen to bulk rather than cut. You liked his size. You liked the security of his weight.
The realization reached its zenith on a quiet Monday evening. You were hand-sewing an intricate, embroidered bodice, completely ignoring his repeated words, that strayed too closely to whines, to abandon the work and rest with him while he cooled down from the high adrenaline of a recent assignment. Your nimble fingers reached across the coffee table, casually grabbing one of his tactical throwing knives to cleanly slice your thread.
Dex watched the interaction with an intense, quiet focus. You were comfortable with the weapon. Though you had always been unbothered by his brutality.
"Have you ever used one before?" he asked, his voice a low vibration in the silence.
"No," you hummed, your eyes never leaving the fabric in your lap.
"Ever wanted to?" he pushed, a split second later.
"Yes," you answered truthfully, the syllable rolling off your tongue without a hint of hesitation.
A profound, intoxicating wave of pleasure flooded Dex’s chest at the confirmation.
"Stand up. I'll show you how," he ordered, his body instantly shifting into motion.
The command broke your creative trance, but your body automatically complied with his authority. You watched as he stalked into the kitchenette, his large fingers fishing an empty soda can out of the recycling box. He placed the aluminum on the far edge of the island, turning to trail back to you.
Dex stepped directly behind your frame, guiding your body to stand perfectly parallel to the target, exactly twelve feet away. The moment his large palms settled firmly onto the soft skin of your hips, your entire spine went completely rigid. With a hitched breath, your focus momentarily shatters as he holds out the cold steel.
"Hold it like this," he whispered against your ear, his large fingers wrapping over yours to adjust your grip on the hilt. The metal was ice-cold, perfectly balanced, and terrifyingly thin.
You didn't wait for the final instruction. Driven by a sudden, volatile surge of adrenaline and need to please, your arm snapped forward, hurling the blade across the room with a terrifying amount of force. The knife sliced through the air, striking the exact center of the aluminum can, knocking it to roll tarnished on the floor. If Dex had been satisfied before, his cerebrum was now operating at absolute capacity. A low, feral sound of pure delight escaped his lips as he prowled across the hardwood, inspecting the absolute ruin of the can before plucking the blade from its body. He turned, his whirlpool eyes raking over your flushed, trembling form.
"Impulsive," he murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, heavy register as he slowly stalked back toward your position. "I bet if I gave you a gun, you'd be a trigger-happy little thing..."
You didn't utter a word. You stood completely frozen, your chest heaving as you stared up into the dangerous, unblinking intensity of his face. There was nothing left to say. Without a doubt, he enjoyed what you had done, it was evident in the way the corner of his mouth threatened to pull.
"Should I?" Dex asked softly, stepping into your immediate personal space. He lifted the throwing knife, using the flat, ice-cold plane of the steel blade to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The contrast of the freezing metal against your hot skin sent a violent, electric shiver straight down your spine.
"Should you what?" you breathed out, your posture straightening in raw anticipation.
"Give you a gun," he nodded, his gaze tracking the frantic pulse fluttering in your throat. "You're my girl now. You have to know how to handle yourself." He tilted your chin upward with the spine of the knife, forcing your eyes to lock onto his. "What if someone takes you when I'm not here?"
The question was heavy with an invasive paranoia that constantly plagued his mind. The mere possibility of an external threat having access to your sanctuary was enough to deregulate his entire system. His breathing grew ragged, his self-control straining at the seams as you stepped back against the wall. He feared for a microsecond that his darkness had finally shattered your views on him.
But you didn't look terrified. Your eyes were wide, dark, and obviously earnest. You wanted more, but didn't know how to ask for it.
The knife in his hand moved with instantaneous precision. Before your brain could process the movement, the razor-sharp edge sliced cleanly through the left strap of your tank top, the fabric snapping away from your shoulder. You let out a sharp, gasping breath. With a flick of his wrist, Dex flipped the blade within his palm, the steel flashing once more as he severed the right strap, letting the material pool at your waist.
Your hands immediately moved to cover the view, only to stutter hesitantly when Dex decided that he didn't like that. Brows knitting in disdain like you had offended every fiber of his being. His armed body moved, tapping the blade once over the shield of your hands before guiding it back down with the weapon. Hunger invaded his irises as his pupils dilated, taking in the portrait of you in a baby blue bra, top irrelevant and ruined around your waist. You watched as his head imperceptibly weighed side to side, as if he was conversing with the devil and angel on his shoulders.
And as always, the side that benefited him the most won.
In a blink, the knife had slipped beneath the center of your bra and with a firm grip Bullseye had sliced it in half. An audible sound of shock broke from your lips as you stammered back slightly. At that he took a moment to observe you, looking for the silent cues of your discomfort and was pleased to find none. Though the wide eyed expression on your face didn't distract him from the way your thighs pressed together, and how your stomach clenched in flutters to try and suppress the butterflies panicking.
A melodic hum escapes him as he uses that damned blade to push the scraps of your bra aside to expose and show off your skin. His focal trained on the bare swell of your chest, sharp metal purposefully grazing over one hardened nipple and your breathing sucked in. Dex’s eyes snapped back to your face, taking in the way you refused to look at him or down at yourself, instead paying very close attention to the overhead light. He watched your parted lips exhale with baited breaths, how your shoulders caved in an attempt to shrink into yourself and disappear.
Though, contrary to your demeanor, your core gave you away. Direct in the way your hips angle towards his, pressing into him despite how very hard you tried to avoid acknowledging the situation. Dex knew you'd never outwardly say what you wanted due to your own personal struggles expressing your needs. You two weren't there yet, not until he builds consistent intimacy to disassemble your preconceived notions.
So instead of teasing you, his lips moved forward, peppering affection on the skin beneath your ear before claiming your lips. Kissing was not a thing between Dex and his woman. A flaw in the architecture that he eagerly wanted to change the very moment he decided you were his. It was extremely grating in ways that he didn't understand. Poindexter had never been interested in the idea of sharing saliva with another human being, sure he's kissed women before, not many, but enough for him to decide that kissing was pointless. Yet when you became his, it was all that he could think of. Being near you wasn't enough, he needed to be on you, in you. All over, everywhere, connected in every possible way.
An invasive need that grew tenfolds when you melted because of his touch, reciprocating in a skittish dance of squirming away and pressing back onto his lips. His large hands held you in place by your waist, forcing you still as his kisses migrated. Your body was electric, writhing from him and anxiety, mind desperate to form any thoughts that weren't: my man, my man, my man. But his next action only made it worse and an actual, involuntary, moan echoed out of you as his hot tongue licked a slow path up your neck. Your head anchored back against the wall, biting down the sounds that threatened to sing again. With eyes blurred and focused on the surroundings as you tried to compose yourself, only for you forced them shut as Dex does it again.
“Stop doing that,” he whispered with no conviction, the words dancing the thin line between a plea and playful attempt at banter. Though his easy tone did little to calm the building anxiety. Stop doing what? Stop being so fucking needy and desperate and–
“Stop denying yourself,” he clarified.
“I know, it's new, I know you feel weird. And I know your brains talking” Dex rasped out into your ear, pressing himself impossibly closer to you as his hand reached to adore one breast. He didn't offer any following words of reassurance, and you silently thanked him for it. God, you couldn't handle the embarrassment from being comforted because of your own inability to express yourself.
“I'll make it feel good.” He nodded a promise as he stared into your unsure eyes. “So good that it all shuts up.”
With certainty in his tone, Dex gently tugs you towards the bed, brushing the remnants of your bra off your shoulders before tearing the fabric of your disgraced tank top off your body. Your eyes immediately locked onto his biceps as he exuded force, yet with the gentleness of a true man, he laid your body down as if you were fragile. Large hands roaming your body, tugging at your shorts till they were stolen from you. Every ounce of security you had now gone with them.
He noticed almost immediately the crease settling home in your brows and he moved to balance out the scale. Removing his own shirt to display equal vulnerability in the hopes that it'll calm you. Your fingers at your side twitched once, unsure and hesitant, before your open hand raised, heel of your palm still planted on the mattress but you were indicating that you wanted touch. Dex complied, pushing your thighs apart to settle between them. The broad form of this man comfortably laid over you, chin resting on your abdomen as he laced his hand with yours.
He stayed like that for a moment, breathing with you. The analytical voice in the cortex of his mind knew that he was asking a lot from you, to be so open and bare when all your body had ever known was to hide and shrink. Dex wanted to make sure that your nervous system had calmed down enough to embrace what he gave you without fear of overthinking. In a rare human moment of easy sentiment, he brought your intertwined hands closer, planting a small kiss over the back of yours. The gesture soothed the tempest wake of your internal storm and you subconsciously parted your legs around his laid form wider. It was a barely there action but an entirely unavoidable movement for Dex as he took it as a welcome.
With firmness embedded in his bones, his other hand crept up to your inner thigh. Two fingers sliding up barely an inch beneath the elastic of your underwear. A raw, strangled exhale forced its way out of you as glossed irises darted down to meet him. Watching as he just laid there, playing wth your underwear as his fingers glided along the thin elastic. Up and then back down, too close to your soaked entrance but never touching, when he'd get too close his rhythm would change and you tried to ignore the way his knuckles brushing against your pelvis made you go insane.
Dex’s eyes watched you, rapt as the war on your face played out. Maybe he was doing this to try and soothe you, but he knew it in his heart that he wasn't that pure. He was absolutely doing this to fuck with you. He wanted to see if you were capable of getting over yourself, if that explosive nature of yours would finally appear if you were frustrated enough. And judging by the way you looked at the ceiling like it was the sinner, he knew he was getting close.
You blinked once at the myriad of thoughts, chewing on your bottom lip. The monster that he was, grew green with jealousy when he decided that your attention strayed far enough. Fingers drawing back to snap the elastic of your cotton blue panties against your inner skin where thigh met heat. A fraction of a second was all it took for you to pin the smug image of him with your gaze and the dam broke the self conscious overthinking.
“Oh for fucks sake!” You groaned, ripping your hand out of his and burying your face in your palms. Frustration and something you don't dare to name blossoming in your soul.
A sinister laugh corrupted the air, insidious and dark. “You gotta tell me what you want.” He shook his head, his fingers still doing that criminal trail. For a man who had such little regard for your clothing earlier, he sure treated your underwear like some sacred thing to devout himself to.
You huffed, eyes avoiding him. “I want you… but I feel terrible being naked,” Dex tried to suppress how absolutely adorable he found you right now, stubborn and pouty, like voicing your wants was such a painful task.
Maybe he should've thought the moment out some more, pick apart your statement and the context clues of your precise wording. But instead he found himself crawling over your body before his hand moved on its own accord, pushing his sweatpants down, along with his restrictive boxers. Hearing you say that you wanted him was the only incentive his veins needed.
“You don’t have to be naked,” A purr invades your ears as your jaw slacks when you feel him. The hard tip of his length pushing up against your entrance, through the barrier of your drenched underwear.
Your gaze travels down finally, watching as he rubbed his hard length on your clothed cunt. Blinking in an attempt to regain focus, you never thought about that… You didn't have to be completely bare. And secretly you thought the sight of Dex playing with you like that was the most erotic thing you've ever witnessed. For a man as condemned as yours was, God was certainly very generous with all of him, and his cock was no exception. Solid with intimidating girth that made you equally nervous as you were excited.
Your hips responded to the pleasing revelation, moving to match him despite your anxiety.
“There she is, that's it….” He groaned out as he rutted onto the soaked fabric, your lustfilled eyes darting to lock onto the scar on his cheek. It was one of the things you found so devastatingly attractive about Dex, save for his broad shoulders. Maybe you were drunk off the liquor of your own pleasure induced stupor. Hive mind calming as you reigned control over the tempest anxiety. Whatever had become of you was needy, leading with your chest as your tongue darts out to lick at his marred cheek. Copying the same sanctified ardor he had with your neck.
The sound that left him was barely restrained, if at all. Your focus is drawn to the way his biceps strained around your form and how his large palms gripped at the pillow beside your head. It was honest, an uncontrolled groan as his hips staggered once, followed by one hard grind before that incisive obsession in his genes demanded more. Ears perking at the curse he spat, and you saw it there, barely a second appeared that pensive expression that came when he weighed out the consequences of his actions. That one you'd come to know as Tony , Tony was good, Dex was questionable. As he once worded it, Tony was the structure whereas Dex was the wild card. It was a never ending impulse for him to switch between the two.
Before you could question who had won, Dex’s volatile, steadfast precision tipped the scales, pulling back away from you. And as concern began to take its hold on your features, his deadly hands took what they wanted, ripping the drenched fabric and security of your panties apart. You gasped, a startled wail that blurred the lines between fright and thrill, gaping at the torn scraps around your thighs. Peering up at the heaving man but his attention was locked onto your gleaming cunt, exposed and waiting for him. No longer hidden as the last bit of safety you had was reduced to a sorry excuse of a shield, torn hole evidence of his ferocity.
Dex’s calloused hand moved, palm pushing one thigh back as his thumb stroked your clit once. With starved gentleness that wasn't there before, he touched you with fondness. Preening at the pretty sight as he took note of how your thighs would flutter when he applied a certain amount of pressure.
Despite your debilitating infrastructure that had deduced you into a stubborn woman, you could only handle so much of his analyzing gaze. You knew he meant well, taking in the image of you and committing it to flesh till it was root memorization but fuck it was insanity.
“Dex….” A shy request that made him focus on you.
“Please…. Just…… fuck me already…” Muffled in embarrassment as a heat kissed your cheeks, he didn't say anything more, knowing that it'll only make things worse for you. He didn't dwell on the adorable mess that you were for too long. Not when his woman had given him an order.
He sat back on his knees, hand knowingly fishing into the pocket of the forgotten sweatpants loose on his thighs. Pulling out the condom wrapper Dex made sure to carry with him all times when he entered your apartment. A little thing that had earned its way on the check list of items he required on his body along with his knives. The act was fueled by preparation rather than the perverse idea that sex was his intention every time he crossed the threshold. Although sex was nice it was never his mission, you were. He rolled the rubber on, hands stilling half way when he took in that forming expression he categorized was your pout. It was a mean scowl but so fucking cute in a way that made him admit weakness. With your brows pulled, gaze narrowed and bottom lips so inviting, he raised a brow in question.
“Why do you need that?”
You said it with such distaste in your tone that the sheer vigor of it made Dex blink. Society had instilled in him that a condom was expected, it was the right course of action when you're with a woman to be a gentleman and always protect her body. But your words indicated absolute certainty that you didn't want him to use protection.
“I'm on birth control,” you nodded.
He blinked again. Dex didn't know that, and he knew everything about you, he had made sure to learn all that there is to. And yet he was unaware of this very important knowledge.
“Since when?.” He asked slowly.
“It doesn't matter, fuck me….” You let out a bold whine and his gaze turned piercing. It did matter. If it was a fact he didn't know thoroughly well about you, it mattered more than anything.
“It does, when?”
He repeated firmer, his mind wondering when you'd managed to slip pass your shared schedule long enough to maintain it. Wondering if there were gaps in the day or if he wasn't paying close enough attention to you.
“3 years ago, I have an IUD,” you murmured under your breath, arms crossing over your bare chest and Dex's eyes momentarily drop down to your cleavage.
Okay, that was a much better answer. He wasn't neglectful or blind, and relief dispelled his nerves. Though the calm was cut short when your nimble fingers suddenly found its way on his cock, pulling at the rubber with deliberate slowness causing his head to lull to the side. He'd never seen that look on your face in the kaleidoscope of pretty expressions he'd cataloged.
Your eyes were pinned up, defiant and dead in a way that almost mirrored his own. The ones he's come to intimately know, only ever seeing that assertiveness in the throne of the mirror, never on you. Dex's internal world halted as a groan rumbled in his chest caused by whatever the hell you were doing with your hand. Looking down to watch you pull at the condom, only to roll it back up when you stroked him. Again and again, for minutes too long.
Fucking hell you were vengeful.
Stubborn and shy, harboring immense emotions in your little body, and now you wanted revenge for his game earlier. Dex tries to suppress the smile that threatened to break free because my god weren't you just perfect.
You pulled the condom off with a snap, throwing the useless thing for him to catch mid air before he was on you again. Peppering kisses along your cheeks, causing you to squirm and laugh at the attack.
Though the sweetness of the moment only lasted half a second as a sharp audible gasped that sounded remarkably too close to a moan escapes you. Mouth parted wide with your head thrown back as Dex fucked into you with no warning. His face morphs into something unrestrained as he buries himself to the hilt, deep and unforgiving. Eyes locked onto the sight of your tight cunt fluttering around him, soft fabric still framing your skin.
“Dex….” You whined out a plea.
“What? You wanted me to fuck you raw and now you can't handle it?”
His hips moved, accentuating his spat words with thrusts so leisurely that it all but melted and ruined you. The heat between your legs intensifies at the feeling of him. Maybe he should have given you a warning, eased himself into you inch by inch till you got used to the stretch of him. But Dex was so far gone pleasantries at this point, not when you asked him so earnestly to fuck you raw.
And God did the thought stroke something greedy inside him. All he ever wanted was to be close to you in every possible way, and to know that you wanted that as well fed something insatiable in him.
Your moans were a hiccup of an orchestra as Dex maintained a bruising pace, fucking into you with a hungry force, expertly angled to dismantle your body. His thrusts were harsh and drawn out, almost pulling out all the way save for his tip kissing at your entrance before sliding back into you again. The sheer duress of his movements filled the room with lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin and your thighs quivered.
Dex forces them to stay put, large hands gripping at the torn fabric of your underwear and using them to pull your cunt close, forcing you to meet his thrusts. You were a mess. A beautiful, vocal mess that struggled against the sheets. Hands trying to find anything to stabilize yourself as you writhe beneath him. He didn't know which sight pleased him more, your tits bouncing to the rhythm of his thrusts or your leaking sex.
You were far beyond drenched, your slick spreading with every thrust in a way that was shockingly satisfying. Dex was a man that prided himself in strict cleanliness, evident in his spotless apartment, but in this moment he wanted nothing more than to make a heap of you. He didn't really understand it, this revelation that fueled his avaricious hands as they gripped at the fabric tighter. A covetous need that called to him like a siren song to see your cunt painted with his cum. As if somehow, someway, it laid his claim over you. He groaned out at the thought, picturing it as he watches you swallow his length whole. Strings of your liquor sticking to his pelvis with every movement back and the obscenity of it only made him want to fuck you harder, if that was even feasible.
“D-Dex….”
You mewled out and his focus was on your face instantly, only to snap back down to where you both connected. Your heat clenching around him in beats.
“I know baby, I know,” he breathed out, heart pounding in his ears as he readjust his angle, your body involuntarily arching as a loud whimper left your lips. You were close, the pressure in your stomach threatening to snap and he wasn't far behind either. Fuck he should've just done this from the start instead of wasting time teasing you, maybe if he had the pretty sight of your pussy would've been covered in his cum by now before he even got the chance to fill you.
His hands migrate from the makeshift handles of your ripped panties, finding home on your hips as he leans down to take one nipple in his mouth. You cried out, arching into him, hands finding place on his shoulders as he nibbled and sucked. That action was the last bit your self restrain needed to devastate. Ecstasy floods you in white-hot waves as you came without warning around him, your hips moving on their own accord to meet his movements. Your muscles tensed as your nails dug into his skin, baiting a loud groan from Dex. His hips stilling deep inside as his cock twitched, mouth still on you as he watched you get lost in your own pleasure. Hips locked against each other as ropes of his cum filled you.
Only when your breathing calmed did he decide to pull out gently. The serenity that had taken hold of you shattering when Dex groans, opening your eyes in alert. Though his attention was only onyour heat, wet and abused with his cum spilling out of you. His hands moved, thumbs caressing your folds once before he pushed the dripping mess back into you. Body giving out in exhaustion at this point as you collapsed back down onto the pillow, letting him do whatever his hyper acute mind demanded of him. Even if it meant lazily finger fucking his cum back into you.
Poindexter delivered a heavy, velvet-lined case to your kitchen island the next afternoon. Still motivated by the absolute high that came with being with you, his gaze was a fond sentiment as he waited for you to approach. Inside rested a custom, matte-black semi-automatic firearm, its weight perfectly balanced for you. Engraved into the reinforced steel of the handle, rendered in a brilliant, metallic pink that perfectly matched your sewing spools, were two distinct words: My Woman.
You took the weapon into your hands, feeling the cold, lethal weight of his protection settling permanently into your palm. You liked the feeling infinitely more than you were ever willing to admit. Smiling up at him as you got on your tip toes to shyly press a kiss over his scarred cheek.
That evening, the apartment was quiet once again, save for the rhythmic, comforting click of your ancient sewing machine. Dex sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, his broad shoulders relaxed, one large hand resting flat on his knee as he watched you work. The other however, was outstretched and playing with your hair, lazily twirling a strand around his finger. Since yesterday, a new habit of his began to form, embedding itself deep in his bones, flooding him with the need to constantly be touching you. You were not so different as you found yourself craving for his touch since the very first second you woke up this morning.
You stopped your machine for a brief moment, your eyes drifting over to the vanity where the matte-black firearm rested directly beside your pastel spools of thread. You looked at the weapon, then turned your head to meet the unblinking, intensely possessive depth of Dex's gaze.
"Thank you, Dex," you murmured softly.
"Anything for you" he replied, his voice a low, steady register that filled every corner of your empire.
You smiled, turning back to your fabric, completely filled with a profound, unyielding sense of safety. Gleaming that you had found a beautiful, eccentric savior, a man who simply loved you enough to build a fortress around your dreams. You sat in the warm, golden light of your home, entirely unaware of the psychological reality of the danger beginning to form between you. Because Bullseye had found himself his twin moon, no longer a north star galaxies away, but rather a beautiful equal that orbited together. You didn't know that he didn't view your love as a choice, but as a permanent assignment. And that gun was the first promise of many, the first test as he knew instantly that you liked it, unaware of what you could become.
You didn't know that he had already cataloged every exit of your building, or that his mind had already mapped out the exact tragedies required to execute anyone that ever dared to come near you. You were his sanctuary, his absolute identity, and as Dex watched your nimble hands guide the thread through the needle, his dark smile widened in the shadows. You were completely free, entirely safe with him, and he was never, ever going to let you go.
AN: This was a long one! If you made it to the end I appreciate you! Please let me know what you think! I promise in the next story reader won't be a seamstress lol, but I can't help myself I just loved sewing so much.
Helloo! I would love a espresso, with an extra shot. And a cookie plzz<3
call it what you want | eddie munson x f!reader
cw: 18+ mdni, handjob, best friends to lovers, perv!eddie, mentions of masturbation (f), dirty talk, oral (f receiving), fingering, 2.2k
note: i present to you, pervy bsf eddie
1k celly | masterlist
eddie could feel his heart hammering wildly in his chest — could also feel the blood rushing straight to his cock. no, this can’t be happening, not when you’re sitting right there next to him on the sofa. your right leg was crossed over your left, which hiked your short plaid skirt up enough to showcase more of your thigh. eddie silently cursed himself and prayed to whatever god would listen to take away the filthy thoughts beginning to infiltrate his mind.
usually, those thoughts would creep in late at night when he was trying to go to sleep. he’d imagine how you’d look with your mouth stuffed full of his cock. your pretty eyes welled up with tears as you gazed up at him, silently pleading for him to fuck your throat just a little bit faster. he’d picture himself between your legs, tongue flicking at your clit with two fingers pushed in to the knuckle. he’d wonder how tight your cunt is, how wet and warm you’d feel around his cock. the way your walls would flutter and clench with each thrust he gives you. he’d try to imagine how your moans would sound, how his name would fall from your lips, begging him to fill you up with his cum.
in those moments, he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt. his mind was clouded with lust, only focusing on how fucking good his hand felt stroking his painfully hard cock. it wasn’t until after the post-orgasmic bliss faded did the reality of the situation sink in, leaving him with a heavy, ugly feeling in his chest.
you were his best friend and had been ever since the 10th grade when you two were paired up to be lab partners in biology. he was there for you through every heartbreak, every new relationship, the drama with the other girls in your class, your parents' divorce, and everything else in between.
to have those sexual feelings about you, in his eyes, made him just like every other guy — the ones you complained to him about who only wanted to be your friend in hopes of getting into your pants. he hated that he had them, but no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t push them away for good. they always came back stronger and stronger, and now, much to eddie’s horror, they’re coming up directly in your presence.
he knew he should avert his gaze, should put his attention back on the movie that he insisted the both of you watch. instead, his eyes roamed over your exposed thigh, taking in how the hem of your skirt stopped just below your groin. if you moved even the slightest bit, he’d be able to catch a glimpse of your panties. what kind were you wearing? were they black? pink? blue? purple? cotton? lace? his cock swelled at the idea of you wearing a red lacy thong underneath.
you cleared your throat and it brought eddie back to the present. he quickly tore his gaze away from you and reached to grab his beer from the coffee table. to not seem conspicuous, he glanced down while he took a decent swig, taking notice of the obvious erection straining against his dark denim jeans. fuck what was he gonna do? if he noticed it, you could too if you happened to look directly at his lap.
he closed his eyes and tried to picture every repulsive thing imaginable to get rid of his hard-on. mrs. o’donnell in a bra seemed to be doing the trick, until he felt your hand on his thigh. his eyes snapped open and he looked down at you, the panic clearly evident behind his big brown eyes.
“are you okay?” you asked sweetly. “you’ve been fidgeting this whole time. d’you not like the movie?”
eddie couldn’t speak. your hand was close to his crotch, so close. one inch to the right and you would be touching him. he swallowed thickly, trying to wrack his brain for a good excuse.
he stammered a bit, brows furrowed and slightly shaking his head before settling on, “nah, no. e-everything’s good.” followed by a nervous chuckle and a fake smile.
you weren’t convinced at all. and it wasn’t just because it was blatantly obvious that he was lying. you had noticed him staring at you. noticed how he sucked in a sharp breath when you crossed your leg over the other and your skirt rode up. noticed how he had to dig his nails into the denim of his jeans — something you figured was to keep himself from reaching out to touch you like he most likely wanted to. out of the corner of your eye, you could see his gaze roaming over your body, and you couldn’t deny the warmth that flooded you because of it.
“really? because something tells me your mind was…somewhere else.” you scooted closer to him, and he tensed up a little, earning a giggle from you.
when he doesn’t say anything, a habit of his when he’s really flustered, you gestured to his lap. all of the blood quickly drains from his face, turning him slightly pale. fuck, you knew. you knew and you were probably going to be super freaked out and want nothing to do with him. you were going to yell at him, call him a freak, and run out of his trailer as fast as you could. at least, that’s what he pictured every time he thought about what you would do if you ever found out.
“i uh — listen, i-it’s not what it looks like—.”
“i think it’s exactly what it looks like,” you note. “you got a hard-on. all because of how short my skirt is.”
it feels like the walls are closing in on him and he’s struggling to breathe. he closes his eyes, waiting for the inevitable moment when you start cursing him out. that never comes, though, and eddie is beyond shocked when you carefully rub your palm over his erection.
he looked at you, eyes wide, a mix of confusion and wonder behind them. your lips were tugged into a wicked smirk as you felt his cock twitch against your touch. “isn’t that right, eddie?”
he doesn’t know what to do. in all of his worrying, he never stopped to think about you actually being into him that way. you always called him your ‘buddy’ and spoke to him like you did any other friend you had. he thought his chances with you were slim to none and had come to accept that you would only ever see him as a friend.
“i-i,” he stuttered. he took one last glance at you. your bottom lip was pulled between your teeth, eyes filled with what he could only describe as lust, chest slightly heaving as you continued to palm him. you wanted him. just like he’s wanted you all this time. that revelation destroyed every ounce of panic within him, and in it’s place, left only an intense state of arousal. “i can’t help but have dirty thoughts when you look like that.”
you can’t suppress the whine that slips past your lips. you increase the pressure of your hand on his bulge, keeping your eyes glued to his. “hm..do you think of me like that often?” you asked thoughtfully.
“y-yes,” he admitted, swallowing thickly as he flicked his gaze from your eyes, to your lips, then back again. his cheeks flushed a hint of pink in embarrassment, but, judging by your lack of a reaction, you don’t seem to mind his confession one bit.
“do you fantasize about me? about what i’d do to you?”
he nods, unable to speak as you drag your nails over the imprint of his cock. he was incredibly hard, you noticed, his cock practically begging to be let out from the confines of his jeans. you trail your fingers up to the waistband, slowly undoing the button. you pull the zipper down and eddie feels like his heart is going to burst through his chest. he’s breathing hard, licking his dry lips as he watches you intently.
“in your fantasies, did i ever do this?” you carefully take his cock in your hand, unable to contain the moan that spills past your lips. it’s a lot bigger than what you had anticipated; the head is perfectly shaped, leaking beads of pre-cum from the slit, shaft is thick, slightly curved to the left, with a prominent vein along the underside. the sight, along with the heavy feel of him in your hand, makes your cunt clench around nothing. you brush your thumb over the tip, relishing in the slight twitch from eddie as he gets used to your touch. you lean over him gathering enough spit in your mouth before dribbling it onto his cock. you start to pump him slowly, from the tip all the way down to the base then back up again, twisting your hand on the upstroke.
eddie watches in awe, soft groans and whines leaving him as you work his cock. he nods, letting out a shaky, “shit, yes.”
getting to actually experience you giving him a handjob was so much better than any fantasy he ever had. you were perfect, knew just the right amount of pressure to squeeze his cock and where to put most of your attention to. his head tilted back as your other hand moved to cup his heavy balls, moaning hotly.
“i thought so,” you said with a smirk. you gently squeezed the tip on the upstroke, mewling as pre-cum gushed from the slit. “can i tell you a secret?”
he flicks his gaze to you, plump lips slightly parted. “w-what is it?”
“i fantasize about you, too,” you confessed. “fuck myself with my pretty pink dildo every night and imagine it’s you.”
there’s no way any of this is real. you? masturbating while thinking about him? an image of you with your legs spread wide, thrusting the dildo deep inside your little cunt flashed in his mind.
“fuuck…,” he groaned, rutting up against your hand.
you leaned into him, your lips ghosting along the outer shell of his ear. “do you wanna fuck me eddie?” you whispered and he shivered against you.
“yeah,” he nodded. “god, i wanna fuck you so bad, baby, please.”
“good…because i can’t go another second without you being inside of me.”
you smashed your lips against eddie’s, releasing some of the pent up sexual tension you had been feeling. his lips moved seamlessly with yours, like the two of you had done this a thousand times over. eddie brought the hand that wasn’t on your thigh to cup your cheek, gently brushing his thumb across your soft skin. it was a stark contrast to the way the two of you were kissing, but it made your head spin all the same. you pulled back, about to lift your leg over eddie’s lap when he stopped you.
“wait,” he breathed, peering up at you through the strands of hair that fell over his eyes. “i know we’re just friends, but—”
“just friends?” you interrupted him. “do your friends make you feel like this? do they make you moan like this?”
“n-no,” he shook his head, his brown eyes never leaving your gaze.
“didn’t think so,” you said with a slight smirk. “i know my friends sure as fuck don’t make me wet like this. don’t make me so goddamn horny i can’t even think stra—”
in a swift motion, eddie flipped you onto your back, his hand delving between your legs to rub his fingers along your clothed cunt. “you’re right,” he said with a devilish smirk as he rubbed slow circles on your clit over your panties. “i think we’re well past the point of being just friends.”
you rolled your hips up into his hand, a soft, needy sound slipping out of you.
he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanked them down your legs in one impatient motion, flinging the ruined scrap of fabric somewhere behind the sofa. your plaid skirt stayed bunched around your waist, leaving you bare and glistening for him. he spread your thighs wider, settling between them like he belonged there, and just stared for a second, eyes dark and hungry.
“jesus christ,” he breathed. “s'much prettier than i ever imagined.”
he dropped his head and licked a long, filthy stripe from your entrance to your clit. you cried out, back bowing off the cushions, one hand flying into his wild curls. eddie groaned like he was the one being touched, tongue working you with messy, eager strokes—lapping, sucking, flicking your clit until your thighs started to shake around his ears.
two fingers pushed inside you without warning, sliding knuckle-deep into your tight heat. he curled them immediately, finding that spot that made your vision spark white at the edges, and pumped them in a steady rhythm while his mouth stayed suckling on your clit.
“eddie…oh my god,” you babbled, hips jerking, trying to ride his face and his fingers at the same time. he moaned against you again, the vibration shooting straight through your core, and you felt yourself flutter and clench around his digits.
Thank you @itzakicka for a songfic request, “Scotty doesn’t know” by Lustra is right up my alley.
You’re so sick of your boyfriend, and when the chance comes with Eddie, you don’t waste a single second.
Warning: cheating on your boyfriend with Eddie, protected sex, semi-public sex, oral male receiving.
t’s another night in the local bar, and you come to support your favorite band—Corroded Coffin. You sort of hang out with the same crowd, but you don’t know Eddie that closely. You’d like to get to know him, though. The band tears through their set, and the whole bar is buzzing with their wild energy; your ears ring just a bit. Your boyfriend is loud, banging his head in the front row the entire night, but by the time the afterparty kicks off in the back room, he’s drunk as a pig—slurring, stumbling, and barely able to stand.
Eddie, still high from the show with his hair wild and guitar-pick necklace dangling against his ripped shirt, helps haul your boyfriend toward the bathroom when he starts looking green.
“I got him,” Eddie says, shooting you a quick glance. There’s something in his eyes tonight that you haven’t seen before.
You follow them down the narrow hallway, embarrassed to the roots of your hair. The bathroom is small, dimly lit, and smells like cheap beer and chlorine. Your boyfriend collapses onto the dirty floor in one of the stalls, muttering something incoherent before his head lolls back against the wall.
For a second you and Eddie just stare at each other.
“You okay?” Eddie asks.
“Yeah,” you pause. “I’m sick of him.”
“Wanna forget him?” Eddie looks straight into your soul with his deep, dark eyes that you’ve never seen this close.
You should say no. You should drag your boyfriend home. Instead you step closer, like you probably always wanted but never got a chance. He smells like tobacco, sweat, and something like incense. When your fingers brush his bicep, the contact sends a jolt through your body.
“Fuck it,” you whisper against his neck. “Yes.”
Eddie’s mouth crashes into yours instantly. It’s messy, hungry, nothing like the careful kisses you’re used to. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, palming your breasts while he backs you against the sink. Your boyfriend snores loudly just a few feet away.
“Wanna fuck you right here…” Eddie’s lips are red from your kisses and his voice is raspy after the show.
You nod. Eddie locks the door.
He spins you around, bending you over the sink so you’re facing the dirty mirror. Your eyes lock in the reflection of both of you as he yanks your skirt up and shoves your panties aside. His fingers check if you’re ready. He’s behind you, rock hard, cock pressing against your ass.
“Did you think about me out there?” he murmurs in your ear, and that’s all it takes for you to arch your back and spread your legs a little wider for him.
“Maybe.” Eddie pushes your tank top down so your tits spill out—a great sight in the mirror.
It takes a second to roll the condom on, but you’re writhing with need already. Eddie pushes in with one deep thrust, and you moan so loud he has to put his hand over your mouth. He looks so good like this, like a true rockstar quickly fucking a groupie after a show.
Eddie tries to check himself, to go slow, but loses it entirely in a minute, snapping inside you with the same passion he had on the stage. Every thrust rocks you forward, your hips banging into the sink. His cock nudges your cervix and you can’t help crying out.
“Quiet, sweetheart,” Eddie breathes against your neck, grinning like a devil in the mirror. “Wouldn’t want to wake him.”
He keeps hitting you right in the sweet spot and your knees tremble.
“Look at yourself,” he growls in your ear. “Taking my cock while your boyfriend’s passed out right there. Such a bad girl.”
His dirty praise sends hot impulses down to your core. You come first—shaking, biting his fingers to stay quiet.
“Fuck… you’re squeezing me too good.” Eddie follows right after, burying himself deep and spilling into the condom.
You barely have time to catch your breath before he fixes your top and pulls your skirt back down.
“Just leave him there and come with us.”
The next time you’re at the bar with your boyfriend turns into another disaster. You sit right next to him when he flirts with a waitress, her plush boobs jiggling in front of your face as she laughs at his joke. Well, you can play too. Eddie is sitting with the band, having a beer before the show. You catch his gaze and make a calling gesture with your index finger.
Stupid dick, your boyfriend barely notices you leaving, since you head toward the bathroom—there’s no suspicion. You don’t stop there, though, and wait for Eddie at the back door.
“Can I help you with something?” he asks, but the smile reaches his eyes when he understands. You take his hand and guide him to the dark alley.
The light barely filters through as you get on your knees. Eddie leans against the wall and looks down at you without any surprise, like he’s been waiting for you to come again. The fabric of his jeans tents too obviously. You feel a fresh wave of heat low in your belly.
You palm him over the fabric first, eliciting several moans that feel like music in your ears. You unbuckle his jeans and free him. Someone creaks the door and shuts it back. You don’t care. His cock is thick and heavy, twitching when your breath ghosts over it. You wrap your hand around the base and take him into your mouth, closing your eyes, losing yourself in the feeling of his silky smooth head on your tongue, the taste of his skin, and the sound of your own mouth stuffed full.
Eddie responds with a groan, hips jerking up. “Fuck—sweetheart…”
You work him eagerly, bobbing your head, sucking him deeper while your hand strokes his balls. He threads his fingers through your hair, holding on as his breaths turn ragged.
“Shit, just like that… your tongue feels so good.”
His voice, filled with lust, turns you on even more. You moan around him and grip his thighs to steady yourself. Your nails dig into the denim.
“Look at me…” you hear his broken voice.
You make an effort to open your eyes without taking his cock out of your mouth. Eddie caresses your cheek. He is so handsome, dark curls frame his pale face touched by feverish blush, hazy deer eyes under the long lashes.
“Such a dirty girl, blowing me in the alley.”
Encouraged, you swallow around him, choking just slightly. Either the sound or the sensation makes his thighs tense.
It doesn’t take long before his grip tightens and he comes down your throat with a low, wrecked moan of your name. You swallow every drop and take his hand to get up. Eddie gives you his bandanna to wipe your mouth.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he offers with a crooked smile.
“Please.”
It’s weekly arcade night, but your boyfriend caught a ride with some friends and tells you to drive or ask someone for a lift. At least he called.
You dial Eddie’s number. His van is rumbling next to your house before you’re even ready. He holds you a little longer than friends do, and the kiss on your cheek burns a little more than usual.
At the red light his hand lands on your thigh and you part your legs so he can feel how aroused you are.
“What did he do this time?” Eddie asks as his long fingers cup you.
“Does it matter?” It doesn’t at this point.
Eddie pulls the van behind the building. “Get in the back,” he says, and you can see he’s already uncomfortable in his jeans. The van has a blanket on the floor, to protect the precious musical equipment of course.
Inside, you climb into his lap, straddling him. A few kisses to his mouth and neck and a few rolls of your hips are all it takes to get him fully hard. Eddie lifts you just enough to get the silver square out of his pocket. You love the sight of his thick, pink cock waiting for you to sink down. Both of you groan at the stretch as he buries himself to the hilt and holds you there tightly. The van creaks as you begin to ride him hard, hands braced on his shoulders while he grips your ass and thrusts up to meet you.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he pants. “Is this still revenge or what?”
You answer with a broken moan, grinding down harder. The risk of someone walking by only makes it hotter. He flips you over and pushes your knees up to hit a better angle. Each time he thrusts into the perfect spot you gasp. Eddie reaches between you, thumb circling your clit until you come hard, clenching around him, shaking and trembling. You watch his face, eyes shut, lips parted. He’s so handsome you want to do it all over again.
“I can’t do this anymore… you feel so good. I can’t get enough. Oh fuck, I’m gonna come…” he mutters.
His cock gets even harder and fuller before Eddie comes and collapses over you with words that surprise you.
“We need to tell him.”
“Now?” you pant, crushed by his weight, blissed out.
“Why not?”
He ties off the condom, and you share another deep, filthy kiss, then head into the arcade both flushed and glowing.
Inside, the bright lights and electronic noises feel distant after everything. Your soon-to-be-ex is playing air hockey with Jeff, but his eyes lock on you the second you walk in with Eddie’s hand on your lower back.
You don’t hide it.
Halfway to him, while everyone’s crowded around the skee-ball machines, you turn to Eddie, grab the front of his jacket, and press your lips to his. You tilt your head to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against his—right there in front of the entire group. Eddie kisses you back like he’s starving for it, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other pulling your hips flush against his.
When you finally pull apart, your ex is staring, face red.
“What the hell is this?” he demands, voice cracking.
You look him dead in the eye, Eddie’s arm still wrapped around you.
“We’re together now,” you say clearly. “Eddie and I. It’s over between you and me.”
Eddie smirks, pressing another quick kiss to your temple. “Told you she deserves better, man.”
The entire group freezes. Across the air hockey table, Jeff leans over, his jaw practically hitting the floor. Over by the skee-ball machines, Gareth stops mid-throw, his hand dropping while keeping the ball cupped, looking between Eddie’s smug grin, your flushed face, and your ex’s red cheeks.
Gareth breaks the silence first, letting out a low, slow whistle. "Damn, Munson..." he mutters, a quick smirk cracking his face. Jeff just glances at your ex, wincing with a mix of secondhand embarrassment as he quietly takes a step back to give the drama room to breathe.
Someone in the crowd laughs nervously. Your ex looks like he wants to throw up on the nearest arcade machine, but finding no support from the guys, he curses under his breath and storms out instead.
Eddie laces his fingers through yours and squeezes. “Ready to go play, sweetheart?”
AN: Cheating is bad, but this is Eddie so no judgment.
A few nights later the whole crew piled into Steve’s borrowed van, already two joints deep from the parking lot and halfway through a handle of cheap whiskey someone had smuggled in a water bottle.
Rocky Horror shadow cast. Gareth’s idea. He’d been talking about it for weeks — live actors in front of the screen, audience participation, the whole chaotic ritual. Eddie had perked up the second he heard “shadow cast,” eyes lighting in that way he only got for weird, theatrical shit. You’d watched the corner of his mouth twitch when he looked at you across the apartment that afternoon, a private little spark that said we’re going to have to be so careful tonight.
You were careful… enough.
The van smelled like weed and body heat and the faint tang of someone’s open beer. Robin was in the front passenger seat with her feet on the dash, already arguing with Steve about which Tim Curry scene is the most iconic. Nancy and Jonathan shared the middle row, passing a joint back and forth with the calm of people who had long since stopped pretending they were the responsible ones. Gareth and Jeff took the back, already trying to remember the Time Warp lyrics and failing spectacularly. Eddie sat next to you on the bench seat, thigh pressed warm against yours in the dark, both of you playing it so casual it almost hurt.
Every time the van hit a bump his shoulder brushed yours. Every time you shifted, the soft fabric of his black jeans whispered against your leg. He kept his hands carefully in his lap, rings catching the streetlights that slid past the windows. You could feel the tension in him — the same coiled, eager energy he’d had the night he first admitted what your voice did to him — but he kept it locked down. Good boy. You didn’t even have to say it out loud.
By the time you reached the theater the whole group was properly fucked up. Laughing too loud in the parking lot. Steve insisting he was “only a little high” while walking into a light pole. Robin cackling so hard she had to lean on Nancy. Eddie’s curls were wild from the open window, and when he caught your eye under the neon sign he gave you the tiniest, softest smile before looking away like it had never happened.
Inside, the place was already half full of people in fishnets and lab coats and red lipstick. The shadow cast was warming up in front of the screen — a tall, glittery Frank-N-Furter already strutting around in heels that could kill a man. You all claimed a row near the middle. Somehow you ended up with Eddie on your left, Steve on your right, and Robin draped halfway across Steve like a human blanket.
The lights went down. The movie started. The audience immediately lost its collective mind.
Toast flew. Water guns sprayed. Someone in the back screamed the call-outs so loudly Jeff almost fell out of his seat laughing. Eddie was grinning, loose and happy in a way that made your chest ache. Every time the cast did something ridiculous he leaned in just close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your ear, but never close enough for anyone else to notice.
During a quieter stretch you slipped out with him for a cigarette in the alley behind the theater. The night air was cool against your flushed skin. He lit yours first, then his own, the lighter flaring between you for a second too long. His fingers brushed yours when he handed it back. Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to. The secret sat warm and heavy between you while the distant sound of the audience singing “Sweet Transvestite” drifted through the walls.
Back inside, the rest of the movie blurred into glitter and laughter and the sticky-sweet smell of spilled soda. Frank-N-Furter’s big number had the whole theater on its feet. Eddie stood with everyone else, shouting the lyrics, but every time the lights strobed you caught him glancing at you instead of the stage. Once, when the audience screamed for the cast to “do the Time Warp again,” you leaned close enough that only he could hear and murmured, “Stay right here next to me.”
His breath hitched. Just once. Then he nodded, eyes dark, and did exactly as he was told.
No one noticed.
Then the end came.
The shadow cast was still hyped, still prowling the front of the stage as the final credits started to roll. Frank-N-Furter — tall, glittering, sharp-eyed — scanned the crowd with a wicked grin and pointed straight at Eddie.
“You. Long hair. Come up here.”
The theater erupted. Gareth and Jeff started whooping immediately. Steve yelled something about “Munson’s big moment.” Robin shoved Eddie’s shoulder, laughing. Eddie looked frozen for half a second, then the crowd noise pushed him forward. He climbed onto the stage looking equal parts thrilled and mortified, curls wild under the lights, black jeans and battle vest standing out against all the sequins.
Frank-N-Furter didn’t waste time.
They spun him around, sat him in a chair that had appeared from nowhere, and straddled his lap in one smooth, theatrical motion. The crowd lost it. The performer ground down slow and deliberate, hands on Eddie’s shoulders, hips rolling, red lips right next to his ear while the whole theater screamed and clapped along. Eddie’s face went bright red. He laughed, awkward and shy, hands hovering in the air like he didn’t know where to put them. The cast member tilted his chin up with two fingers and kept dancing, clearly enjoying how flustered he looked.
You sat frozen in your seat.
The jealousy hit so hard and fast it felt like a physical thing — hot and sharp and ugly under your ribs. Your hands curled into fists against your thighs. You could feel your pulse in your throat. Every roll of those hips, every time Eddie’s embarrassed laugh carried over the music, every second he stayed up there under those lights with someone else’s body pressed against him made something dark and possessive twist tighter in your chest.
You couldn’t say a word.
Steve was howling with laughter beside you. Robin- even half awake- was laughing beside Steve. Gareth was chanting Eddie’s name. You forced a smile that felt like it might crack your face. You clapped when everyone else clapped. You even managed a short laugh when Frank-N-Furter finally climbed off him and bowed, leaving Eddie looking dazed and pink-cheeked on the stage.
But inside you were furious.
Eddie caught your eye the second he climbed back down into the seats. Whatever he saw on your face made his own smile falter. He mouthed something that might have been sorry before Gareth dragged him into a headlock and the whole group started talking over each other about how legendary that had been.
You stayed quiet the rest of the way out of the theater.
In the parking lot, under the wash of neon lights, Eddie tried to drift closer while the others argued about who was sober enough to drive. His knuckles brushed the back of your hand once, tentative. You didn’t pull away, but you didn’t curl your fingers around his either. The secret sat heavier now, edged with something sharp that neither of you could name in front of anyone else.
You both climbed back into the van like the only thing that had happened was a really good movie with your friends.
The silence between you on the ride home said otherwise.
The second the apartment door shut behind you the careful mask you’d worn all night cracked.
Eddie didn’t even get his jacket all the way off before the words started spilling out, fast and panicked.
“I’m sorry— fuck, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know they were gonna drag me up there. I swear to god I would’ve said no if I’d seen it coming. I kept looking for you the whole time she was on me. I hated it. Her hands felt wrong. Everything about it felt wrong. I only want your hands on me, okay? Only you. Please don’t be mad at me. I’ll do anything. I’ll get on my knees right now and apologize properly if that’s what you need—”
You dropped your keys on the counter hard enough that the sound cut him off mid-sentence. Your pulse was still hammering from the theater, from the sight of someone else’s body grinding down into his lap while the whole crowd watched. The anger had blindsided you. It was bigger and uglier than you’d expected, a hot possessive burn under your ribs that hadn’t cooled the entire ride home.
Eddie saw it on your face and his voice dropped into something quieter, almost frantic.
“I belong to you,” he said, stepping closer, hands half-raised like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare. “Only you. I’ll sit here and let you be as pissed as you need to be. You can yell at me, you can punish me, you can tie me up and leave me hard all night if that’s what it takes. Just— please don’t shut me out. Tell me how to make it right. I’ll do whatever you say.”
You pointed at the old armchair in the corner of the living room.
“Sit the fuck down.”
The words came out low and sharp. Eddie’s mouth snapped shut. His eyes flicked to the chair, then back to your face. For a second he just stood there breathing hard, then he moved exactly like you’d told him to. He sat, hands resting on the worn arms, watching you with that wide, nervous, already-interested look.
You walked past him without another word and went to the corner where his practice amp lived. The black coiled cable was still plugged in. You yanked it free with a sharp tug and brought it back. Eddie’s gaze tracked every step. You could already see the shift in him — the way his breathing had gone shallow, the flush climbing his neck, the growing tension in his thighs.
You stepped in close and started wrapping the cord around his right wrist, then the arm of the chair. The rubbery plastic was warm from your hand. You pulled it snug.
“I didn’t know I was going to get this angry,” you told him while you worked, voice tight. “Watching her climb into your lap like that, putting her hands on what’s mine… I wanted to drag you off that stage myself. I hated every second of it.”
Eddie swallowed hard. The cable creaked as you crossed it over itself and bound his left wrist the same way. His cock was already filling fast, pressing thick and obvious against the front of his black jeans. He didn’t try to hide it. He just sat there breathing through his mouth, eyes locked on your face while you tied him down.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice rough. “I should’ve gotten down the second they put me in that chair. I should’ve said no. I belong to you. My body is yours. No one else gets to touch me like that. Next time someone tries I’ll tell them to fuck off, I swear. Just— please. Tell me what you need from me right now.”
You finished the last knot and stepped back, looking down at him. His wrists were secured tight to the arms of the chair. The front of his jeans was strained, the outline of his cock clear and hard, a faint damp spot already darkening the fabric where the head pressed against it. He shifted restlessly and the cable pulled tight with a soft creak. The movement only made the bulge more pronounced.
“Look at you,” you said quietly. “Tied up and already getting hard just from me being pissed at you. Does being in trouble turn you on this much?”
Eddie’s cheeks burned. He nodded once, sharp and helpless.
“Yes,” he admitted, voice cracking. “Fuck. Yes… it’s making me so hard it hurts. I keep thinking about what you’re going to do to me now that I’m stuck here. I’ll take whatever you give me. I’ll sit here and stay hard for as long as you want. Just use me however you need to. Please.”
He tested the bindings again, not trying to escape, just feeling how little give there was. His hips twitched. His cock strained harder against the denim, fully hard now.
The apartment was quiet except for the soft sound of his breathing and the faint creak of the old chair every time he moved.
He looked up at you, wrists bound, cock aching, completely at your mercy, and waited for whatever came next.
You stepped in close between his bound legs and looked down at the thick, obvious line of his cock straining against his jeans. Eddie’s breath stuttered when your fingers found the button.
“Watch,” you said.
You popped the button free, then dragged the zipper down slow enough that every tooth was audible in the quiet apartment. The pressure released and his cock pushed forward against the thin fabric of his boxers, already dark with precum. You hooked your fingers into both the jeans and the waistband of his boxers and worked them down together, past his hips, down his thighs, until they bunched around his ankles and the chair legs. His cock sprang free—hot, flushed dark, already leaking a clear string of precum that stretched and then broke against his stomach.
Eddie made a broken little sound at the sudden exposure. His wrists flexed hard against the amp cord. The cable creaked.
“Look at you,” you murmured. “Tied up, pants around your ankles, cock dripping just because I’m still mad at you. You’re pathetic.”
“I know,” he whispered immediately. “I know I am. Please—please forgive me. I’m so fucking sorry. I need you so bad it hurts. I’ll do anything. You can leave me like this, you can use me, you can ignore my cock all night, I don’t care—just don’t stay mad. Please. I’ll beg as long as you want. I’m yours. Only yours.”
You didn’t answer. Instead you started walking a slow circle around the chair. Eddie’s head turned to follow you, eyes wide and glassy, cock twitching every time you passed in front of him. Another bead of precum welled at the tip and rolled down the underside of his shaft.
“Beg properly,” you said as you moved behind him.
“Please forgive me,” he said, voice already cracking. “Please. I hated every second she was on me. I kept thinking about you. I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll never let anyone touch me like that again. Please—please do something to me. Anything. Hurt me, use me, make me say it over and over, I don’t care. I need you. I need your hands or your mouth or just your voice telling me I still belong to you. Please.”
You completed the circle and stopped behind the chair. His curls were damp with sweat at the nape of his neck. You gathered them in one hand and pulled them gently but firmly to the side, exposing the pale column of his throat. Eddie shivered hard. His cock jerked, another thick drop of precum sliding down to his balls.
You lowered your mouth to the side of his neck and bit down—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to leave a deep, claiming mark. He gasped, hips twitching uselessly against the air.
“Who do you belong to?” you asked against his skin.
“You,” he answered immediately, voice raw. “You. Only you. Fuck—please—”
You sucked harder, dragging your teeth, then moved an inch higher and bit again. A second mark bloomed dark under your mouth. Eddie’s breathing turned into short, desperate pants.
“Who do you belong to?”
“You—shit—you, I belong to you, I’m yours, please forgive me, please touch me or don’t touch me or just keep marking me, I don’t care, I just need you—”
You kept going. Slow, deliberate, open-mouthed kisses and hard sucks all the way up the side of his neck, leaving a messy trail of darkening bruises. Every time you asked the question he answered the same way, voice getting more wrecked, more frantic.
“You. Only you. Please. I’m so hard it hurts. I’m leaking all over myself and I can’t even touch it. Please use me. Please do anything you want to me. I’ll stay tied here as long as you say. Just—please don’t stop claiming me. I need it. I need you so fucking bad.”
His cock stood rigid between his legs, flushed almost purple at the head, a steady string of precum dripping down onto the chair cushion. The amp cord dug into his wrists every time he pulled against it. He never stopped watching you out of the corner of his eye, even while you marked him, even while he begged.
You pressed one last hard suck just below his ear, then spoke against the wet skin.
“Who do you belong to?”
Eddie’s answer came out broken and immediate.
“You. Always you. Please.”
You tossed your skirt to the side and climbed onto his lap without another word.
Eddie watched every movement, chest heaving, cock standing rigid and wet between his legs. You braced one hand on his shoulder, lined him up, and sank down in one slow, deliberate slide. The stretch forced a broken sound out of both of you. He was so hard it almost hurt, thick and throbbing, and the second you bottomed out you felt him twitch hard inside you—once, twice, desperate little pulses like he was already fighting the urge to come.
You didn’t move.
You just sat there, full of him, hands resting lightly on his chest, and looked him in the eye. Eddie’s wrists strained against the amp cord. His hips twitched once under you and then locked still. He was shaking with the effort of not thrusting up.
“Don’t you dare move,” you said quietly.
“I won’t,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I won’t, I swear—fuck, you feel so good, you’re so wet—please—”
You leaned in and kissed him. Soft at first. Then deeper. His mouth opened for you instantly. You kept the kiss slow while you finally started to move—tiny, rolling circles of your hips that dragged him against every sensitive place inside you. Eddie moaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your tongue. His cock twitched and jumped inside you with every slow grind.
He lasted maybe thirty seconds before the desperation won.
His hips snapped up hard, driving himself deeper with a choked, helpless sound. The chair creaked. The cord dug into his wrists. He thrust again, chasing the friction like he couldn’t stop himself.
“Shit—I’m sorry—” he gasped against your lips. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t— you feel too good, I need— I’m sorry—”
You didn’t want to hear it.
You kissed him harder, swallowing the rest of the apology, and coaxed his tongue out of his mouth with slow, deliberate pulls of your own. The second it was past his lips you bit down—not hard enough to draw blood, but firm enough to hold it there, trapped between your teeth. Eddie made a high, startled noise that turned into a moan. His tongue twitched against your bite. His eyes went wide and glassy.
You kept his tongue pinned between your teeth and started riding him properly.
Slow, deep rolls at first, then harder. Every time you dropped down his cock punched up into you and he made another broken sound around the bitten tongue. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t apologize. All he could do was take it—wrists bound, tongue held, hips still trying to thrust up to meet you even while he whimpered. Precum and your own wetness made every movement filthy and loud. The wet slap of your skin against his filled the quiet apartment.
Tears of pure overwhelmed need pricked at the corners of his eyes. His cock throbbed inside you like a second heartbeat. Every time you sank down he twitched hard, like he was seconds from spilling, but you never slowed.
You rode him with his tongue still caught between your teeth, tasting the soft muscle, feeling every desperate little flex of it, while he stayed exactly where you put him—tied, claimed, and completely at your mercy.
You finally released his tongue.
Eddie sucked in a ragged breath the second it was free, the tip of it red and wet from your teeth. A thin string of spit still connected your mouths for a heartbeat before it broke. He looked wrecked—eyes glassy, lips parted, chest heaving under the open fall of his hair.
You didn’t give him time to speak.
You reached down between your bodies, found your clit with two fingers, and started rubbing tight, deliberate circles while you rolled your hips again. The dual sensation made your thighs tighten around him. Eddie’s cock twitched hard inside you at the new angle, at the way your fingers brushed the base of him every time you moved.
“Fuck—please—” he choked out. “You’re gonna make me—”
You felt it immediately— the way he swelled even thicker, the frantic little pulses that meant he was right on the edge. You stopped moving completely. Just sat there, full of him, fingers still pressed to your clit but no longer stroking. Eddie’s hips jerked once, twice, chasing friction that was no longer there. A broken, frustrated sound tore out of his throat. His wrists yanked hard against the amp cord.
“Don’t you dare,” you said quietly.
He nodded fast, eyes squeezed shut, breathing through his teeth while he forced himself back from the edge. Only when the desperate twitching inside you slowed did you start moving again—slow rolls of your hips paired with steady pressure on your clit. The wet sound of it filled the room. Eddie’s head dropped back against the chair, exposing the dark marks you’d already left on his neck.
You leaned in and added more.
You sucked a fresh bruise just above his collarbone, then dragged your teeth lower. At the same time your free hand raked down his chest—nails scoring red lines over his sternum, across one nipple, down the soft trail of hair that led to where you were joined. Eddie arched into the sting with a punched-out moan. His cock jumped inside you again.
You felt him getting close a second time—hotter, harder, that warning throb—and stopped dead.
“No—no, please, I was almost—” His voice cracked. “I’ll be good, I swear, just let me feel you move, please—”
You ignored the begging and kept your hips still until the danger passed. Only then did you resume the slow, filthy grind, fingers working your clit faster now. Every time your nails scraped fresh lines into his chest another low moan would tumble from his lips. Every time you sucked another mark into his neck he whimpered your name like a prayer.
You edged him like that again and again—riding until he was shaking and leaking and right on the brink, then freezing completely while he trembled underneath you and tried not to come. Your own orgasm was building steady and mean under your fingers, but you refused to let him finish first. He stayed locked on the edge, tied down, chest striped with red nail marks, neck dark with fresh bruises, cock throbbing helplessly inside you every time you denied him.
Tears of pure frustrated need slipped from the corners of his eyes.
The coil in your stomach was getting dangerously close to snapping. One particular snap of your hips tipped you right over the edge.
Your orgasm hit like a wave that had been building all night.
It crashed through you hard and sudden—anger and jealousy and the raw thrill of having him completely under your control all colliding at once. Your head went dizzy with it. Your thighs clamped tight around his hips, fingers still rubbing frantic circles over your clit as you clenched down around his cock in hard, pulsing waves. A broken sound tore out of your throat. You kept grinding through it, using him, taking every last bit of the release you’d denied him for so long.
"I love you— fuck — Eddie— I love you."
The moment the words left your mouth he let go with a shattered, almost sobbing moan. His hips jerked up as far as the bindings would allow and he came hard—hot, thick pulses flooding you while tears slipped down his temples. The sensation was clearly too much after being edged for so long— his whole body shook, wrists straining against the amp cord, chest heaving under the red nail marks you’d left. He kept making these small, overwhelmed sounds like he couldn’t believe how intense it was, like it bordered on pain and pleasure at the same time.
“Fuck—fuck, thank you—thank you—” he choked out, voice cracking, almost crying as the last spasms wrung him dry.
You stayed right where you were, seated deep on his cock while it slowly began to soften inside you. The mix of your release and his was already leaking out around him, warm and messy between your bodies. You rested your hands on his marked-up chest, feeling his heart race under your palms, and looked down at his wrecked face—flushed, tear-streaked, lips parted, eyes glassy and completely spent.
The apartment was quiet except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath.
You rolled your hips once, slow, just to feel him shift inside you as he softened further, then stilled again.
“Have you learned your lesson?” you asked, voice low and even.
Eddie swallowed hard. His wrists were still bound, his neck dark with the bruises you’d sucked into his skin, his chest striped with neat red lines from your nails. He looked up at you like you were the only solid thing in the world.
“Yes,” he whispered, hoarse and immediate. “Yes. I belong to you. No one else gets to touch me. I won’t ever let that happen again. I’m yours. Only yours.”
He was still breathing hard, still trembling faintly underneath you, soft and spent and completely open.
Waiting to see if the answer was enough.
Of course it was enough.
You reached for the amp cord and worked the knots loose slowly, carefully, rubbing gentle circles over the faint red marks left on his wrists once the cable fell away. Eddie’s arms dropped like they weighed a hundred pounds. He didn’t try to stand or even shift. He just stayed slumped in the chair, completely spent—pants still tangled around his ankles, chest rising and falling in deep, exhausted breaths, the bruises on his neck and the thin red lines from your nails standing out against his pale skin. His eyes were half-lidded, soft and open in a way that made your chest ache.
You grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and a clean washcloth from the bathroom, then came back to him. First you cleaned him up with slow, careful strokes—between his legs, over his stomach, the mess the two of you had made—then wiped yourself down just enough to be comfortable. Eddie watched every movement like it was something sacred. When you were done you climbed back into his lap, straddling him loosely this time, and pulled the blanket around both of you.
He made a small, grateful sound and wrapped his arms around you immediately, face burying in your neck. You slid your fingers into his damp curls and started combing through them in long, gentle strokes, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you knew melted him.
“You did so well,” you murmured against his temple. “Took everything I gave you. Stayed exactly where I put you. I’m proud of you.”
Eddie shivered at the praise, arms tightening.
“I hated making you feel like that,” he whispered, voice still rough. “Seeing you so quiet on the way home… knowing you were hurting because of me. I never want to be the reason you feel jealous or scared again. I’d rather sit in that chair for hours than watch that look on your face.”
You pressed a soft kiss to his hairline, then another to his cheekbone.
“I surprised myself too,” you admitted quietly. “I didn’t know it would hit me that hard. Watching someone else put their hands on you like that… it felt like they were touching something that only belongs to me. I got so angry so fast. But you let me take it out on you. You trusted me with it. That means everything.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes still a little shiny.
“I trust you with all of it,” he said. “The soft stuff and the mean stuff. Especially the mean stuff. When you got posessive like that… it felt like you were carving your name into me all over again. Like you’re reminding both of us who I belong to.” His thumb stroked slow circles on your back under the blanket. “I love that. I love you. Even when you’re punishing me. Maybe especially then.”
You smiled and kissed him—slow, deep, and sweet, no edge left in it. When you pulled back you rested your forehead against his.
“I love you too,” you whispered. “My good boy. My Eddie. I’m sorry if I scared you while I was angry. I never want to actually hurt you. I just… needed to claim you again after that stage. Needed to feel like you were still mine.”
“I am still yours,” he said immediately, almost fiercely. “Every part of me. The next time someone tries to pull me into something like that I’ll shut it down so fast. I promise. You’re the only one who gets to touch me, order me around, mark me up… any of it. Okay?”
“Okay,” you answered, fingers still moving gently through his hair. “Thank you for taking the punishment so well. You were perfect.”
Eddie let out a long, shaky breath that sounded like pure relief and tucked his face back into your neck. You stayed like that for a while—curled in his lap under the blanket, your fingers never stopping their slow path through his curls, his hands warm and steady on your back. Every so often one of you would press a soft kiss to whatever skin was closest. Every so often he’d whisper another quiet I love you or I’m yours like he still needed to say it out loud.
The intensity of the night had burned down into something warm and safe. The jealousy was gone. The anger was gone. All that was left was the two of you in the old armchair, sticky and marked and completely wrapped up in each other, trading soft words and softer touches while the rest of the world stayed locked outside the apartment door.
The next night you and Eddie met everyone at the bar.
It was already loud and warm inside—sticky floors, half the jukebox broken, the usual Friday crowd. Steve had claimed a big booth in the back and was waving you over with a beer already in hand. Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, Gareth, and Jeff were piled in around him. You slid in first, Eddie right after you, his thigh pressing warm against yours under the table like it always did now.
Steve looked Eddie up and down and raised an eyebrow.
“So what’d you end up doing last night after the show, man? Figured you’d at least stick around to milk the whole stage-lapdance fame for a while.”
Eddie blinked, completely blank for a second, then shrugged and reached for the beer Steve pushed toward him.
“Uhhh… I just went home?”
He said it so casually, so honestly, that it was obvious he had no worries about the dark constellation of bruises blooming up the side of his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. He hadn’t even glanced in a mirror before leaving the apartment. The marks were just… there. Like they had become a part of his skin.
Robin leaned forward so fast she almost knocked over her drink, eyes going wide with pure delight.
“Then who massacred your neck, dude?”
Eddie froze mid-sip. His free hand flew up to his throat, fingers brushing the tender skin, and the second he felt the raised bruises his whole face went red. He looked at you with wide, caught eyes. You couldn’t help it—you started laughing. He lasted maybe two seconds before he broke too, ducking his head with a helpless grin while the rest of the table lost it.
Under the table you reached for his hand and gave it a slow, firm squeeze. He laced his fingers through yours immediately and didn’t let go.
When the laughter died down enough for him to speak, Eddie cleared his throat, still pink, and glanced around at all of them.
“Yeah, uh… we’re together. Like, actually together. Have been for a little bit now. Since before the show, technically.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Steve threw both hands up like he’d just won something. “Fucking finally! Robin you owe me ten bucks.”
Robin pointed at the two of you with her bottle, grinning ear to ear. “Oh my god, the weird unresolved tension was physically hurting me. Congrats, you absolute idiots.”
Gareth reached across the table to clink his glass against Eddie’s. “Called it months ago, just so everyone remembers.”
Jeff nodded solemnly. “There was betting involved. I just lost five bucks."
Nancy just smiled that quiet, knowing smile of hers, and Jonathan gave you both a small, approving nod over the rim of his beer.
No big speech. No awkward interrogation. Just the whole table collectively relaxing like something that had been stuck for years had finally clicked into place. Eddie kept hold of your hand under the table the rest of the night, thumb stroking over your knuckles, the marks on his neck on full display and neither of you bothering to hide them. Every so often he’d catch you looking and give you that soft, private little smile that still made your stomach flip—only now everyone else could see it too, and none of them cared.
summary: when you and your best friend eddie finally move in together you discover a particular kink of his that youre more than happy to explore with him
The key stuck for a second before the lock gave with a soft click. You pushed the door open and stepped into the apartment- your apartment now. It smelled like fresh paint, old wood, and the faint trace of whatever cleaner they used. Small. A little beat-up. Perfect.
Eddie Munson followed right behind you, two heavy boxes balanced in his arms like they weighed nothing. His wild curls were already sticking to his temples, damp from the July heat outside. The faded Metallica tee he’d thrown on that morning clung to his chest and the lean lines of his shoulders, dark patches of sweat spreading under his arms and down the center of his back. Those silver rings on his fingers caught the light as he set the boxes down exactly where you pointed.
“By the window?” he asked, voice a little rough from the stairs.
“Yeah. Right there. Perfect.”
He straightened up and wiped his forearm across his brow, flashing you that shy, crooked smile- the same one he’d worn since you were fourteen and he was the weird kid in the back of the classroom with the loud music and the bigger heart than anyone ever gave him credit for. You’d never cared what anyone else said about him. Not once. And somewhere along the way, the two of you had fallen into this quiet, aching thing neither of you had ever named.
You felt it every time he looked at you too long. Every time his hand brushed yours and stayed. Every late night phone call that ended with both of you pretending you didn’t want to say more.
Now you were moving in together. Best friends. Roommates. What could go wrong?
The afternoon stretched out in cardboard and sweat and the low creak of furniture being dragged across old floors. Eddie did most of the heavy lifting without complaint, muscles shifting under that thin black tee every time he hoisted another box or piece of furniture. You handled the directions- where things went, how they should be angled, what came next.
And that’s when you started to notice.
It began small.
“Eddie, grab the box labeled ‘kitchen’ and put it on the counter for me?”
He was already moving before you finished the sentence. “On it.” He set it down carefully, then looked back at you, waiting.
You tilted your head. “A little more to the left. Yeah… there. Good.”
His ears went pink. He swallowed, throat working, and shifted his weight from one combat boot to the other. One hand dropped casually in front of his jeans, adjusting. You caught the motion but didn’t think much of it. Heat. Heavy lifting. Normal.
Then came the bookshelf.
“Slide it against the far wall,” you said, stepping back to watch. “All the way. A little more. Right there- perfect.”
Eddie did exactly as you told him, long fingers gripping the sides, rings flashing as he pushed. When it was in place he stayed bent over for a second, breathing harder than the effort really called for. When he stood, his cheeks were flushed dark, and the front of his ripped black jeans… wasn’t lying flat anymore.
Your stomach flipped.
You tested it again with the couch, voice steady even as your pulse started to climb.
“Grab that end. On three- lift. Good. Now back it up slow. Stop. Angle it a little to your left. Yeah. Push it in more. Right there.”
Every word landed like a touch. Eddie followed them like gospel, grunting softly with effort, but there was something else in the sound now- something tight and needy. When the couch was finally in place he stayed bent over it longer than necessary, head down, curls hiding his face. When he straightened, the bulge in his jeans was unmistakable. Thick. Obvious. Pressing hard against the worn denim.
He turned slightly, trying to angle his body away from you, but it was too late. You’d seen.
Your own body answered before your brain could catch up- heat pooling low and heavy between your legs, nipples tightening under your thin tank top, a slick throb that had nothing to do with the temperature outside.
Holy shit.
He was getting hard from this. From you telling him what to do. From following your directions like they were the only thing that mattered.
You kept going, voice a little lower now, curious. Testing.
“Bedroom next. Help me with the mattress. Center it on the frame. Make sure it’s straight.”
Eddie nodded fast- too fast- and disappeared into the small bedroom. You followed, leaning in the doorway as he wrestled the heavy mattress into place. Every adjustment you called out made his movements sharper, more focused.
“A little higher on the left. Shift it toward the headboard. There. Good.”
His breathing was ragged. When he glanced at you across the bed, his pupils were blown wide, dark eyes flicking down to your mouth and back up like he couldn’t help it. You watched the way his hands trembled just slightly when he tucked the fitted sheet at your instruction.
“Tighter on your side. Yeah. Pull it firm. Perfect.”
The word perfect made him shudder. Actually shudder. He bit his full bottom lip hard enough to leave a mark and kept his eyes on the mattress like it was the only safe thing in the room.
You stepped closer to help with the top sheet, both of you on opposite sides of the bed. The space felt smaller suddenly. Hotter. Every time your hands brushed his across the fabric, electricity snapped between you.
Eddie’s voice came out hoarse. “Like this?”
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Just like that.”
He made a small, broken sound- half groan, half something else- and quickly turned away again, but not before you caught the way his cock twitched visibly in his jeans.
The air between you was thick now. Charged. All those years of careful distance, of pretending the feelings weren’t there, and one afternoon of moving furniture had cracked it wide open. You could see it in the way he kept stealing glances at you, in the flush that had spread down his neck and under the collar of his tee, in the way he was failing to hide how turned on he was by every single direction that left your mouth.
You felt it too. The power of it. The way he responded to your voice like it was touching him. The old ache in your chest had twisted into something hotter, hungrier.
Eddie ran both hands through his curls, messing them up worse, and let out a shaky laugh that didn’t quite cover the roughness in his throat.
“So… uh. What’s next, boss?”
The word boss landed heavy between you. His eyes met yours across the half-made bed- dark, nervous, and so fucking turned on it made your knees feel weak.
You smiled slowly, heart hammering against your ribs.
This was only the first day.
And you were both already in trouble.
A couple of weeks had slipped by in that easy, familiar rhythm you and Eddie had always had- except for one very specific, very new pattern.
Every time you asked him for anything- “Eddie, can you pass me the remote?” “Hey, can you grab the mail on your way in?” “Would you mind moving that speaker?”- he did it instantly. No eye-rolls, no teasing, just that quick nod and a soft “Yeah, of course,” like your voice flipped a switch in him. And every single time, you watched the same thing happen- the tips of his ears going pink, the way he’d bite the inside of his cheek, the subtle shift of his hips like he was trying to hide exactly how much he liked being told what to do.
You hadn’t talked about it. Not yet. But it was there, humming under everything like a live wire.
Tonight the apartment was loud with laughter and the low thrum of music from Eddie’s old stereo. The whole crew had crammed in- Robin sprawled across the armchair with her legs dangling over the side, Steve and Nancy sharing the couch with Jonathan perched on the armrest next to her, Gareth and Jeff taking up the floor with a half-finished game of cards and a growing pile of bottle caps between them. Empty beer bottles and a couple of takeout containers littered the coffee table. It felt good. Lived-in. Like home.
Eddie was in the kitchen grabbing another round when you called out from your spot on the couch, voice easy and casual.
“Eddie? Can you grab me another beer while you’re in there?”
The effect was instant.
He froze for half a second, back to the group, then turned with that same eager little nod he’d been giving you for weeks now. “Yeah. Yeah, got it.”
When he came back a moment later, bottle in hand, his cheeks were flushed a warm, obvious pink that had nothing to do with the alcohol. His curls were a little messy from running his hands through them, and he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes as he handed the beer over- but the second your fingers brushed his, you felt the tiny tremor that ran through him.
Robin clocked it immediately.
She sat up straighter in the armchair, squinting at Eddie with a wicked little grin spreading across her face.
“Whoa, hold up.” She pointed the neck of her bottle at him. “Munson. Are you blushing right now?”
The room went quiet for half a beat, then erupted in laughter.
Eddie’s ears went from pink to full-on red. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying for his usual cocky smirk and missing by a mile. “What? No. It’s hot in here. You guys are like a bunch of space heaters.”
“Uh-huh.” Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyebrows raised in pure delight. “Sure, man. That’s why you practically sprinted to the fridge the second she asked. Real subtle.”
Gareth snorted into his drink. “Dude’s got it bad. We’ve been saying it for years.”
Jeff just shook his head, grinning. “Told you living together would break him.”
Nancy was smiling behind her hand, Jonathan chuckling quietly beside her. Robin, though- Robin was relentless, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“I’m just saying,” she continued, waving her bottle for emphasis, “I’ve known Eddie Munson since high school and I have never seen him move that fast for anyone. Not even when there’s free pizza involved. But you ask for a beer and suddenly he’s the Flash with a savior complex.”
Eddie dropped onto the arm of the couch next to you- close enough that his thigh pressed warm against your shoulder- and tried to hide behind his own bottle. “You’re all assholes,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it. Just that flustered, fond exasperation he only ever got around this group.
You took a slow sip of your beer, fighting your own smile. Under the table, your knee brushed his. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into it a fraction, like he couldn’t help himself.
The teasing rolled on for another minute- Steve making whipped noises, Robin doing an exaggerated impression of Eddie’s eager nod- but it was all in good fun. The kind of ribbing that only happens when everyone already knows the truth and loves you both enough to say it out loud.
Still… there was something else in the air.
Every time you glanced at Eddie, he was already looking at you. Quick, heated little looks that he tried to play off as casual. His fingers kept drumming restlessly on his thigh, rings catching the low light. And when the laughter died down and the conversation drifted back to whatever story Gareth was telling, Eddie’s hand dropped- casual as anything- to rest on the back of the couch behind your head. Not quite touching you. But close enough that you could feel the warmth of his arm.
Robin caught that too. Her eyes flicked between the two of you, something knowing and a little softer in her expression now. She didn’t say anything else. Just raised her bottle in a tiny, private toast in your direction before turning back to the group.
The night kept going- more drinks, more stories, more laughter- but that underlying feeling never quite left. It sat low in your stomach every time Eddie shifted closer, every time he got up without you even asking to grab someone else a drink and still checked with you first, silent question in his eyes.
You need anything?
You didn’t say it out loud. But the way he kept looking at you said he already knew the answer.
And judging by the way his cheeks stayed faintly pink for the rest of the night, so did everyone else.
It was a completely normal night.
The apartment was dim, lit only by the blue glow of the TV and the little lamp in the corner you’d both forgotten to turn off. Some movie was playing- neither of you were really watching it anymore. You were curled up on one end of the couch in an oversized t-shirt and soft cotton shorts, legs tucked under a shared blanket. Eddie was on the other end, one arm slung along the back of the couch, wearing those loose gray sweatpants he always wore during lazy nights and a faded Dio tank top that had seen better days. His curls were messy from running his hands through them, and every so often his foot would nudge yours under the blanket like he couldn’t help staying connected.
It felt easy. Like it had always been meant to be this way.
You shifted, stretching your arms above your head with a quiet groan. “God, I’m thirsty. My mouth is so dry.”
Eddie didn’t even hesitate.
He was up and moving before the words had fully left your mouth, blanket sliding off his lap as he padded into the kitchen. You heard the fridge open, the clink of ice, the sound of water pouring. Thirty seconds later he was back, handing you a glass without a word- just that same quiet, eager look he’d been wearing for weeks now every time you asked for anything.
You took it, fingers brushing his. “Thanks.”
He dropped back onto the couch, closer this time. The movie kept playing, forgotten.
You took a slow sip, then set the glass on the coffee table. When you looked at him again, something warm and reckless settled in your chest.
“Good boy.”
The words left your mouth soft and deliberate.
Eddie froze.
A full-body flush ripped through him so fast you could see it- starting at his ears, flooding down his neck and across his chest where the tank top didn’t cover. His lips parted on a sharp, shaky inhale. And then you saw it- the way his cock twitched hard and obvious against the thin gray fabric of his sweatpants, thickening right there in front of you, the outline growing thick and heavy in seconds.
He made a small, helpless sound and pulled the blanket to his lap like he could hide it. Too late. You’d already seen the way he was getting hard just from those two words.
His breathing had gone ragged. He wouldn’t look at you, staring hard at the TV like it could save him, but his hips shifted restlessly and that flush kept spreading, down his throat, across his collarbones. The blanket was starting to tent now, and he was so visibly turned on it made heat pool low and aching between your own legs.
You didn’t look away.
Instead you leaned in a little, voice quieter but steady.
“Eddie.”
He swallowed hard. Still wouldn’t meet your eyes.
“Does me telling you what to do turn you on?”
The silence stretched. The movie kept playing in the background but it might as well have been on another planet.
Eddie’s hands clenched in the fabric of the blanket. His chest rose and fell too fast. You could see the war happening behind his eyes- the shyness, the years of keeping this locked down, the fear of ruining everything… and the way his body was betraying him completely.
Finally, he let out a shaky breath and nodded once, small and jerky.
“Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough and low. “It… it does.”
He still wouldn’t look at you, but the admission hung between you like a live wire. His cheeks were burning. His rings clicked together as his fingers twisted in the blanket.
You could see how much it cost him to say it out loud. How long he must’ve been carrying this.
But he said it.
The word hung in the air between you.
Eddie’s chest was still heaving, that deep flush permanently staining his skin. He looked wrecked already and you hadn't even touched him.
You didn’t let the silence stretch.
“Look at me.”
His eyes snapped up to yours instantly. Wide. Dark. Nervous and so fucking turned on you could feel your soaked pussy clinging to the fabric of your underwear.
You leaned in a little closer on the couch, voice low and steady.
“Say it again. Tell me the truth.”
Eddie swallowed hard. He shifted his hips like he was trying to get comfortable and only made it worse- his cock twitched visibly.
“I… yeah,” he rasped. “It turns me on. When you tell me what to do. It’s- fuck, it’s been like this for weeks.”
You tilted your head, studying him. The way his breath hitched every time your voice dropped.
“Since moving day?”
He nodded, quick and jerky. “Since before that, probably. But that day… when you were telling me where to put everything. How to move the couch. The bed.” His voice cracked a little. “Every time you said ‘good’ or ‘right there’ I got hard so fast I thought I was gonna lose it. I had to keep turning away so you wouldn’t see.”
A slow, pleased smile curved your mouth.
“Good boy.”
The effect was instant and devastating.
Eddie let out a broken little moan- quiet, like he couldn’t stop it- and his hips jerked. His cock twitched hard. His thighs trembled.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You can’t just- say that. It’s too much.”
You ignored the protest, eyes locked on his.
“Take the blanket off your lap.”
He hesitated for half a second- just long enough for you to see the war in his eyes- then pushed it aside with shaking hands. Now there was nothing hiding him. The thick line of his cock was on full display, straining against the soft fabric, the head pressing insistently against it. He was so hard it had to hurt.
You let your gaze drag over him slowly, then met his eyes again.
“Tell me more. How long have you wanted me to talk to you like this?”
Eddie’s hands flexed on his thighs. He looked like he wanted to hide his face but couldn’t stop staring at you.
“Since… since we were kids, I think,” he admitted, voice low and shaky. “Not like this exactly. But I always liked when you bossed me around a little. When you told me what to do. It made me feel… safe. And then it started turning me on and I didn’t know what to do with it.” He laughed once, breathless and embarrassed. “I thought I was gonna ruin everything if I ever said anything. So I just… kept it quiet. But then we moved in and you kept giving me directions and I couldn’t hide it anymore.”
You reached out slowly and rested your hand on his knee. Just that. Nothing more. He still jolted like you’d touched him somewhere much more sensitive.
“Does it make you this hard every time?” you asked, voice soft but firm. “Every time I ask you for something?”
“Yeah,” he breathed. His cock twitched again at the question. “Every single time. Even when it’s small. Like getting you water or moving something. My brain just… goes quiet and all I can think about is being good for you. Making you happy.” His cheeks burned darker. “And then I get so turned on I can’t think straight.”
You squeezed his knee gently.
“Spread your legs a little.”
He did it without hesitation this time, thighs parting on the couch. The movement made his cock shift and strain even more obviously. The wet spot was bigger now.
You let the silence sit for a moment, just watching him squirm under your gaze, breathing hard, curls falling into his eyes.
Then you asked the next question, quiet and direct.
“Do you want me to keep telling you what to do, Eddie?”
His answer came out in a rush, like he couldn’t hold it back anymore.
“Yes. Fuck, yes. I want it so bad.” His voice cracked again. “I’ve been going crazy. Every time you say my name in that voice I get hard. Every time you tell me ‘good boy’ I feel like I’m gonna come in my fucking pants. I don’t even care how pathetic that sounds. I just- I like it. I like being yours like that.”
He was panting now. His hands had moved to grip the couch cushions on either side of his hips, like he was physically holding himself back from touching.
You could see how close he was already- just from talking, from obeying, from finally being honest.
The movie kept playing, forgotten.
The only thing that mattered was the way Eddie was looking at you now- desperate, flushed, hard and leaking and completely at your mercy.
And the way his voice dropped even lower when he spoke again.
“…What do you want me to do?”
You let the question hang for a moment, watching the way Eddie’s chest heaved and his cock throbbed visibly against the damp front of his sweatpants. He was already a mess- curls wild, cheeks flushed dark, lips parted around shaky breaths- and you hadn’t even touched him.
You leaned back against the arm of the couch, getting comfortable, and let your voice drop into that same calm, commanding tone that made his whole body react.
“Take your cock out.”
Eddie’s eyes went wide. For a second he just stared at you, breathing hard, like he needed to make sure he’d heard you right. Then his hands moved- trembling- and he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and pushed them down just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and long, already leaking steadily from the slit. It curved up toward his stomach, twitching the second the cool air hit it.
He didn’t cover himself. Just sat there, exposed, waiting for your next word like it was the only thing keeping him together.
You let your gaze drag over him slowly, then met his eyes again.
“Stroke it. Slow. And while you do, tell me what you’ve been thinking about. Every filthy thought you’ve had.”
Eddie wrapped his hand around himself with a shaky groan. The first slow stroke made his hips jerk and a thick bead of precum spill over his fingers. He started talking, voice rough and broken.
“I- fuck- I think about you telling me what to do all the time,” he admitted, eyes locked on yours like you’d ordered him to keep them there. “Every morning when you ask me to make coffee. Every time you tell me to grab something from the top shelf. I get hard in the middle of the fucking day just remembering your voice.” His hand moved in slow, desperate strokes, precum making everything slick. “I’ve jerked off in the shower thinking about you calling me good boy. About you making me kneel while you tell me exactly how you want me to touch you. About-”
He cut off with a whimper when you spoke again.
“Faster.”
He obeyed instantly, hand speeding up. His thighs were shaking now.
“Keep going,” you said. “Tell me more.”
Eddie’s head tipped back for a second before he forced himself to look at you again. His voice was wrecked.
“I think about you using me,” he confessed, the words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them now. “Not just for sex. For everything. I want you to tell me how to make you feel good. I want to be the one who knows exactly what you need before you even ask. I’ve been going crazy wanting to take care of you like that. And the dirtier it gets the more I-” His hand stuttered on a particularly hard stroke and he moaned. “The more I like it. I want you to own me with your voice. I want you to ruin me with it.”
You watched him fall apart for a few more seconds- the way his stomach clenched, the way more precum drooled deliciously from the head of his cock, the way he was clearly fighting not to come just from talking and obeying.
Then you gave the next command.
“Stop touching yourself.”
Eddie whined- actually whined- but his hand froze immediately, gripping the base of his cock like he was physically holding himself back. His whole body was trembling.
“Please,” he breathed, voice cracking. “Please, I need- I need to make you feel good. Let me. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll use my mouth, my hands, whatever you tell me. Just- fuck, just let me take care of you. I’ve been dying to. Every night I’ve laid in my bed thinking about how good you’d sound if I was between your legs doing exactly what you told me to do.”
He was panting now, eyes glassy and desperate, cock still twitching and leaking untouched against his stomach.
“I want to be good for you,” he whispered, raw and honest. “I want to make you come so many times you forget your own name. I want you to tell me how. I want you to use me until you’re satisfied. Please. Please let me make you feel good. I’ll beg if you want me to. I’ll get on my knees right now. Just say the word.”
His voice broke on the last word. He looked completely wrecked and still waiting for your next command like it was the only thing that mattered.
The movie had long since ended. The apartment was quiet except for his ragged breathing and the low thrum of whatever was playing on the TV now.
Eddie swallowed hard, eyes never leaving yours.
You let the silence stretch, watching him tremble and leak and beg.
Then you spoke again, calm and clear.
“Get on your knees on the floor. Right in front of me.”
Eddie moved like the command was the only thing holding him together. He let go of his cock- it slapped wetly against his stomach- and slid off the couch. The rug was soft but still rough enough that you heard the quiet thud of his knees hitting it. He winced a little at the impact but didn’t complain. Now he was kneeling between your spread legs, looking up at you with those wrecked, hopeful eyes. His cock hung heavy and flushed between his thighs, still dripping onto the rug in little shiny droplets. The position made it hang lower, the head shiny and wet, a thin string of precum connecting it to the floor.
He was breathing through his mouth, lips parted, curls messy and damp.
“I’m here,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m on my knees for you. Tell me what to do. Please. I’ll be so good.”
His hands rested on his own thighs, rings glinting, fingers twitching with the effort of not reaching for you. His cock twitched every time you shifted even slightly. The smell of his arousal was stronger now, thick in the air between you.
You could feel your own body answering- the hot, slick ache between your legs, the way your shorts were sticking to you.
Eddie swallowed again, eyes flicking down to your lap and back up.
You reached down and ran your fingers through his hair once, slow and possessive, before gripping it lightly and tilting his head back so he had to look at you.
“Listen carefully,” you said, voice low and steady. “I’m going to tell you exactly how I want your mouth.”
He shivered, a soft whine escaping before he could stop it.
“Start over my shorts,” you continued. “Use your tongue flat and slow. I want to feel the heat of your mouth and the wet drag of your tongue through the fabric. Press in enough that I can feel it on my clit. Suck gently- not hard, just enough to pull the cloth against me. I want to feel how soaked the shorts are getting from your mouth and from me.”
Eddie’s breath hitched. His cock twitched hard, a fresh string of precum dripping from the tip onto the rug.
“Yes,” he whispered, already leaning in. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be good.”
He pressed his face between your thighs. The first touch of his tongue was hot and wet even through the thin cotton of your shorts. He dragged it slow and flat from bottom to top, exactly like you told him, the fabric growing darker and slicker with every pass. You could feel the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his tongue pushing the damp cloth against your clit, the way he sealed his lips and sucked gently- soft, rhythmic pulls that made the wet fabric cling and rub in the most teasing way.
A low, desperate moan vibrated against you. He was already lost in it.
You kept your hand in his hair, guiding him.
“Again. Slower. I want to feel every inch of your tongue.”
He obeyed instantly, tongue flattening and dragging with deliberate pressure. The wet sounds were filthy- the slick drag of fabric, the soft suck of his mouth, his own quiet whimpers. Your shorts were soaked now, both from his spit and the growing wetness between your legs. Every time he sucked, you felt it pull against your swollen clit.
Eddie’s hips were rocking helplessly in the air, his neglected cock bobbing and leaking. You could hear how worked up he was- the shaky exhales through his nose, the way his fingers flexed and clenched on his own thighs because you hadn’t told him he could touch you yet.
After a minute of that slow, torturous attention, he pulled back just enough to speak, voice hoarse and wrecked against your inner thigh.
“Please,” he begged, lips shiny and wet. “Please let me pull them down. Or to the side. I need- I need to taste you for real. It’s not enough. I can smell how wet you are and it’s driving me crazy. Please. I’ll still do it exactly how you say, I swear. Just let me feel your skin on my tongue. Please.”
You let him beg for another long moment, watching him tremble and leak and nuzzle desperately against the soaked fabric.
Then you gave the next command.
“Pull my shorts to the side. Now.”
His hands shook as he reached up, fingers careful as he hooked the fabric and tugged it aside, exposing you completely. The cool air hit your slick folds for only a second before his mouth was on you- hot, eager, and so fucking grateful.
A broken, overwhelmed sound tore out of him the second his tongue touched bare skin. He licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, tasting you properly for the first time. His moan was deep and filthy, vibrating right against you.
“Fuck- you taste so good,” he gasped against your pussy, voice thick with tears and arousal. “Thank you. Thank you for letting me- oh my god-”
You tightened your grip in his hair.
“Slow circles on my clit. Then suck. Exactly like before, but now on my skin.”
He followed every word like it was gospel. His tongue moved in slow, firm circles exactly where you wanted, then sealed his lips around your clit and sucked with that same gentle, rhythmic pressure. The wet sounds were louder now- the obscene slick of his tongue, the soft suction, his own desperate little moans. His face was already messy, chin and lips shiny with you. Every time he sucked, you felt the pull all the way through your body.
He kept thanking you between licks, voice muffled and worshipful.
“Thank you- thank you for letting me taste you- you’re so wet- so fucking sweet- please tell me if I’m doing it right- I’ll do it better- I’ll do anything-”
You could feel the orgasm building fast- the tight coil low in your belly, the way your thighs started to tremble around his head, the way his tongue and the filthy wet sounds and his desperate gratitude were pushing you right to the edge.
When it hit, it crashed hard.
Your back arched off the couch as you came, a gush of wetness flooding his mouth. You squirted against his tongue and lips, the hot rush of it making him moan so loudly it vibrated through your whole body. He didn’t pull away- if anything he pressed closer, licking and swallowing like he was starving for it, messy and grateful and overwhelmed.
“Thank you- thank you- fuck, thank you-” he kept chanting between frantic licks, voice cracking, tears slipping down his cheeks as he drank you down. “Thank you for letting me have it- for letting me taste you when you come- you’re so good to me- thank you, thank you, thank you-”
He kept licking through it, slower now, gentle and reverent, cleaning you up with soft strokes of his tongue while he murmured broken thanks against your sensitive skin. His face was completely soaked, chin dripping, curls sticking to your thighs. His cock was still untouched and leaking steadily onto the rug, twitching every time you pulsed against his mouth.
Eventually he rested his cheek against your inner thigh, breathing hard, eyes closed, lips shiny and swollen.
He looked completely wrecked.
And still he whispered, soft and hoarse against your skin,
“…Thank you. For letting me make you feel good. I’ll do it again whenever you want. Just tell me. I’m yours.”
His cock gave another helpless twitch, still hard and aching between his legs.
He didn’t ask for anything for himself.
He just stayed on his knees, waiting for your next word.
“You were such a good boy for me,” you said softly, fingers stroking through his hair. “You deserve a reward.”
Eddie’s breath caught. His cock gave a hard, visible twitch.
You stood, took his hand, and pulled him up. He followed instantly, legs a little unsteady. You guided him back onto the couch and pushed gently at his chest until he was lying back against the cushions, legs spread, cock lying heavy and wet against his stomach. The tank top was rucked up under his arms, exposing his flushed chest and the rapid rise and fall of it.
You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. You were still soaked- your own arousal and his spit making everything slick. You reached down, wrapped your hand around his cock, and lined him up. Then you sank down in one slow, smooth motion.
The stretch was perfect. He was so hard, so hot, and he’d been leaking for so long that he slid in easily, but the tight, wet heat of you still punched the air out of his lungs.
“Oh- fuck- oh my god-” Eddie’s head slammed back against the couch. His hands flew to your hips, fingers digging in, rings pressing into your skin. “You’re so wet- so fucking tight- I can feel everything- thank you- fuck sweetheart- ”
You started to move.
Slow rolls of your hips at first, grinding down so your clit dragged against him with every pass. The wet sounds were shameless- the slick slide of you riding him, the filthy squelch every time you sank down. His cock was twitching inside you already, pulsing like it was trying to come from the first stroke.
Eddie was gone.
“You feel so good- I’m not gonna last- I’m sorry- I’m so sorry but you’re so warm and wet and I’ve been so hard for so long-” His voice was already cracking, words tumbling out between broken moans. “Thank you for using me- you’re so perfect- I love how you feel around me- I love being inside you- please don’t stop- please- I’ll be good- I’ll be your good boy-”
You picked up the pace, bouncing on him now, the couch creaking under you. Every time you dropped down he made the most desperate, overwhelmed sounds- high little whimpers and shaky gasps. His hands were shaking on your hips. Sweat was rolling down his temples and chest. His curls were a wild mess against the cushion.
“I can feel you clenching- fuck- you’re gonna make me come- I’m trying to hold it- I’m trying so hard but you feel too good-” His eyes were glassy, unfocused, locked on where you were joined. “You’re dripping down my cock- I can feel it- thank you for letting me have this- I’ll give you everything- anything you want-”
You could feel him throbbing harder, getting closer with every roll of your hips. His stomach was clenching, thighs shaking beneath you. He was babbling nonstop now, voice hoarse and breaking.
“I love you- I love being yours like this- I love when you use me- when you tell me what to do- when you ride me like I’m just here for you to feel good on- thank you- thank you for my reward- thank you for letting me come- I’m gonna- ah- I’m gonna-”
He came with a broken, sobbing moan, hips jerking up helplessly as he spilled deep inside you. Thick pulses of come flooded you, hot and endless, while he kept babbling through it, voice cracking and wet.
“Thank you- thank you- oh fuck- thank you for letting me come inside you- I’m still coming- I can’t stop- you feel too good- I love you- I love you so much-”
His whole body was shaking beneath you, eyes squeezed shut, tears slipping from the corners as the orgasm ripped through him. He kept twitching and pulsing inside you long after he should have stopped, overstimulated and overwhelmed, still whispering ragged thanks against your skin.
When it finally eased, he went boneless under you, chest heaving, face flushed and tear-streaked, lips parted around shaky breaths. His cock was still half-hard inside you, sensitive and twitching with every tiny movement you made.
Eddie looked completely wrecked.
And you loved every second of it.
You leaned down, kissed the tears off his cheek, and whispered against his mouth,
“Good boy.”
He whimpered again, soft and broken, and nuzzled into your hand like he could live there forever.
You stayed on top of him for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, his cock still twitching weakly inside you as the last aftershocks rolled through him. His come was already starting to leak out around where you were joined, warm and slick, making everything messy between your thighs. Eddie’s hands were still loosely gripping your hips, but his grip had gone soft and shaky.
You leaned down and kissed his forehead, then the corner of his eye where a tear had slipped free.
“Shh… I’ve got you,” you whispered.
Carefully, you lifted off him. He made a small, broken sound at the loss, but you didn’t go far. You grabbed the soft throw blanket from the back of the couch and guided him to lie down properly, then crawled in beside him, pulling the blanket over both of you. The couch was narrow, so you ended up half on top of him anyway- your head on his chest, one leg thrown over his, your hand resting right over his racing heart.
Eddie immediately curled into you like he was afraid you’d disappear. His arms came around you, strong but trembling, and he buried his face in your hair. You could feel how hard he was still breathing, the rapid thump of his heart under your cheek, the way little aftershocks kept making his stomach jump.
For a while, neither of you spoke. You just held him. Your fingers stroked slowly through his damp curls, untangling them gently. You traced the shell of his ear, the line of his jaw, the sweat cooling on his neck. Every so often you pressed a soft kiss to his chest, right over his heart.
Eventually his breathing started to slow. His grip on you loosened from desperate to something softer, more trusting.
You felt him swallow before he whispered, voice hoarse and small against your hair,
“…I’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen.”
The words came out shaky, like he’d been holding them in for years and they were finally too heavy to keep.
You lifted your head just enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes still wet, but he met your gaze without looking away.
“I used to tell myself it was just a crush,” he continued, barely above a whisper. “That it would go away. But it never did. Every time you smiled at me like I wasn’t the weird kid… every time you let me ramble about stupid shit no one else cared about… I fell a little harder. And then we moved in here and you started telling me what to do and it felt like something in my brain just… clicked. Like I’d been waiting my whole life for you to take control and I didn’t even know it.”
His voice cracked. He pressed his face into your neck for a second, breathing you in.
“I was so scared I’d ruin everything if I said anything. That you’d think I was gross or pathetic for wanting you to boss me around. For wanting to be good for you like that.” He let out a wet little laugh. “Turns out I’m both of those things and you still let me have you. I don’t know what I did to deserve that.”
You tightened your arms around him, one hand sliding down to rest on the small of his back, skin warm and damp under your palm.
“You’ve always been good for me, Eddie,” you whispered back. “Even before tonight. You’ve been my best friend. My safe place. And tonight…” You kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and slow. “Tonight you were perfect. I loved every second of it.”
He made a soft, overwhelmed sound and tucked his face into your neck again. You felt him press a shaky kiss there.
“I want this,” he whispered. “All of it. The bossing me around. The making me come so hard I cry. The holding me after. I want to be yours like this. Not just tonight. I want… I want to keep being your good boy. If you’ll have me.”
You pulled back just far enough to cup his face, thumbs brushing away the fresh tears that had slipped free. His eyes were so open, so vulnerable, it made your chest ache in the best way.
“I want that too,” you told him, voice steady and sure. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, Eddie. Life with you is easy. This- this is easy. The way you fall apart when I tell you what to do. The way you look at me like I hung the fucking moon when I call you good boy.” You smiled, soft and a little teasing. “I love taking care of you. I love that you trust me enough to let go like that.”
He let out a shaky breath that sounded like relief and pressed his forehead to yours.
“I trust you with everything,” he whispered. “Always have.”
You stayed like that for a long time- tangled under the blanket, skin cooling, hearts slowing down together. Every so often one of you would murmur something soft. You told him how beautiful he looked when he came, how proud you were of him for being so honest. He told you how safe he felt in your hands, how he’d never felt anything like this with anyone else, how he wanted to learn exactly what you liked so he could be even better for you.
At some point you got up just long enough to grab a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom. You cleaned him gently- between his legs, the mess on his stomach, the tear tracks on his face- while he watched you with soft, sleepy eyes. Then you cleaned yourself and climbed right back into his arms.
He pulled the blanket tighter around both of you and tucked your head under his chin.
“Can we stay like this for a while?” he asked quietly. “Just… hold each other? I don’t think I’m ready to move yet.”
You smiled against his chest.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “We can stay right here as long as you want.”
His arms tightened around you. One of his hands found yours under the blanket and laced your fingers together.
“I love you,” he said again, even softer this time, like a secret just for the two of you.
You squeezed his hand and pressed a kiss right over his heart.
Hello I was wondering if I could request Eddie Munson X female reader where he teacher her how to do cowgirl for the first time as she had always been avoiding it when he asked
Thank youuu
₊ ° ⊹ ♡ 𝐚/𝐧: i love this sm!! i added a little more to this request, i hope that’s okay <3
⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: smut, riding, cowgirl position, gentle dom eddie, kinda nervous reader, p in v, some dirty talk ig, praise and a little teasing, established relationship, foreplay (f receiving), creampie and unprotected sex (AGAIN. BE SAFE!!!)
the rain hammered against the corrugated metal roof of eddie’s trailer, a steady, insistent rhythm that seemed to mirror the quickening beat of your own heart. he was on top of you, a comfortable weight against your back, his hands tangled in your hair, pulling gently at the loose strands. his mouth was moving against yours, a slow exploration that tasted of cheap beer and the cigarettes he smoked. you responded with small, involuntary moans, a fragile sound lost amidst the drumming rain and eddie’s low hum—a mix of pleasure and a surprising tenderness. his head spun, tilting slightly as he absorbed your reactions, a genuine amusement flickering in his dark eyes.
then, abruptly, he pulled back, a slight smirk playing on his lips. just as he was about to flip you both over, giving you the chance to take control, you yelped, a sharp, involuntary sound that startled even him.
the amusement vanished from his face, replaced by a swift concern that tightened his brow. "what was that? you okay?" he asked, his voice soft, laced with genuine worry.
he brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his fingertips lingering for a moment, sending a shiver through you. you shook your head, a blush creeping up your neck, staining your skin a delicate pink.
“sorry, eds,” you mumbled, the words barely audible. “um… can we save that for another night?”
eddie froze, his body still positioned above you, and a confused frown deepened on his face. you and eddie had been intimate several times now—passionate, even messy sometimes—but this felt different. this was the first time someone had taken charge, demanded something from you, and you hadn't known how to respond. you’d always given just as much, exploring his touch, offering your warmth, but this... this felt like a leap you weren’t quite ready to make. still, he wouldn't push, a quiet understanding radiating from him. he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, a small, reassuring gesture.
“yeah, of course,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”
your heart fluttered. you always appreciated how great of a boyfriend eddie was—the way he anticipated your needs before you voiced them, the unwavering patience he possessed, the absolute refusal to pressure you into anything you weren’t truly ready for. he did everything he could to create a space where you felt safe, utterly and completely comfortable, and it was a comfort you hadn’t realized you craved so desperately until he’d offered it. he was the first boyfriend you’d ever truly done things with sexually, a fact that hung heavy in the humid air of the trailer, a potent mixture of excitement and vulnerability.
still, you couldn't shake the embarrassment, a prickly heat rising in your cheeks that threatened to spill over into a full blush. you were his girlfriend now, yet the simple act of intimacy remained a landscape of anxieties. the memory of his touch, even momentarily withdrawn, sparked a nervous tremor through you. it wasn't a rejection of him, not at all—you found his presence intoxicating, his laughter infectious —but the sheer novelty of it all, the responsibility of inhabiting such a deeply personal space with someone you cared about, left you feeling acutely aware of your own awkwardness.
you were his girlfriend, and you still got nervous around him, a disconcerting realization that settled deep within your stomach like a cold stone. the thought of disappointing him, of not meeting his expectations, fueled the self-consciousness.
a month had passed, and now you were crammed into eddie’s old van, the scent of greasy burgers from benny’s filling the air.
eddie, predictably unpredictable, brought up that fateful night, his voice cutting through the silence. "hey, you remember a month ago when you came over? it was when that huge storm came," he said, his tone casual, almost conversational.
you flipped through the memories in your mind, the events of that night playing out like a vivid movie reel. the thunder, the rain, the way your heart raced as eddie pulled you close...
realization dawned on you, and you let out a soft giggle. "oh, yeah! yeah, i remember. i ended up getting stranded there for a couple hours," you replied, the memory still tinged with excitement.
eddie chuckled, taking a large bite of his burger, the juices dripping down his chin. you couldn't help but smile at the sight, finding even his messiness endearing. you leaned over to wipe some of the grease off with your napkin. he tried to playfully bite your arm when you pulled away, making you laugh.
then, in a single sentence, he shattered the easygoing atmosphere. "yeah, i know. but uh... that night, i tried to initiate something. you looked a little nervous about it," he said, his voice low and heavy with implication.
you froze, realizing what he was getting at, the conversation from that night coming back to you in vivid detail. the way he had tried to flip you both over, giving you the chance to take control, to be on top... and how you had panicked, yelped, and ultimately brushed off the idea.
your cheeks flamed with embarrassment, a fierce heat that spread from your face to the tips of your ears. you could feel eddie’s gaze on you, his dark eyes searching your face for answers. the van suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker, as if the very space between you and him had been sucked out. you swallowed hard, your mouth dry, the burger forgotten in your lap. how do you explain this to him? how do you articulate the swirl of nerves and anxiety that had seized you that night, the fear of disappointing him, of not measuring up to his expectations?
you cleared your throat, the sound harsh in the sudden silence of the van. "it’s... it's not really a big deal," you mumbled, your words tumbling out in a rush, an attempt to deflect and distance yourself from the uncomfortable truth.
eddie tilted his head, studying you with an intensity that made you squirm. his dark eyes seemed to see right through you, reading the lie for what it was—a flimsy excuse, a feeble attempt to change the subject.
he leaned back against the worn leather seat, his burger forgotten in his hand. "hey, come on," he said softly, his tone gentle but firm. "we can talk about anything, remember? no secrets between us." he reached out, his hand hovering near yours, an unspoken invitation. "if something's bothering you, if you don't want to be intimate anymore, you can just tell me. i’m not going to push you or make you uncom—“
your heart clenched at his words, a painful twist of emotion. the thought of him believing you didn't want to be with him, that you were pulling away from him... it was unbearable.
you shook your head vigorously, your voice rising in protest. "no, no, it's not that! i do want to be intimate with you, i swear. you know that, right?" your eyes searched his face, desperate for reassurance, for confirmation that he understood the depth of your feelings for him.
eddie’s expression softened, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "of course i know that," he murmured, his hand finally closing the distance between you, his fingers intertwining with yours. the contact was electric, sending a jolt of warmth up your arm, chasing away the lingering chill of embarrassment. "but there's something else, isn't there? something you're not telling me."
you hesitated, your tongue darting out to wet your suddenly dry lips. the words hung on the tip of your tongue, a confession you were terrified to make but knew you needed to. "i… i’ve never..." you started, the admission trailing off into silence. eddie waited patiently, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand, a soothing motion that helped you find the courage to continue.
"i’ve never ridden anyone before," you finished in a rush, the words tumbling out like a confession. "the idea makes me a little nervous."
eddie’s eyes widened slightly, surprise etched across his handsome features. for a moment, he simply stared at you, processing your confession. then, slowly, a grin began to spread across his face, transforming his expression into one of pure adoration. "well, damn," he chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "here i was thinking you didn't find me attractive enough or something."
relief washed over you like a tidal wave, the tension in your shoulders melting away. eddie’s reaction, his willingness to joke about the situation rather than dwell on it, was exactly what you needed.
you laughed, the sound bubbling up from deep within your chest. "shut up," you teased, playfully swatting at his arm. "like you have any reason to complain."
he caught your hand mid-swat, bringing it to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. his dark eyes sparkled with mischief, a glint that sent a shiver down your spine.
"oh, i don't know about that," he purred, his voice low and husky. “ i mean, one of these days, i could definitely teach you a thing or two..."
your heart skipped a beat at his words, the promise in them igniting a fire low in your stomach. "yeah?" you breathed, the word slipping past your parted lips.
eddie nodded, his gaze locked on yours, his intent clear. "yeah," he confirmed, his thumb rubbing slow circles on the sensitive skin of your wrist. "and trust me, sweetheart, it'll be worth every second."
a week had passed since that conversation in the van, a stretch of time defined by anticipation and quiet longing. you both had been waiting for the perfect window—waiting for his uncle wayne to pull another double shift at the plant, or for your parents to be engrossed in their own lives, leaving you with precious hours of privacy.
finally, the stars aligned.
the air in eddie’s trailer was thick with the scent of cigarettes, cheap cologne, and the heavy, electric tension of desire. you were on his bed, tangled together in a heap of limbs and discarded layers. shirts had been shoved aside, jeans kicked off into a chaotic pile near the door. eddie was above you, his weight comforting rather than oppressive, his mouth claiming yours with a fervor that made your head spin. his hands roamed over your skin, mapping every curve, every sensitive spot, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
he pulled back just enough to break the kiss, his breathing ragged, before lowering himself again. this time, he didn’t aim for your lips. Instead, he trailed kisses down the column of your neck, lingering at the pulse point that hammered wildly beneath his touch. he moved lower, his lips brushing against your collarbone, then your chest, each kiss slow and deliberate, igniting nerves you hadn’t known existed. when he reached your stomach, you instinctively tried to still yourself, but a small shiver betrayed you, your hips twitching involuntarily as his tongue traced the line of your navel.
eddie paused, lifting his head to look at you. his eyes were dark, dilated with lust, but also filled with that familiar, teasing warmth. a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he leaned back down, pressing soft, wet kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.
“need to make sure this pussy’s ready before it bounces on my cock, right?” he teased softly, his voice rough with want. the blunt honesty of it sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.
you let out a shaky breath, your fingers gripping the sheets, and gave a small, hesitant nod.
his hands gripped your thighs, his thumbs digging into your skin as he pulled you closer, opening you up to him. but he didn’t stop there. he looked up at you, his gaze intense and unyielding.
“i need a verbal response, sweetheart,” he murmured teasingly, the vibration of his voice humming against your most sensitive skin, sending a jolt of electricity straight up your spine. the sound brought a soft, involuntary whimper from your throat, your hips twitching in anticipation despite your nerves.
“m-mhm. you’re right,” you said shakily, the words barely forming before they were swallowed by the heavy, charged air of the room.
eddie’s smile widened, a genuine, heartwarming expression that softened the hunger in his eyes. “atta girl.”
he didn’t wait for further permission; he knew he had it. With deliberate slowness, he lowered himself between your legs, his hands resting gently on your hips to steady you, not to restrain, but to anchor.
this time, there was no teasing remark, no playful provocation. there was only focused, reverent attention.
when his tongue finally made contact, it was a slow, sweeping stroke that drew a sharp gasp from your lips. your back arched instinctively off the mattress, your fingers tangling in the sheets as the sensation overwhelmed your senses. eddie worked with a patience that bordered on artistic, exploring you with a curiosity that told you he was memorizing every reaction, every shiver, every way your body responded to him.
“look at you,” he whispered against you, his breath hot and wet, before taking you deeper. “so responsive. so perfect for me.”
the praise washed over you like warm water, easing the tension that had coiled tight in your stomach since you’d first confessed your inexperience. he wasn’t rushing. he wasn’t judging. every time you tensed up out of habit or fear, he would pause, pulling back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours.
“you’re doing so good,” he’d murmur, brushing his thumb over your hip or stroking your thigh. “just breathe for me. i’ve got you.”
his technique was masterful—a rhythmic, deliberate dance of suction, flicking tongues, and warm, wet pressure that seemed to know the precise geography of your desire. he moved from broad, sweeping strokes that teased the edges of your pleasure to small, pinpoint bursts of intensity directly where you needed it most.
"god, you feel so wet already," he’d sigh against you, the sound vibrating through your core, before shifting his focus, drawing out a deep, satisfying pull that made you gasp his name.
when you started to lose yourself in the sensation, starting to ride the edge of overwhelming feeling, you instinctively reached up, your fingers finding purchase in the thick, soft hair at the nape of his neck. you began to buck your hips upward, a sudden surge of instinct demanding more, faster. but eddie held you firmly in place, his hands anchoring your thighs to the mattress.
“easy,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding, yet saturated with affection. “you have plenty of time for that later, trust me. right now, you just lie there and let me make you feel good, yeah?”
his words were a command, but they were delivered with such tenderness that you obeyed instantly. you forced yourself to relax, to stop fighting the inevitable and instead surrender to it. eddie sensed the shift. he increased his pace, his fingers pumping in and out of you in time with the frantic licks of his tongue. he sucked on your clit with a suction that made your vision blur, alternating between slow, languid strokes and rapid, teasing flicks that built a pressure coiling tight at the base of your spine. each kiss, each suckle, brought out an involuntary moan or whimper from your parted lips. he praised every quiver, every catch of breath, every subtle shift in your muscles.
"see? you like that pace," he'd breathe, a triumphant note in his tone. "you’re being so good for me, sweet girl. so patient.”
your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, anchoring him to you as the world narrowed down to the slick heat of his mouth and the rough texture of his jeans against your thighs. a low, guttural groan vibrated directly into your core, a sound of pure pleasure that seemed to fuel eddie’s rhythm even more. he didn’t pull away; instead, he leaned into your touch, his tongue flattening out to lap at your swollen clit with relentless, teasing precision.
“i’m gonna—” you whimpered, your voice breaking into a ragged gasp. your back arched off the mattress, your toes curling so hard they ached. the coil inside you was tight, dangerously close to snapping. “eddie, i’m gonna come…”
he hummed against you, the vibration sending shivers through your entire body, but he didn’t stop. if anything, his movements became more deliberate, more focused on drawing out every last drop of sensation from you. he knew exactly what to do, his instincts sharp and attuned to your reactions. he sucked gently, then flicked rapidly, alternating between slow, languid strokes and quick, teasing touches that kept you on the edge without letting you fall too soon.
“yeah?” he whispered against your skin, his voice thick with desire. “come for me, sweetheart. let it go.”
the command broke the dam. you cried out, your hips bucking despite his earlier warning, but this time he held you firm, his hands like vices on your waist, keeping you grounded while he worked you through the climax. kt started as a deep thrum in your stomach, spreading outward in waves of intense, blinding pleasure. your inner muscles clamped down around nothing, pulsing rhythmically as the orgasm crashed over you, leaving you breathless and trembling.
as the waves began to subside, eddie slowed his pace. he didn’t pull away immediately. instead, he continued to kiss and lick the sensitive, oversensitive flesh, drawing out the aftershocks, ensuring you rode the high of your release for as long as possible. his tongue traced soft, soothing patterns, calming your racing heart and easing the tension from your limbs. you laid there, panting, your hand still tangled loosely in his hair, your body feeling light and electrically charged.
eddie’s grin widened as he slipped his mouth away, the cool night air brushing the heat he’d just left behind. he lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, dark and glinting with satisfaction.
“there we go,” he whispered, his voice low and rough, “look at you, all trembling and beautiful.”
he reached up, his fingers finding the curve of your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheek. “you did good, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “now sit up for me.”
your limbs felt heavy, but the promise in his tone pulled you forward. you swung your legs over the edge of the mattress, the thin sheets rustling as you shifted. eddie helped you adjust, his hands steadying your hips, his breath warm against your ear.
“we’re gonna take this slow,” he said, his tone both instruction and reassurance. “i want you to feel every inch of me inside you, not just the rush.”
he shifted his weight, his own body aligning with yours. the bed creaked under the new angle, the sound a soft, intimate percussion. he leaned back, his back against the headboard, giving you space to settle onto him. the mattress dipped as you lowered yourself, his length pressing against your core. yiu could feel the faint tremor of anticipation in his muscles, the way his breath hitched as you found your balance.
“okay?” he asked, his eyes never leaving yours, the question hanging like a promise.
you nodded, feeling a mixture of nerves and thrill. “okay,” you echoed, your voice steadier than you felt.
he placed his hands on your hips, his palms warm and firm. “you’re in control now,” he said, his voice a husky whisper. “ride me the way you want.
you blinked once, twice, before the meaning of his words sank in. control. you were in control now. the realization settled into your bones, filling you with a sense of power and trepidation in equal measure.
his hands remained steady on your hips as you rocked forward experimentally, your body moving on instinct alone. the sensation was unlike anything you'd experienced before—full, overwhelming, the stretch delicious in its intensity. eddie inhaled sharply as you found your rhythm, his grip tightening fractionally on your hips.
“like this," he encouraged hoarsely, his voice strained with concentration as his hands on your hips guided you. "nice and slow."
you nodded mutely, your focus narrowing down to the slide of skin against skin, the drag of muscle against nerve ending. up and down, your hips rolled almost imperceptibly, but the effect was immediate. eddie’s breath grew ragged, his hips canting involuntarily to meet your movement.
“that’s it," he gasped, his fingers digging into your flesh as he fought the urge to buck into your embrace. "fuck, you feel so good."
pride blossomed in your chest at his reaction, a fierce joy suffusing your limbs. you leaned forward, changing the angle subtly. eddie’s head fell back against the pillow, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed a strangled groan.
"yeah," he breathed, his eyelids fluttering closed as sensation threatened to overwhelm him. "just like that. you like taking this cock, huh?”
your eyes fluttered open, meeting his dark, hooded gaze. the filthy praise sent a shiver through you, your walls clamping down around him reflexively. you let out a soft whimper, the sound catching in your throat as pleasure spiraled through your core.
"mmm, yeah," he groaned, his fingers flexing into your skin. "do that again. squeeze me like that."
you bit your lip, rocking your hips in a circular motion, grinding down against him. the friction sent sparks shooting through your veins, making your head fall back. "eddie!" you gasped, the name torn from your lips.
"that’s it, baby," he panted, his voice dropping to a husky rumble. “ride this cock like you mean it. it’s all yours.”
encourage by his words, you picked up the pace, your movements becoming less tentative and more confident. your hands braced against his chest, using the leverage to lift yourself higher before sinking back down in a deliberate, punishing rhythm.
"fuckkk," he grunted, his hips surging up to meet yours. "your pussy feels so good—god, i can feel you clenching…”
your breath came in short, desperate pants, your chest heaving with exertion. the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small trailer, mixing with the wet, obscene noises of your bodies joining. eddie’s hands moved from your hips to your thighs, pushing them apart to expose you more fully to his gaze.
“there," he rasped, his eyes glued to where you took him. "show me how much you love this. show me how badly you need it."
your cheeks burned, but the command sparked something primal in you. you arched your back, rolling your hips in a way that had him cursing under his breath. "i… i need..." you stammered, unable to finish the thought.
"i know," eddie breathed, his thumb finding your clit and circling it lazily. "i know what you need, sweetheart. and you're gonna get it."
the combination of his cock filling you, his thumb working your clit, and his dirty, praising words proved too much.
your movements began to falter, your thighs trembling with exhaustion as you ground down against him. small, desperate whimpers escaped your lips, the sounds mingling with eddie’s ragged breaths.
a knowing smirk tugged at his mouth. "aw, you tired, sweetheart?" his voice was rough, teasing. "tired from riding this big cock?"
you nodded helplessly, your eyes glazed with pleasure and fatigue. "mhm…"
"let me help you, yeah?" he shifted his grip, his large hands moving from your hips to your waist. before you could process the change, he began lifting and bouncing you down onto his length with practiced ease, establishing a rhythm that had both of you groaning.
“oh god!" you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders for support. the sudden increase in speed and force sent shockwaves through your exhausted body, reigniting every nerve ending.
"atta girl," eddie grunted, his hips driving upward to meet your descent. "take every inch of me. you were doing so good, baby. listening to me so well. don’t stop now."
his words fueled what little energy you had left. you matched his movements, pushing down as hard as he lifted you up, the wet slap of flesh echoing through the room. your breasts bounced with each impact, and eddie’s gaze tracked the movement hungrily.
“so fucking pretty," he breathed, one hand sliding up to palm your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. "feels so good inside you."
you were close, so close you could feel the pressure building deep in your core. eddie must have sensed it too. "that’s it," he urged, his voice dropping to a desperate rasp. "come for me again. milk my cock, sweetheart. i’m right there with you."
your nails dug into his shoulders, your entire body tensing as waves of pleasure crashed over you. you heard eddie’s sharp groan as he followed you over the edge, his hips jerking erratically as he spilled into you.
his hips jerked forward one last time, pressing hard against you as thick, hot spurts filled you, each pulse a warm, liquid rush that spread through your core and made your walls flutter around him. you could feel the rhythmic throbbing of his release, the way his cock twitched and softened inside you, sending a lingering heat that mingled with the aftershocks of your own climax. a soft, satisfied sigh escaped his lips as he stilled, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trembling in the aftermath.
his breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly against yours, and for a moment the only sound in the room was the ragged inhale and exhale of two bodies slowly coming down from the high. eddie’s hands, still gripping your waist, eased their hold, his thumbs tracing gentle circles over your skin as he tried to ground himself. he lifted his head just enough to brush his lips against yours in a soft, lingering kiss—tender, reverent, a silent thank you for the trust you’d given him.
you smiled into the kiss, your lips still tingling from the intensity, and returned it with equal softness, feeling his breath mingle with yours.
when you finally parted, eddie’s dark eyes searched yours, a lazy smile playing on his lips. "how was it?" he asked, his voice rough but warm.
a genuine smile spread across your face, your cheeks flushed and your hair disheveled. "i’d definitely do it again," you answered honestly, punctuating the statement with a soft laugh. "thanks to you being a good teacher."
he chuckled, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead. "anytime, sweetheart. anytime."
Description: No one knows what's truly going on between you and Eddie Munson.
Pairing: Rockstar! Eddie Munson x Popstar Princess reader
Author's Note: Might do a part 2 because I love them 💋
The world has no idea about what you and Eddie Munson have going on.
It would be a total surprise if anyone found out.
You're both on two completely different sides of the music world.
You're all glitz and glamour, and he's wild and brazen.
No one expects that you two even cross paths.
"You coming over tonight?" Eddie asks through the phone.
"Yeah. I'll just put a bag over my head for discreetness." You tease, continuing to do your pedicure as you hold the phone to your ear.
"Your body would give the hint everyone's looking for."
"Oh, and what's that?"
"Eddie Munson has bagged a hot woman."
"What if we're 'just friends'?" You joke.
"No chance. The neighbors will have a first count of exactly why we're not 'just friends'."
"You're a total perv."
"You love it. See you later, princess."
You're dressed like a sleuth over your actual outfit when you unlock his door and enter. The moment you're inside, you drop your things and rip off the ridiculous clothes.
"Eddie?" You huff from the weight of throwing everything down. "I would've liked a kiss at the door." You tease.
He's coming down the stairs, shirtless with a cig in his mouth. The stray curls of his low ponytail sway lightly with each step he takes.
"Alright, I'm coming." He chuckles.
The more you admire him, the more you understand why you've written a handful of sexy songs about him.
"You look nice." He grins before placing his cig between his lips to pick up your things. "Come upstairs, you don't have to be shy."
"I'm not shy-"
"Mhm." He teases.
He snuffs out the cig once he puts your belongings on the bed.
"Now…come here."
He lifts you up with a slight grunt right before kissing you. The faint scent of the cig lingers with the mixture of his natural scent.
The scent that feels like home.
He pulls away with a playful smack sound from his lips leaving yours.
"I've missed you like hell."
"I've missed you, too. I've been so…"
"Busy?"
"Mhm. All the album promotions have been tiring me out to hell."
"Sounds like you need some TLC from the Munson meister." He grins.
"Never call yourself that ever again."
"I thought you loved me." He pouts.
"Don't start." You chuckle. "Let me down so I can unpack."
"Yes ma'am. I love when you get all assertive on me." He puts you down, and gives you a butt smack.
DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT — cnc, primal play, uhm... some dub-con if you squint, bondage, the mask stays on, degradation, hair pulling, outdoor sex, blood!! reader is a little dumb and got injured, overstimulation, creampie, dex is taking his job way too seriously
1.3k words...
chased and fucked
you kept on running and running. giggling to yourself as you looked behind you. seeing him just walk after you. you hated that. oh my gosh, he wasn’t even trying. like he already knew how this would end.
so you turned a sharp corner. sprinting faster. putting as much distance between the two of you as possible. your breaths came out in quick bursts. your lungs burned. you ran and ran that you didn’t notice the silence behind you.
you looked over your shoulder. nothing. maybe he took the wrong turn or he lost you? your heartbeat disagreed.
is this how his fucking victims feel?
you swallowed hard before slipping into another narrow alley. trying to catch your breath. then your foot landed on an old can. it rolled loudly across the pavement.
you stumbled. your knees slammed against the concrete and pain bloomed instantly. blood trickled down your skin. “...ow…”
as you looked up, there he was. already standing at the end of the alley. watching. he started walking again. not hurried. not excited. fuck, you don’t understand. every step echoed. you instinctively crawled backwards. which got you more confused because that is literally your boyfriend. why would you be scared?
“dex…” another step. “wait... wait…” closer. “i can’t... my... my knees…” closer. “can we…” he stopped right in front of you. then lowered himself onto one knee. one arm rested lazily over his thigh. his head tilted. like you had just asked the dumbest question imaginable.
those eyes. god.
even if he was wearing his mask, his eyes were so expressive that it made you wonder so many emotions in there. confusion. curiosity. amusement. excitement. excitement?
you couldn’t breathe. you reached for his sleeve. your fingers lightly tapped against his arm. “...please?”
he simply looked at your hand. and back at you.
his hand went to the wound on your knee. tracing the blood. “hurts, baby? want me to stop?”
you were confused by his tone. unsure whether or not he was serious or mocking you. either way, you nodded so stupidly.
“that sucks.” he simply responded. you could see him smiling through that mask from how his eyes lifted up. before you could even respond, his hands went under your skirt and ripped your panties off. well… you did purposely wear a skirt for better access but you did not expect him to just straight up rip your panties off in an alley.
you gasped as you immediately closed your legs. he slapped your thighs and kicked your legs apart. you whimpered in pain. you struggled and tried to push him but he easily caught your wrists together as he took his belt off.
“dex- wait-” you struggled again. groaning as you felt your knees aching and still bleeding.
he couldn’t care less. you hated how that made you wetter. this wasn’t your boyfriend who’s about to fuck you. this was bullseye.
he wrapped his belt around your wrists tightly. he fisted your hair then leaned into your ear. “need you to be quiet for me, pretty girl. can you do that?” his voice was a lot deeper and lower. the way it was slightly muffled by his mask did not help the achy feeling in your cunt. tears well up your eyes at how hard he was tugging. “answer me.” he growled in your ear as he tugged your hair harder. actually making your head yank back a little.
you quickly nodded. “yes… yes, dex.”
he simply nodded back before he unzipped his pants. then pulled his boxer down until his cock sprang out. you’ve never seen him harder before. it made you stare for a moment that you forgot that he was about to put that thing inside you. your eyes just widened and you shook your head as he slowly pushed the head inside.
your aching knee shook. which he noticed and put it on his broad shoulder while leaving the other on the ground.
he pushed further and further until he was filling you completely. more tears fell out because he was really stretching you out. his cock felt different or maybe that’s just because of how he is treating you. then he started thrusting inside. not gentle, not passionate. obviously not.
he was fucking you. absolutely fucking you.
he started at a rough, aggressive pace. the sound of your skins slapping together was so loud that it made you scared that people who are sleeping at this time would wake up to the sound and see what’s happening. which… made you clench tighter around him.
“you like this, huh? you wanna be a dirty whore and get fucked outside? is that it?” he pounded you faster and harder. his cock kept on reaching the deepest spot inside you. your tied hands held onto his arm as he was still fisting your hair. trying to pull away but wouldn’t work. you were too weak.
he turned his head to the side, seeing the blood all over your knees that was slowly dripping down your thigh as he kept it raised on his shoulder. he kissed it through his mask. the blood smudging over the fabric. probably the most romantic thing he’d done to you for the past couple of minutes.
you watched as he kissed down. your face was wet with tears. he stopped holding your hair. and delivered a sharp slap to your face before fucking you harder. your legs instinctively close together… which… was no use to him.
everything was so humiliating. you’re getting fucked in a dark alley and you’re literally bleeding and your cunt is getting stretched and-
“dex- i’m- i’m gonna-!” you panicked and whined. he grabbed your face with his free hand. squeezing your cheeks together. he leaned down further until you could feel his fast breathing against your neck.
“oh i know, sweet girl. i know. come on. be a nasty slut and come all over my cock.” his thrust was getting sloppier. he kissed your tears through his mask. your own blood that stuck to his mask smudged a little on your cheeks.
before you could moan again, you felt yourself cumming all over his cock. shaking and sobbing from the feeling. your legs wrapped around his waist.
he keeps pounding you through your orgasm as he chases his own. you whined and cried from overstimulation. trying to push him but he pinned you on the dirty ground.
he let out a heavy whimper as he came inside you. burying his face on your neck. he pounded slowly as he buried his cum inside you. “oh fuck…” he groaned.
you both panted for a while. then he moved. pulling his cock out and tucking it back inside his pants as he watches you. still sobbing and shaking.
he gently helped you sit up. the moment you were steady, you let yourself melt against his chest with a tired sigh. without a word, he reached for the belt still secured around your wrists. his fingers worked carefully, making sure not to rub against the reddened skin as he loosened it. once it slipped free, he set it aside. his hand came up beneath your chin, lifting your head just enough to look at you. you were smiling.
he let out a long, quiet sigh. “this is the only time,” he murmured. “you hear me?” his thumb brushed lightly over the scrape on your knee before he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “i’m serious.”
you only smiled wider, eyes soft and entirely unconvinced. knowing that this surely won’t be the last time because all you need to do next time is to bat your lashes at him. it’s that easy.
contents: anxiety, curse words, friends to lovers. lovesick!eddie, inexperienced!reader, self-consciousness, first kiss, sharing clothes. eddie’s jacket is oversized on reader. can be read as x reader, but a bit oc too? …carnival date.
word count: ~1.5k
eddie munson is in love.
and he’s so sure he’s being obvious about it, but she’s oblivious.
she is entirely inexperienced in anything romantic or sexual; no first kiss, never even got close to it. extremely anxious, but so extremely kind.
some may say she is a bit out of sorts, garrett says she resembles luna lovegood. she doesn’t argue with people, always tears up if confronted about anything, doesn’t have beef with anyone and is a lot more rational than emotional even though she tears up so easily.
eddie admires how she doesn’t hold grudges or care what people think of her… or what others say about her association to eddie himself.
the thing is, she has been introverted her whole life, a very timid person, and so doesn’t understand that eddie munson likes her. maybe because she needs to be told how people feel about her very explicitly otherwise her mind will convince her that they hate her. anxiety is like that. and she’s the kind of person that has a hard time realizing that people can perceive their existence and have feelings for them, no matter what type of feelings, so even though eddie is not at all shy about flirting with her and giving her all of the attention in the world in his over-the-top, overdramatic way, he also knows that if anything other than the friendship he’s thankfully managed to build with her is going to happen, romantic-wise, that she has to be the one to initiate it— but she’s fucking oblivious.
on the other hand though, she doesn’t even bother hiding her infatuation with eddie — it’s a lot more than infatuation by now, if she’s honest.
she’s always looking at him with stars in her eyes and laughs at his jokes and smiles that big, square, goofy smile whenever they lock eyes. the constant praises she sends his way make him flustered in a way eddie isn’t used to.
“you deserve to know how great you are, eddie!” she reminds him, and immediately goes into detailed talks about lord of the rings.
they like many of the same bands or she simply lets him play his favorites for her, followed by accompanying him to hellfire meetings that she loves to spectate on.
her teddy even made her a special edition pink hellfire shirt. ‘cause he’s a simp.
one day, as she’s out with chrissy and heather outside a diner, talking and laughing and catching up, eddie is also close by somewhere with friends. his van is parked nearby.
one day, eddie drives her to a diner to meet up with chrissy and heather while eddie himself meets up with his band at music store next door; his van parked nearby.
it starts getting chilly, and eddie’s girl starts shivering, so she quickly excused herself away from the girls, “gimme a second!” and reaches through the open window of eddie’s van, making a mental note to grill him about it later — “‘cause it isn’t safe, eds!” — to grab his leather jacket thinking of how he has told her over and over that she can borrow it, that “what’s mine is yours, sweets. i don’t mind sharing if it’s with you”, so she figures it’s okay, right? and goes back to the girls who are fucking smirking like they see something she doesn’t.
it’s about fifteen minutes later, and eddie is walking towards the trio, simply because he misses his girl and wants a hug, when he sees it.
she’s wearing his jacket. his jacket.
in typical eddie fashion, he makes a scene— gasping dramatically, he clutches at his chest over his heart and falls to his knees, because fuck what anyone around thinks. his precious girl is wearing his fucking jacket! and she looks like a fucking angel.
“teddy, what are you doin’?”
“do you know how heavenly you look in my jacket? i just had to get on my knees to worship you.”
the boy shuffles closer to his sweet girl on his knees still while he talks and she’s flustered, okay? she’s shy and her face is on fire and she’s covering her cheeks and giggling.
and because it’s eddie, her eddie, she’s not running away to have a panic attack. ‘cause it’s eddie and he’s being sweet, so she can’t focus on anyone else long enough to feel crippling panic or embarrassment. doesn’t even care that chrissy is cooing and heather is smirking.
“that jacket is yours now, you own it. you pretty much own me by now.” eddie says, on his knees, in front of her
“it’s okay that i took it, right?” she makes sure even after his display of joy, ‘cause anxiety isn’t rational “you said i—”
her eddie knows her, though. he stands up, gets real fucking close to her, so close they’re almost touching, with this look of absolute adoration and “i’d give ya everything i have if i could, pretty.”
fast forward a few days later. chrissy kept yapping on and on to the oblivious girl about how “in love” eddie is, but it’s as though her brain won’t let her even entertain the idea.
that is until she’s having a semi-regular quote unquote friend-date with eddie, something they’ve done quite a few times before, and this time they go to the fair. they’re doing everything couples might do, eddie is very aware of this, and he’s over the moon to just be enjoying quality time with his pretty girl until she spots a photobooth, “oh, eds! we have to!” and eddie’s desperately counting coins to pay. the pictures go a little something like this:
after coming up blank with pose ideas, they just look at each other and laugh, but at the sound of his free and bright laugh, she just stares at her boy like he’s a dream come true— the first picture is taken, looking at eddie like he hung the moon while he’s mid-laugh.
eddie notices her staring and goes from loud laughs to breathless ones, a smile on his lips, and whispers a soft “what?”— second picture is taken as the girl quickly presses her lips to his, her very first kiss, and it’s caught on camera.
the third picture depicts eddie’s sweet girl nervously rambling “i was going to ask for permission first, i promise!” while eddie has a glassy, dreamy look on his face, slack jawed, looking at her lips.
and at the fourth snap? eddie presses forward to shut her up with another impossibly soft and tender kiss, both of their eyes are closed and his hand is holding her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek.
after they part from the second kiss, eddie acknowledges that it was her first kiss, a shy “was that okay?” to which his sweetheart just smiles really big and nods excitedly over and over with a breathless giggle. that was the perfect first and second kiss and she couldn’t ask for more.
they hold hands the rest of the night.
♡
── harmo’s footnotes:
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summary: You're wearing a new pair of shorts and Eddie just can't seem to get his hands off you.
word count: 662
cw: MDNI (18+) fingering, oral (f receiving)
Eddie knows that he's done for as soon as you walk out of the bathroom. You're all getting ready to go to the pool with Vicky, Robin, and Scarlet and he doesn't even hear you ask where the sunscreen is because he's so focused on your shorts. You're packing the pool bag as he gets a better look, shamelessly staring. He knows that they're new. They have to be because he definitely would have remembered them.
He's too busy admiring the way that they hug your ass to hear you speaking to him, calling his name over and over. His eyes are laser focused on it, the way the shorts look like they're made for you. God, he really is a lucky man, isn't he?
"Honey?" You ask and Eddie snaps out of it, shaking his head as he looks you in the eyes.
"Hm?" He's been caught but you don't say anything about it, just giving him a pointed look as you hold your hand out.
"Sunscreen?"
"Right." He reaches for the bottle that's sitting on the bed and passes it to you. When you turn, bending over the bed to put the sunscreen in the bag, Eddie can't help but get a handful. He stands behind you, hands cupping each cheek as he gives it a squeeze. When you let out a squeal, he chuckles as he sticks his hands into your back pockets and spins you around.
"Edward Alan Munson!" He should be afraid of the glare you're shooting at him, but today, he's not. Because today, he's un-phased, wanting to see what you've got going on underneath even though he's very well aware.
"C'mon, sweetheart. You know you can't wear those and expect me to not cop a feel. I'm only human."
"You are shameless."
"And you love it." He leans in for a kiss and you can't help but melt into it, wrapping your arms around his neck. You know that neither of you have time for this since you're already supposed to be leaving, but what's ten more minutes?
One of his hands presses against your back while the other fiddles with button of your shorts. He's able to get them unbuttoned and he's mentally cheering himself on because after all these years, he's still got it. He slowly unzips it, smiling against your lips as you whine because of how long he's taking.
"Gotta be patient, sweetheart," he sing-songs. "Can't rush a good thing like this. I want you to enjoy it."
"You've got five minutes."
"Fine."
"But tonight, you can take however long you want." He grins at the promise before his lips find yours again, more hungry this time. He's so needy for you right now even though it's the worst timing, but did you really think this wouldn't happen when you put those shorts on today?
"You know exactly how to drive me crazy, don't you?"
"Yes!" The last word comes out in a breathy moan as his fingers sink inside, your hands grabbing hold of his shoulders as you push yourself against him. "Fuck, Eddie, more."
He gets deeper, curling his fingers so they hit the right spot and you're already so close, screaming out his name as he sinks to his knees as your bikini bottoms come down, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. You're having trouble standing when his lips wrap around your clit, your fingers threading into his hair.
"I don't know what you're doing, but if you could stop and get in the car, that'd be great!" You hear Gigi's voice on the other side of the door and you both freeze, bodies running cold. For a second, you both forgot where you were and what you were doing beforehand. Eddie pulls away from you and helps you get dressed. And In record speed, you both throw your belongings into your bag and head out into the hall, both giggling, suddenly feeling like teenagers again.
You can find the rest of the "I think I Like This Little Life" universe here!
If you’d like to be added to this taglist or any of my others, feel free to fill out the form pinned on my blog! (for 21+ only and teens/ageless blogs will be blocked!!)
summary: You go to a bar after being stood up and really hit it off with the cute bartender.
word count: 2.1k+
It's a really slow night at the bar for Eddie, which really shouldn't be surprising for a Thursday. There's the usual suspects that are here pretty much every day and that damn flickering bulb that he's been meaning to change. A popular rock song plays softly over the speakers as Eddie wipes down the bar, seeing that the time displayed on the clock behind him means that it's almost time to close.
He's whistling along to the song as he continues to wipe everything down, knowing that he definitely needs to mop when he hears a pair of shoes sticking to the floor. And when he looks up, his whistling comes to a stop as he takes you in.
He doesn't know what you're doing here and why you're wearing a dress, but he's not gonna question it. You look out of place amongst the brick wall and heavy metal band posters and he wonders if you had a prior commitment. And just when he thinks you're going to realize that you're in the wrong place, you make your way over to the bar, sitting on one of the stools.
You set your clutch on the bar as you peruse the menu, clearly unsure of what you're going to order. Eddie's trying to keep up with his closing tasks, but he can't keep his eyes off you, trying to psych himself up to take your order. You seem to be eyeing him too and he wonders if the flirty looks are all in his head or if you really mean them. He's still not quite used to the female attention he's gotten since he's left Hawkins and has a hard time deciphering what's flirting and what's being friendly.
"What can I get for you?" He asks as he makes his way over, throwing the towel he's holding onto his shoulder. He's cute with his unruly, curly hair and his smile that you just know makes everyone swoon. In the dim lighting you can barely make out his brown eyes, imagining that they've gotten him out a lot of trouble.
"I was thinking about a glass of wine, but I think I'm gonna go with the-" you cut yourself off, looking down at the menu in front of you. "The Bahama Mama." You're pointing to the radioactive blue colored drink on the menu and Eddie can't help but laugh at that. In the almost year that this place has been open, only a handful of people have ordered the Bahama Mama. They all like the cheap beer or hard liquor.
"Something funny?"
"No, no," he shakes his head. "Coming right up." You watch him mix your drink, wondering what you'd be doing right now if tonight had gone according to plan, but you think you prefer being here with with cute bartender. Even though this is a side of town you don't usually end up on, you don't feel like your in danger here. In fact, this place feels cozy, much like being wrapped up in a warm blanket.
The music playing over the speakers isn't typically something you'd listen to, but you don't mind it. All of the other metal music you've heard has been very harsh on your ears, but this-this is nice. You just know that the bartender controls the music by the way he's singing along as he mixes your drink.
He's not the kind of guy you'd normally be into, but there's something about him that's reeled you in. It's the mysterious air about him that's intrigued you. You can't read his mind and you like that. Too many men have been far too forward with you and if this guy's interested, you have no idea.
"Here you are, one Bahama Mama." He sets the drink in front of you and it's just as blue as the picture, like someone has poured Windex into the glass. He watches you take a sip, smiling when he sees you nod in approval. It's strong but you prefer it. It's been a long night and you deserve a fucking drink.
"Thank you," you pause, waiting to him to give his name.
"Eddie." The name fits him, you think, then immediately wonder if it's short for something or just Eddie. Part of you wants to call him "Edward" just to see his reaction
You give him your name in return and you love the way it sounds when he says it. It sounds so pretty coming from his lips. You have to keep yourself from imagining how it would sound during climax, trying to keep your mind from straying into dirty thoughts territory.
You make small talk as he continues to clean and you sip on your drink. A few of the regulars are still in their usual spots as others have left. It's getting closer and closer to closing time and Eddie really doesn't want to say goodbye to you. You're the most interesting part of his night.
"So, who is this?" You ask, pointing upwards to signify that you're asking about the music. His eyes bug out at the question so you're assuming that you asked the wrong one.
"You're joking," he sputters out a laugh as his hands slam down onto the bar, looking you directly in the eyes. "You've never heard of Black Sabbath?" You shake your head in response. "Ozzy Osbourne?"
"Well, I've heard of them, just never listened to them. At least, not on my own time." He's so used people hating on him for the music he listens to but he appreciates how polite you're being.
"Voluntarily? I can't believe what I'm hearing. You have to be pulling my leg now." He knows you're not and wonders who turned you off of metal. An ex most likely.
"Sorry, metal just hasn't been my thing, but I'd definitely listen to more of this." He can't seem to keep the smile off of his face for the first time tonight. He's not used to talking to customers like this but you're just so easy to have a conversation with. The playful side of him just comes out so easily and he can actually see himself talking to you more after tonight."
"Tell you what, after I close up, we can go upstairs and listening to their greatest hits." You don't usually go home with people you've just met, but you promised yourself you'd get out of your comfort zone. And even though you've just met Eddie, you feel like you can trust him. You fully believe that you're just going to listen to music and that this isn't some ploy to take something from you.
"I'd actually really like that," you nod. It's already 11:30 according to the clock on the wall behind Eddie so you don't have much longer until the bar closes up. You talk about everything and nothing as you help him finish cleaning despite him telling you not to. You don't seem to understand the concept of sitting there and looking pretty which is a damn shame because you're so good at it.
He reluctantly agreed to let you mop the floor, unable to deny that pretty smile you flashed him when you offered. He's pretty sure he'd let you do anything just by seeing the way your lips curl up, showing off your nice teeth. God, he's so easy. You came in here in that fucking dress and charmed him despite your dislike of metal, (he's really going to have to change that) he really wants to get to know you better.
Once the bar is all cleaned up, Eddie takes you by the hand like the gentleman he is and leads you down the hall where the restrooms are located to the door at the very end that's locked. Eddie unlocks it to reveals a staircase that you assume leads up to his apartment. The stairs are very narrow so Eddie makes you go first, so he can catch you if you fall. He truly has no idea how you're wearing those heels, deciding that you have to be a warrior of some type to do it.
You get to the top with no issue and he unlocks the door, opening it for you and letting you in. He's trying to remember if he left it a complete mess before he left but he can't be sure. When he peeks inside, he doesn't see anything wrong until he fully gets through the door and sees the singular bowl in his sink from breakfast. How embarrassing.
You take in the place before you as Eddie turns on the overhead light, the kitchen coming into view as you step inside. It's a small studio apartment, but he's done what he can with the space. You move out of the small kitchen and head into the living/bedroom, his unmade bed taking up most of it. There's a small TV on top of a short bookcase across from the bed. Next to the bookcase is a large stack of books that clearly wouldn't fit and you admire that he likes a read since you know a lot of men don't. And if they do, they're those bullshit shelf help books.
You make yourself at home by sitting on his bed, moving to take off your shoes as he does something in the kitchen. Just when you wonder what he's doing, he comes into the room with two glasses of water.
"Just wanted to make sure you were hydrated after that drink," he says as he passes you one of the glasses which you take gratefully.
"Thank you." You take a few sips then set it on the bed side table to your left before collapsing onto the bed. It's been a long night and the comfort and sheets are so soft that you could just-
"Nice place you've got here," you compliment before you can fully fall asleep. You turn to your right to see Eddie putting on a record and adjusting the volume on the record player that you haven't noticed until now.
"Thanks. The commute to work is really long, though," he jokes and you can't help but laugh. He's got a Black Sabbath album playing just like he promised and when he's got the volume to where he wants it, he makes his way over to the bed and sits next to you but keeps his space.
He wants you to feel comfortable here and really doesn't want to ruin whatever is going between the two of you by not reading the room. You surprise him by scooting closer until your thighs are touching.
"This is a nice dress." He's starting to sweat at his embarrassing attempt at flirting but you seem to be into it with the way that you lean into him, a smirk playing on your pretty lips. He admires the way it flows out, stopping at your thighs, the shade of red popping against your skin.
"Thanks. I actually wore it on a date."
"Did it not go well?"
"Nope. He stood me up." You don't know why you expected anything else since was like pulling teeth to get him to pick a restaurant. It was clear from the beginning that he didn't want to go out with you in the first place so you don't know why you even went through it. Maybe it's just because you're tired of being alone.
"What a dick." Eddie already has a hard time getting dates in the past so he can't imagine just not showing up. He'd consider himself the luckiest guy in the world to be with you. In fact he already does because you'd rather be in his apartment right now than anywhere else.
"Yeah, he was, but all worked out because I'm here with you." Eddie cheeks heat at your words and they're practically on fire when your hand lands on his thigh. It's an innocent touch in this context but it's still burning through his jeans. You lean closer and he closes his eyes in anticipation, only opening them when you lean your head on his shoulder. His arm wraps around your waist awkwardly as you scoot even closer.
You've been quiet for a while and when he turns his head, he sees that you've fallen asleep. He can't help but let out a laugh before slowly moving to lay you down on the bed, draping the comforter over you. You look so pretty like this and he turns off the record player and puts the record back in its sleeve to prevent dust from collecting on it.
And as he places a pillow on top of the rug that's going to be his bed for the night, he wonders what you'll think when you wake up. Like when you realize that this was all a mistake like they all do, will you be mean about it, or will you be the sweetheart he knows you are? He guesses that only time will tell.
If you’d like to be added to this taglist or any of my others, feel free to fill out the form pinned on my blog! (for 21+ only and teens/ageless blogs will be blocked!!)
Hiiii! 💕 I can’t stop thinking about Dr. Feelgood by Mötley Crüe, but with Eddie. I feel like the vibe fits him so well, and I’d absolutely love to see your take on it if up to. No pressure at all:))
Thank you for requesting, doll<3. Here you go ❤️🔥💋
Dr. Feelgood
Description: Eddie's a drug you can't get off of.
(Toxic! Eddie x Toxic reader)
You missed the way he swept you off your feet when you first met, how you were practically lost puppies for each other.
You don't understand how a boy who was once so sweet utters such bitter words.
You're not exactly innocent yourself, either. You've had your fair share of poison against him.
You and Eddie just argued again, and you're livid.
You practically demanded your girls to take you to some random party.
Eddie hasn't heard from you for hours, and has to result to asking one of your mutuals where the hell you are.
When he arrives to the party, some guy is all over you. In reality, he's just talking to you and standing close. But for Eddie, that's too close for comfort.
"What are you doing here?" His voice cuts sharply through the conversation.
"Eddie? What the hell are you doing here?"
"…He your boyfriend?" The guy asks.
"Yes, I am."
The guy is intimidated by Eddie's death glare, so he squeezes past you both.
"Who told you I was here?"
"Don't worry about it. Let's go, now."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"It wasn't a question."
You get a whiff of his cologne when he steps closer to you just an inch enough to where you're intimidated by the intensity of his stance.
You brush past him, clearly pissed off.
The moment you get in the van, you slam the door behind you.
Eddie gets in shortly after, and exhales deeply.
"Do you have any idea how worried I've been?"
"Didn't know you were worried about me all of a sudden."
"Don't start this shit."
"You can't stand when someone else sees me, do you? Even though you're blind when it comes to me."
"You don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Fuck you." You mutter.
"What?"
"Fuck you."
"You know what? That's fucking enough."
And God, the things he's doing to you makes the van hot and dewy, and your handprints are streaked along the misty windows.
As dirty as it is, it's part of why you always come back. The way he fucks is enough to keep anyone around, and you'll be damned to lose him to anyone else.
"It's 'fuck me', right?"
You can't answer because you're getting fucked out, and he knows that shit. He smirks.
"That's what I fucking thought."
"E-Eddie-"
"Shut the fuck up and open your fucking mouth."
You do as he says, and he spits in it before fucking you rougher.
꒰ wc ꒱ 15k words
꒰ summary꒱ after stalking you for years, dex is completely unprepared for the dizzying reality of finally being invited into your life—your apartment, your bed, your soft thighs opening for him so sweetly that he can barely tell where fantasy ends and addiction begins.
.ᐟ contents |
18+ (MDNI), stalking, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f&m!receiving), pervert!dex, canon!dex, fbi!dex, horny!reader, oblivious!reader, stealing, panty sniffing, panic attacks, mental breakdown, suicidal dex, mentally unstable dex, canon compliant, somnophilia, dub-con, inexperienced!dex, mentioned murder, humping, groping, spit swapping, finger sucking, creep!dex, breeding kink, fluff, dark romance, manipulation, gaslighting, all in dex's pov
.ᐟ lizzy’s note |
this fic has been plaguing my life for the last three months and now im finally free. genuinely just wanted to write smut, then forced myself to create plot leading up to it. trying out a new layout, pls don't burn me at the stake.
at this rate stay tuned for my next dex fic in 2027 <3
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
divider by @uzmacchiato
Dex loved sushi night Fridays.
You two had settled into the routine months ago without either of you ever really acknowledging it. Fridays after work. The same tiny sushi place tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, the sign flickering like it was running on borrowed time.
Inside was all warm amber lighting and fogged windows, the air thick with rice vinegar and the low hiss of the grill.
The hostess smiled the second you walked in now, already reaching for a menu you never looked at, because you already knew what you wanted, and Dex already knew you’d order it before you did.
You referred to it as your “cheat day,” something Dex privately thought was bullshit. You were always working on cutting back on takeout or “trying to be healthier,” only to cave every Friday night without fail.
But the word cheat implied you were doing something wrong. Indulging something shameful. And he hated the idea of you apologising for your own appetite.
He’d watched the pattern long enough to know it by heart; Sushi Fridays. Thai food on bad days (red curry, extra spicy, no matter how much it made you sweat). Wings—any kind really— when you were too tired to cook… or on your period.
And coffee, too much coffee, all throughout the week, the same two-pump vanilla order from the cart on 47th.
Dex didn’t think you needed to worry about your weight. The thought irritated him every time it surfaced, a low-grade static at the back of his skull. You were beautiful exactly as you were.
If he had things his way, you’d indulge every craving that crossed your mind. Midnight milkshakes. Extra dessert. Those strawberry candies you liked from the bodega near your apartment.
He’d drive across the city at two in the morning if you suddenly decided you wanted dumplings or lemon cake or greasy diner fries.
The restaurant lights caught against your jewelry when you moved, tiny gold hoops glinting near your jaw. Warm light softened everything about you.
Your skin took on a honeyed tone, the shadows beneath your cheekbones gentle rather than sharp. It made you glow in a way Dex had never been able to properly explain to himself.
Like candlelight catching honey, or the last sun ray through a window at dusk.
He watched you pick up another fried roll with your chopsticks, your nose wrinkling slightly when it nearly slipped apart before you got it into your mouth.
That made him chuckle. A sound that died in the hollow of his chest, swallowed by the space between his ribs.
God.
He needed this.
Needed the quiet rhythm of it after the last week spent buried in FBI work. The lies. The noise. Too many voices in his ear, too many meetings, too much time spent orbiting Wilson Fisk and his suffocating shadow.
His apartment never helped either. Too quiet and too still. Silence had a way of making his thoughts louder, the walls pressing in until he had to pace just to feel like he still had room to breathe.
But here, things felt… normal.
Outside, rain poured weakly past the windshield of Dex’s car.
The wipers had been off for a while now, leaving the glass streaked with dried residue. The heater hummed low near his knees, filling the car with dry warmth and the heavy, layered smell of fried tempura, soy sauce, and burnt coffee that had long gone cold in the cupholder.
Across the street, through the fogged window of the sushi place, you laughed suddenly at something on your phone, leaning forward across the table.
Dex smiled before he could stop himself.
He adjusted the takeout container balanced carefully in his lap before it tipped against the console. The plastic lid was beaded with condensation, the heat of the food fogging it from inside.
Soy sauce packets crowded the cupholder beside the coffee and crinkled napkins were shoved messily near the parking brake.
One dumpling had leaked grease through the paper container onto his slacks minutes ago, a dark stain spreading across the fabric near his knee, but he barely cared.
He hadn’t even registered the warmth of it until it had already cooled.
Dex stuffed another piece of sushi into his mouth absently, chewing without tasting, his eyes never leaving you.
The rice was a little dry. The ginger had that sharp, stinging bite that made the back of his throat tighten.
He’d picked up the order right before you came in, timed it so the food would still be warm when he settled into the driver’s seat.
His monocular rested against his thigh for barely a second before he lifted it again automatically. He settled it back against his socket without thinking, the world snapping into that familiar, compressed clarity.
His pulse eased the moment your face sharpened back into focus.
There she is.
Chin propped lazily into your palm now, reading something intently on your phone. A server passed behind you carrying a tray and even distracted, you looked up at him automatically. Sweet and polite.
Warm in that effortless way that still twisted something painfully tight inside Dex’s chest after all these years.
You gave pieces of yourself away carelessly without even realising it. A smile here. A laugh there. A small wave to a regular who held the door for you.
You never hoarded your warmth. It just spilled out of you, abundant and unguarded, and Dex collected every stray drop like a man dying of thirst.
His thumb moved slowly against the steering wheel, tracing the seam where the leather had begun to crack near the top.
This was exactly what he needed after the week he’d had.
Just you and him.
The thought surfaced without permission, settling somewhere deep behind his sternum. He let it sit there as his hand drifted toward the glove compartment without looking away from you once.
The latch gave with a quiet click, and his fingers found the familiar bundle by touch alone, soft cotton folded neatly in the dark, tucked beside his registration and a crumpled gas receipt.
He drew it carefully into his lap, keeping his eyes fixed on your silhouette through the monocular.
The pale fabric bunched lightly in his fist. The lace trim was cool against his palm, delicate, a detail he’d traced with his fingertips so many times that he could map it blind.
Almost absentmindedly, like a man reaching for a cigarette or rubbing a familiar scar, he brought the stolen panties toward his face and inhaled slowly.
The smell hit him in stages. First the faint, clean scent of your vanilla lotion, the one you applied after every shower. Then the warmer note of your shea body oil, the one you massaged into your elbows and knees before bed.
Beneath that, something warmer and distinctly you, something saline and soft that settled low in his stomach hard enough to make his slacks tighten slightly. A familiar, hungry ache that bloomed behind his fly at just your scent.
He held the breath for a long moment, letting it steep in his lungs, before exhaling through his nose.
A small souvenir he’d rewarded himself four months ago, after letting himself into your new loft late one night to make sure everything was secure.
You’d forgotten to latch one of the windows facing the fire escape. Careless sweet thing. The lock had been loose, the frame warped slightly from humidity, and when he’d tested it with his fingertips, it had swung open without resistance.
Dex had fixed it for you before leaving. Tightened the screws on the latch, oiled the track, made sure it would hold.
He’d found the panties in your laundry basket on the way out. A pale blue cotton pair, with a small tear near the waistband that you’d never bothered to mend. He’d slipped them into his jacket pocket before he could think better of it.
Across the street, you laughed again, shoulders shaking lightly this time, your head tipping back just enough to expose the column of your throat.
He exhaled softly through his nose, smiling along with you like he really was sitting across the table
Just you and him.
That was all he needed.
He didn’t know what to think when he saw the newspaper.
For one suspended second, there was nothing. Not anger. Not fear. Not even confusion. Just a sharp, empty stillness, like a pin had dropped somewhere inside his head and every part of him had gone quiet trying to hear where it landed.
Dex had been sitting there for hours, spine rigid, eyes fixed on the bank of screens showing Fisk’s penthouse from every angle. The man himself was visible in one frame, seated at his dining table. Calm and unbothered like always.
Then the paper landed in front of him.
FBI INVESTIGATES ONE OF THEIR OWN.
Agent Kane shifted beside him. “I’m sorry, Dex. This isn’t right,” she said quietly.
He heard her voice, but it came from somewhere far away, as if she were speaking through water. The words landed and dissolved.
Dex stared at the headline until the letters stopped being letters and became just shapes—black ink pressed into pulp, arranged by somebody who didn’t know him, didn’t care about him, didn’t understand anything about what he’d done or why.
The static began to rise. It always started like this, a low hum at the base of his skull, building as the world pressed in.
Around him, the room kept moving. Agents passed behind his chair, their footsteps a rhythmic interruption. Phones rang in overlapping cadences. Somebody laughed too loudly near the elevators, the sound slicing through the air before smearing into everything else, sharp and meaningless.
He could feel them looking at him.
Not directly, none of them were stupid enough to stare. But he felt the glances anyway. The way people looked at car wrecks when they slowed down just enough to see blood but not enough to admit they wanted to.
His jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple pulsed once, twice.
He was being used as a scapegoat.
By the time Winn and Hattley called him into the office, the static had thickened. It filled the room around their fake sympathetic voices.
“We’re going to find out who leaked this,” Hattley said, leaning forward with that practiced look of concern people used when they wanted to seem human.
Dex looked at her mouth while she spoke.
Not her eyes. Her mouth.
The words were too clean. Too prepared. Every syllable landed exactly where she wanted it to, like she’d rehearsed this conversation. There was no surprise in her tone, no real outrage. Just a performance of solidarity.
She was lying.
They all were.
The thing inside him stirred, restless and cold. He pressed it down. But it was harder now, when the structure he’d trusted was cracking around him, when the rules he’d followed were being used to crush him.
It had been the Bureau.
They were throwing him under the bus because someone had to bleed publicly, and it was easier if it was him. Easier because he had no wife waiting at home. No kids. No loud, charming friends in the office to make a scene on his behalf.
Easier because he was useful until he wasn’t, precise until precision made them uncomfortable, disciplined until discipline stopped protecting him from becoming disposable.
After everything, they were disposing of him.
If he followed the rules, he could be normal. He could be safe. Everyone else could be safe.
But the rules had just thrown him away.
“Think of it as a paid vacation,” Hattley said, offering a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
The static in his skull sharpened.
Dex looked down at his badge before he realised he’d already taken it off.
He didn’t remember doing it. His fingers had moved on their own, undoing the clip, sliding the leather folder from his belt.
Now it sat in his palm like something foreign, the gold shield winking at him tauntingly.
His hand didn’t feel like his own when he set it on the desk. The leather made a soft, final sound against the wood. Then the gun. The weight of it leaving him felt wrong in a way that made his stomach tighten sharply.
Badge. Gun. Credentials.
Structure.
Mercer’s voice rose in his head before he could stop it.
Get a job with structure, Dex. Rigid structure. Stay disciplined. Stay useful. Routine is important for you.
Routine. Rules. The job gave him rules. Rules told him what to do. Rules made the edges of the world sharp enough to hold onto. Without them, everything blurred.
Everything bled into everything else. The thing inside him pushed against its cage like an animal scenting an open door.
And now they were taking it away from him like it was nothing.
By the time he reached the hall, the migraine had settled behind his right eye, hot and pulsing. It pressed against his optic nerve, sending thin spokes of light across his vision.
Nausea turned slowly in his stomach, a greasy, rolling sensation that made his throat tighten.
He was aware of his body in pieces. His pulse hammering in his wrists, too fast. Sweat cooling under his collar, the fabric damp and clammy against his neck. The empty space at his hip where his gun should have been.
Empty.
Empty.
Empty.
By the time he stepped back out into the hall, the Bureau felt wrong around him. Hostile in a way it hadn’t ten minutes ago.
But the air had changed. It pressed against him differently now, thick and heavy, as if the building itself had decided he didn’t belong here anymore.
He walked past an agent he’d worked with for two years. The man met his eyes, then looked away.
Dex’s fingers twitched at his sides.
None of it belonged to him anymore.
Or he didn’t belong to it.
The job was gone. The badge was gone. The rules were gone. And without them, he felt himself starting to come apart at the seams, the threads that held him together snapping one by one.
His breathing thinned. Too shallow. Too fast. The edges of his vision began to grey, just slightly, like someone was turning down the lights from far away.
He needed out.
He needed air.
No.
Not air.
You.
He needed to see you. Now.
The thought cut through the static like a blade. A fixed point in the chaos.
Dex looked down at his watch.
6:17 p.m.
Thursday.
You did your grocery shopping on Thursdays after work because you hated weekend crowds. End of the week, but not the weekend. Practical. Smart.
Sometimes you bought tulips even though you worked at a florist and could probably get better ones for free.
He had never understood that.
He loved that he didn’t understand that.
The Bureau, Hattley, Winn, Fisk, the paper, the headline, the badge sitting on that desk like a dead thing. None of it mattered. Not right now.
Not when his mind was splitting open and the only thought holding him together was the image of you standing under grocery-store fluorescents.
He turned before he’d fully decided to move.
His feet carried him toward the elevator. Each step felt like pushing through water. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in, then expand, breathing with him.
By the time he reached the elevator and pressed the button, his jaw ached from clenching. His hands were steady, but only because he had trained them to be.
Inside, everything was coming apart in small, quiet pieces. Like a dam with a thousand tiny cracks, water seeping through each one, the whole structure holding only by habit and memory.
That was fine.
He didn’t need the badge.
He didn’t need their rules.
He had you.
The drive from the bureau to the grocery store did nothing to settle the storm clawing through Dex’s chest.
His palms were slick against his slacks. He’d just walked in. Empty-handed. Bereft of purpose beyond the single, desperate need screaming through every nerve ending in his body.
Find her. Find her. Find her.
The automatic doors hissed shut behind him, sealing him inside a world of too-bright lights and Muzak and the sharp chemical sweetness of floor cleaner.
His tie felt like it had shrunk two sizes since he’d left the Bureau, the knot pressing against his throat like a noose. He tugged at it once, twice, but it only made it tighter.
The migraine was still there, settled between his eyes like a hot coal. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a steady, throbbing pressure that made the aisles seem to swim when he moved his head too fast.
And Mercer’s voice.
She was there, in the back of his skull, the way she always was when things got bad. But today she wasn’t the steady, grounding presence he remembered.
Her voice flickered and warped, sliding between registers like a broken radio.
Stay calm, Dex. Breathe. You’re okay.
Then, lower, twisted. Freak. Look at you. They threw you away because they saw it. They knew what you were.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
You were supposed to be better than this. All that discipline. And you can’t even—
“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, but the words came out wrong, too loud, and a woman passing with a toddler shot him a strange look.
He didn’t care.
He checked the endcaps, the seasonal displays, the little stand with flowers near the entrance because you liked stopping there.
You weren’t there.
His breathing got thinner, shallower, each inhale less satisfying than the last. A tightness gathered behind his eyes, hot and humiliating, frustration swelling so quickly it scared him.
Not here. Not here. Not—
He crossed the store, his shoes squeaking on the polished floor. He passed a man in a dark coat who frowned at him. He ignored him. He rounded the corner into the makeup aisle and his chest seized.
Empty.
The shelves stretched out before him, neat rows of bottles and tubes and compacts reflecting the harsh light. A woman stood at the far end, examining a lipstick, but she had different hair. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
The frustration crested, crested, broke.
Tears pricked at his eyes, and he blinked furiously against them. His throat closed. His hands shook.
This was stupid.
This was—
Where the hell are you?
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. The pressure helped, briefly, grounding him in pain instead of panic. He counted to ten. Then to twenty.
He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, the way Mercer had taught him when he was thirteen and didn’t know how to exist without breaking things.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. You’re in control, Dex. You’re always in control.
But the voice was quiet now, drowned out by the static.
He dropped his hands and looked up.
There.
The fruit and vegetable aisle. Eight feet away. Your back.
And everything stopped.
The world snapped into focus like a lens being adjusted. The lights dimmed to something bearable. The buzzing of the fluorescents faded to a dull hum.
A shock ran through his system, ice-cold and bracing, like being splashed with water in the middle of a fever dream.
His throat worked. He swallowed once, twice.
He dragged his eyes up, angry at himself and not angry at all. Angry that he couldn’t just walk up to you, couldn’t just be normal, couldn’t just—
His hands were still shaking.
His chest was still tight.
His breathing was still too shallow, too fast, each inhale catching on something sharp lodged in his lungs.
He was still falling apart, and you were right there, six feet away, squeezing pears and humming to music he couldn’t hear, and he couldn’t calm down.
The realisation hit him like a fist to his throat.
If he couldn’t pull himself together now, if he couldn’t drag his shattered pieces back into something resembling a whole person, he was going to have a full mental breakdown with you a few steps away from him.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He couldn’t.
He stood at the end of the aisle, frozen, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his heart hammering against his ribs, his eyes fixed on the curve of your spine and the gentle sway of your hips as you moved down the display.
And for a long, terrible moment, he didn’t know what to do.
The word nectarines repeated in his skull like a lifeline.
He didn’t know why that particular fruit had caught his attention—maybe because they were closest, maybe because they were red and blushing and reminded him of the colour your lips had been at the diner.
It didn’t matter. He grabbed one, then another, turning them over in his trembling hands pretending to inspect them.
Three steps away. You were three steps away.
Dex’s shoe scuffed against the linoleum as he adjusted his stance, positioning himself so he could see you in his peripheral vision without turning his head.
Look at something else. Let your eyes find the target naturally. But his eyes weren’t listening.
They kept sliding back to you, hungry and helpless, drinking in the curve of your hip where your sweatpants rode low.
He could smell you.
Estée Lauder. Beautiful Magnolia.
He knew the scent because he’d bought a bottle once, from a department store in Midtown, just to understand what it was that clung to your clothes and lingered in the air long after you’d passed.
He’d sprayed it on his pillow that night and buried his face in the fabric, breathing you in until the noise in his head quieted to a hum.
He inhaled now, deep and long, hoping it would do the same.
It didn’t.
His hands were still shaking. He could see the tremors as he turned a nectarine over, the fruit wobbling in his grip like he’d never held anything in his life.
Just breathe, Dex, Mercer whispered, but her voice was thin, frayed, like a recording stretched to breaking.
We don’t know how this got out, Hattley’s voice cut in, smooth and false, dripping with pity. We’re going to find out who leaked this.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
He wanted to hit something. Wanted to drive his fist into the display of nectarines, into the wall, into his own skull if it would make them stop.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
He tried to focus on you. On the sound of your breathing. On the fact that this was the closest he’d been to you in years.
But nothing helped.
The voices swelled. The migraine throbbed. His hands shook. His chest constricted. And he was drowning, drowning, drowning in the fluorescent light of a grocery store—
“Excuse me.”
The world snapped into silence.
Dex’s head shot up so fast his neck cracked. His eyes found yours, and everything in him locked up like a circuit breaker tripping. You were looking at him.
He stared.
He blinked.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
The silence stretched, and your smile tightened at the edges, just slightly. You cleared your throat, shifting your weight, the picture of casual confidence.
“I don’t know if this is gonna sound a bit creepy,” you said, and your voice was smooth, rolling, the same voice he’d heard a thousand times in his memory, “but do I know you?”
His heart stopped.
Then restarted at double speed.
Say something. Say something normal. Say something human.
“I—” He cleared his throat. The sound was raw, scraping. He forced a smile onto his face, “I don’t think so.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “No, I do.”
There was no room for argument in your voice. No uncertainty.
He tilted his head, mirroring you. Let his eyes narrow slightly, as if he were searching his memory.
As if he didn’t have every moment he’d ever seen you catalogued and cross-referenced in his mind.
As if he wasn’t memorising the way the light caught in your hair, the faint sheen of gloss on your lips, the tiny beauty mark just above your collarbone.
You snapped your fingers, before pointing to yourself. “I used to work at this diner a few years ago. I don’t know if you know it—Bel Air Diner, maybe?”
He let the pause hang. Let his brow furrow. Let himself pretend, when all he wanted to do was reach out and touch you to make sure you were real.
“Bushwick?” he said finally, his voice steadier than he felt.
Your eyes lit up, and the sensation of seeing that, of being the cause of that light, was like injecting ecstasy straight into his veins.
“Yeah!” You nodded, your smile widening into something that crinkled the corners of your eyes. “The one on the corner of 9th Ave. That’s the one.”
Dex’s breath caught. He swallowed, trying to find his footing, trying to remember how to be a regular person, having a conversation with a woman who had no idea that she was the only thing that had kept him from falling apart for years.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. “Yeah, I remember.”
“But you don’t remember me?”
Dex blinked at you, the words landing like a slap he didn’t see coming.
For a long, terrible second, his brain seized, caught between the instinct to apologise and the dawning realisation that you were teasing him.
You were teasing him.
The corners of your mouth curved, and there it was, a glint in your eye, a playful tilt to your chin that he’d never seen before.
Not in all the hours he’d spent watching you. You were straightforward. Bold.
In his head, you were soft. Sweet. A little shy, maybe, the way you’d duck your head when a customer thanked you, the way you’d bite your lip when you were concentrating on an arrangement.
He’d built a version of you that was gentle and malleable, a fantasy that existed to be consumed, not to talk back.
“I’m kidding,” you said, after his silence stretched a beat too long. Like you could see him drowning and had thrown him a line.
He hated himself.
The feeling was familiar, worn smooth by years of repetition, but this was a fresh, raw kind of hatred that made his palms itch.
The Dex in his mind, the one he’d imagined a thousand times, would have had a smooth response ready. Would have leaned against the display, flashed a grin, said something that made you laugh.
That Dex was charming. That Dex was normal.
But that Dex wasn’t real. And the real Dex was standing here, sweat beading at his temples, hands shaking.
He scrambled, forcing a smile onto his face that he hoped read as charming rather than manic.
“No, no.” His voice came out too quick, too eager. He reined it in, softened his tone. “I do remember you now. I’m just surprised you remember me.”
You tilted your head smiling, and the movement pushed the apples of your cheeks up. God, you were beautiful.
“Can never forget a handsome face,” you said.
Handsome. She said handsome. She’s flirting with you. That’s what this is. Say something back. This is how it works. So do it.
But his brain was a white-noise void, every thought scattering like roaches in harsh light.
His smile felt brittle on his face, but he held it there, hoping you couldn’t see how badly his hands were shaking.
“Thank you,” he managed, and the words came out rough, almost shy.
He shifted the nectarine to his other hand, wiping his palm against his slacks in a motion he hoped looked casual. Then extended his hand.
“Dex.”
You smiled and told him your name. Like he didn’t already know it. Like he hadn’t whispered it into the dark of his apartment with his fist wrapped around his cock, gasping it into his pillow like a prayer.
Your hand slid into his.
The contact was electric. Your skin was warm, soft, impossibly real against his calloused palm.
He had to stop himself from closing his eyes, from letting the sensation wash over him and drown him.
Every nerve in his body screamed at him to pull you closer, to bring your hand to his mouth and press his lips to your knuckles, to your wrist, to the delicate skin where your pulse beat just beneath the surface.
Instead, he shook your hand once, twice, like a normal person, and let go before he did something he couldn’t take back.
“So, Dex,” you said, drawing his name out just slightly, testing it, like you were deciding whether you liked the way it felt on your tongue.
You had no idea he’d been waiting to hear you say it for years.
“What brings you to the supermarket at—” you glanced at your phone, then back at him, a small smile playing at your lips, “—seven pm on a Thursday.”
Simple question. Normal question. The kind of question one person asked another when they wanted to keep a conversation alive, when they wanted to prolong it.
And you hadn’t even seemed to notice that he had no shopping cart. No basket.
Just himself, standing here in the produce aisle like a man who’d wandered in off the street with no purpose other than to stare at fruit he had no intention of buying.
There was no way he could tell you the truth. That just hours ago he’d been framed by the FBI, scapegoated for an ambush he’d had no part in, cast out of the only identity he’d ever known.
That he’d spent the last hour spiraling in his car, hallucinating voices, pressing a gun to his own jaw before forcing it back into the glove compartment.
That he’d driven here not for groceries, but because your Thursday evening routine was the only fixed point left in his collapsing world.
He couldn’t say any of that.
So he said the first plausible thing that surfaced from the scrambled mess of his brain.
“End of the week,” he heard himself say instead. The words came out rough, but he pushed through. “But way less crowded on weekends.”
You raised your brows, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “So I guess I’m not original at all, huh?”
You were making a joke, and he’d walked right into it and now he was supposed to respond. Laugh. A laugh would be normal. People laughed at jokes. That was the expected behavior. He should laugh.
He made a sound that was supposed to be a chuckle but came out more like a choked exhale, his lips stretching into a smile that felt too wide, too stiff.
“Great minds think alike, I guess.” He tried for laid-back, tried to make his shoulders relax, but they stayed hunched, like he was bracing for impact.
You tilted your head, just slightly, and hummed in agreement.
And then there was a pause.
A little one, at first. The kind of pause that happens naturally in conversation, where one person waits for the other to speak next.
But it stretched. It grew. It filled the space between you like something physical, and Dex felt it pressing against his chest, tightening around his throat.
Say something. She’s waiting. She gave you an opening and now you’re letting it die.
But his mind was a blank wall.
He cleared his throat, the sound rough and too loud in the quiet aisle. “So, uh—” He glanced down at the nectarine in his hand, then back up at you. “You come here often?”
The words landed and he wanted to die. You come here often? That was the line he’d pulled from his brain.
The most generic, cliché, forgettable question in the history of human interaction. The kind of thing a mannequin would say if it were programmed to simulate human speech.
He braced for the look. The one that would say really? delivered with a curl of the lip, a shift of weight away from him. He’d seen that look on women’s faces before, when a man tried too hard or said the wrong thing.
So when you let out a laugh, genuine and surprised, it hit him like a punch to the chest.
You were laughing. At him, maybe, but not at him. With him. Like you found him funny, endearing even. Like his awkwardness wasn’t a turn-off but a joke you were both in on.
Dex felt his face go warm. He rubbed his brow, a nervous tick he couldn’t control, the heel of his hand pressing against his forehead as if he could massage away the embarrassment.
“Yeah, I heard it when I said it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Sorry…”
He risked a glance at you through his fingers, and you were looking at him with an expression he didn’t recognise.
You looked like you were trying not to smile and failing, the corners of your mouth twitching upward.
His heart was hammering so hard he felt it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers.
“I’ll give you a pass for now,” you said, a smile breaking through fully now.
Dex’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Nothing came out.
He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. “Thanks,” he said again , the word barely above a whisper. “I—I’ll try to do better next time.”
You raised your brows again, but your smile didn’t shift. In fact, it seemed to deepen, the corners of your mouth curling with delight. “Next time?”
The question hung in the air, but to Dex it felt like a tightrope. One wrong step and he’d plummet.
He hoped to God you couldn’t see the sheen of sweat beading on his forehead, the way his pulse was visibly jumping in his throat.
Adapt. You have to adapt. She’s smooth, she’s quick, she’s going to eat you alive if you don’t keep up.
He forced his mouth into something resembling a smile, though it felt more like a grimace on the way up. “You’re the one who said for now.”
And that’s how Dex ended up with your number.
Thirty minutes earlier, Dex had been sitting in his car, the engine off. His spare gun had been in his lap, cold and heavy.
He’d pressed the muzzle against the soft skin under his chin, felt the metal dig in, tasted the copper of a future he’d almost chosen.
His career. His structure. His livelihood. His reputation. All of it gone, stripped away in a single afternoon by people who’d used him and discarded him like a broken tool.
One pull. That’s all it would have taken.
Now, driving home, the streets of New York blurring past his windshield in streaks of neon and headlights, Dex felt something he couldn’t name.
It wasn’t relief, exactly—the weight of what he’d almost done was still there.
But it was layered over with something else, something bright and unfamiliar, like sunlight breaking through clouds after a storm.
He kept glancing at his phone. It sat in the cupholder, screen dark, but he could feel it like a beacon. Your number.
Your number, given willingly, freely, without coercion or manipulation.
The thought made his chest ache, a dull, insistent pressure behind his ribs. He flexed his hands on the steering wheel, and let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob.
It was a high he’d never experienced before. And he was terrified of coming down.
He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, cut the engine, and sat there for a long moment, staring at his phone. The screen was dark, but he could still see your face, the memory of your smile burned into his eyelids.
And then his phone buzzed.
The screen lit up with a number he didn’t recognise, but the area code was familiar. New York. Manhattan.
He stared at it for three rings. Four. Five.
His thumb hovered over the decline button, but something made him pause. Something cold and familiar, settling in his gut like a stone.
He answered, “Hello.”
“When I was a boy…”
His skin wasn’t buzzing.
It was flaying itself from the bone, a high-frequency current ripping through every nerve ending until he couldn’t tell where the violence ended and his own body began.
The climb back through his window was a smear of pure sensation, the groan of the frame digging into his bruised ribs, the distant wail of a siren that might have been real or might have just been the echo of the screams still ricocheting inside his skull.
He tumbled into the living room, the red suit clinging to him like a second skin of sin and sweat, and the silence of his apartment hit him like a physical blow.
He spared a blank look at the microwave. 2:37 AM.
The high was curdling. The exquisite, crystalline purpose Fisk had injected into his veins was souring into a dense, suffocating fog.
The voices in his head were warping and overlapping, layered with the fresh screams of the people he’d just killed.
They weren’t separate voices anymore. They were a single, roaring static that made his skull feel too small for his brain.
He fumbled at the gloves, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, tearing at the constricting seams.
The helmet followed. The seal broke with a soft hiss of trapped breath, and the cool night air of the apartment hit the raw cuts on his cheekbone and split lip like a strip of litmus paper.
He wasn’t in control. He was a passenger, a ghost haunting a machine made of meat and bone.
The machine moved on autopilot, carrying him across the sticky floor through the debris of his life, toward his closet. His safe.
His fingers knew the combination better than his conscious mind. Beep. Beep. Beep. The door swung open.
Mercer’s tapes.
He reached for them, his fingers brushing the familiar edges, and he could already hear her voice in his memory. She would fix this.
She would rebuild the walls, draw the clean lines of the diagram, soothe the static into structured silence.
He paused.
The tapes felt dead in his hand. Cold. Alien. The thing inside him, that had killed tonight with a terrifyingly genuine grin splitting his face under the mask, revolted.
Structure was a cage. Control was a lie he told himself so he didn’t have to look at the abyss. Mercer’s voice was the voice of a woman who had never existed, a blueprint for a life he had never actually lived.
He didn’t want to be fixed tonight.
He wanted to be real.
He set the tapes down. The plastic clattered against the wood shelf, and the sound was a door slamming shut on his old self.
His body, no longer his to command, drifted to the phone on the nightstand. The screen was a blinding star in the gloom of his apartment.
Before he could rationalise the catastrophic stupidity of it, his thumb pressed the call button.
The phone pressed against his ear. The flat, electric hum of the dial tone filled his head.
First ring. A knife.
Second ring. His breathing turned ragged, harsh stabs of air in and out. He couldn’t control it.
His hand shook, the tremors traveling up his arm to his chest, making his heart rattle against his ribs.
Third ring. Where the fuck were you? The thought was a claw in his chest, desperate and raw, scratched out from the bottom of his fractured soul.
Fourth ring. Despair hit him like a bullet. The rejection he deserved. The silence he was born for.
His thumb was already moving to sever the connection, to retreat into the familiar dark, to let Mercer be the only voice he ever heard again.
The click.
A breath on the other end. The soft rustle of sheets. The sound of someone shifting out of sleep, pulling themselves back to consciousness for him.
A voice, sleepy and warm, cutting through the static in his soul.
“Hello?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His throat had sealed itself shut, his tongue a dead weight.
The buzzing in his head didn’t stop, it changed, shifting from static into a high, thin whine of pure panic.
What the fuck was he doing?
He should hang up. He should hang up right now, pretend this never happened, crawl back to the tapes and let Mercer stitch him back together.
But he didn’t move.
“…hello?”
Your voice again. Groggy, yes, but there was an edge now. Caution. Awareness creeping in.
He could picture you propping yourself up on an elbow, squinting at the phone, trying to place the unknown number glowing in the dark.
He cleared his throat.
“Hi. It’s Dex.”
Silence. Long enough that he felt his stomach drop through the floor.
“From the grocery store,” he added, stupidly. “Earlier today.”
More silence. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. His heart was a jackhammer against his ribs, and he was suddenly, acutely aware of how insane this looked.
He had your number for less than twelve hours. He had called you at 2:37 AM. There was no version of this that didn’t make him seem unhinged.
Then your voice came through, softer now, a hint of recognition bleeding through the drowsiness.
“Oh. Guy from the fruit aisle.”
The words were flat, stripped of the teasing lilt from earlier. He winced. He was an idiot.
But he couldn’t hang up either.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the single syllable. He cleared his throat again, harder this time. “Sorry. I know it’s late. I—”
He stopped. Ran a hand through his damp, tangled hair. The words weren’t coming. They never came when he needed them. “I couldn’t sleep.”
A beat. Then, “You call everyone you meet at the grocery store when you can’t sleep?”
There it was. The faintest edge of something, not quite playfulness, but not hostility either. A testing of the waters. He latched onto it like a drowning man grabbing a rope.
“No,” he said, and the honesty slipped out before he could stop it. “Just you apparently.”
The silence that followed was different. Softer. He could hear the rustle of fabric on your end, like you were shifting, settling deeper into the conversation.
“You’re weird, you know that?” you said, but your voice had lost its wariness. There was a thread of amusement in it now.
“I know,” he said. He didn’t even try to deny it.
He could have left it there. Could have apologised again, said goodnight, let you go back to sleep.
But the buzzing in his head was quieter now, drowned out by the sound of your breathing on the other end of the line.
“I was wondering,” he started, and his mouth went dry again. He pushed through it. “If you’re free tomorrow. Or, I guess, today now. For dinner.”
The words came out rushed, jumbled together like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t get them all out at once.
He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the rejection.
Another long pause. Then, a soft, breathy sound that might have been a laugh.
“You’re asking me out at three in the morning?”
“Depends on if you say yes,” he said, and the words surprised him. They were smoother than he’d intended, a sliver of confidence he didn’t know he possessed.
Your laugh came through fully this time, quiet and warm, and something in his chest cracked open.
“That’s a good line,” you said. “You rehearse that?”
“No,” he admitted. “I’m kind of making this up as I go.”
“Pretty good for improv.”
He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, almost a smile. “Does that mean you’ll say yes?”
A beat. Then, “Depends on what you’re offering.”
He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His fingers tightened on the phone, grounding himself in the plastic and the warmth of your voice.
“Anything you want,” he said. And he meant it.
Dex prided himself on focus.
It was the cleanest thing he had, the discipline that held the loose pieces of him together. But here, across the table from you, that focus was a dead wire. Useless.
Ten minutes in and he still couldn’t land anywhere. His eyes kept skirting, from the deep crimson painted across your mouth to the sharp neckline of that tight black dress, down to where the fabric pulled across your chest.
He felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck, forced himself to your eyes instead. The dark liner made them bottomless, pulling at him with every slow blink.
His body was wired tight, locked up like he was bracing for impact. Every breath measured. Every movement too careful.
Terrified of the wrong word, the wrong look, shattering whatever luck had gotten you here.
You took a sip of your wine, watching him over the rim. Then you tilted your head, a smile catching at the corner of your mouth.
“Relax. You’re sitting like I’m gonna jump over this table and bite you.”
The image slid under his skin before he could stop it.
I’d let you, he thought. Anywhere you wanted.
He locked that down, managed a rough chuckle. “Still can’t wrap my head around why you said yes.”
You shrugged, setting the glass down. “Got nothing better to do. Thought I might as well get a free meal with a hot guy.”
Hot. You called him hot.
Then your eyes narrowed. “Unless you’re one of those guys who believe in fifty-fifty for the first date.”
The question caught him off guard. For a second, he just stared at you, his brain struggling to catch up. Then he let out a choked laugh, shaking his head quickly.
“No. No, god, no. I promise.”
“Good.”
Your voice softened into something warm, teasing. You leaned back in your chair, swirling the wine in your glass, and the candlelight caught the curve of your smile.
The waiter appeared and Dex grabbed the menu like a lifeline, staring at the words without reading them.
He nodded when you ordered, asked for the same thing. When the waiter left, you leaned forward, elbows on the table.
The neckline of your dress dipped just slightly, and he caught the black lace underneath.
Fuck. Were you doing this on purpose?
“So, Dex from the fruit aisle.” Your voice had dropped, stripped of the teasing edge from earlier. Something warmer now. “Tell me something about yourself.”
His stomach dropped. Just a flash. He pushed it down.
“I’m an FBI agent,” he said. Safe. Simple enough. “Or—was. It’s complicated.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Complicated how?”
“The kind that makes for a bad first date story.” He tried to smile. It came out crooked.
You laughed, and the sound loosened something tight in his chest. “Fair enough. I’ll take a rain check.”
He nodded, scrambling for footing. “What do you do?”
You rolled your eyes and he felt a flicker of panic before you huffed, amused. “Just a florist. Completely boring compared to chasing bad guys, I’m sure.”
There’s nothing boring about you. The thought hit him hard and fast, and he heard himself say it out loud before his brain could catch up. “There’s nothing boring about you.”
You let out a small laugh. “So you do know how to sweet talk a girl.”
He couldn’t hide the blush that crawled up his neck to his ears, burning against the collar of his shirt. “I’m just saying it how I see it.”
“Maybe,” you hummed, “but then again you don’t know anything about me.”
Never had he heard a more untrue statement in his life.
He knew your schedule. Your favourite coffee order. Your comfort shows you loved to binge. Which soap you preferred. Your go to nail colour. How you liked cats and dogs equally.
But he couldn’t say that. So he just looked at you across the table, watched the candlelight catch your eyes.
The food arrived. Steam rose from the plates between them, the scent of ginger and soy cutting through the moment. The waiter said something he didn’t catch.
“Well,” Dex murmured, “I’m hoping to learn if you’ll let me.”
Being here with you was something he had never experienced before.
The night before was a smear of violence but it all felt muted now, distant, like a transmission he couldn’t tune into anymore.
Not with you across the table, your voice cutting through the static in his head.
You kept the conversation easy. When he fumbled an answer or went quiet because his brain short-circuited trying to keep up with you, you didn’t pull back. You just smiled, shifted, let him find his footing again.
Once or twice he found himself wondering why you were even giving him a chance. You could have anyone. Smarter, smoother, someone without the weight he carried.
It made no sense that you’d picked him. Not that he’d let anyone else close enough to try, but the thought still lingered.
Still, there was a weight pressing down on him the whole time. A clock ticking. He felt it sharpest as the check arrived. Signing it, his stomach twisted into a knot so tight it made him nauseous.
The thought of leaving, of stepping into the cold air alone and watching you walk away, hollowed him out.
He could already feel the emptiness waiting. Maybe he’d just follow you home. Watch you through your window. It would be enough to comfort him.
“How are you getting home?” The words came out before he could stop them.
“Walked here,” you said, pulling out your lipstick. “Guess I’ll do the same.”
He watched your mouth as you reapplied it, the careful, practiced stroke of colour. He couldn’t look away.
“Let me drive you.”
You paused, the compact half-closed. Your eyes lifted to his, and he could see you weighing it, the stranger across from you, the risk of letting him know where you lived. The silence stretched. He felt the whole night teetering.
Fuck. He’d done too much. He ruined it. He’d pushed too hard, too fast, and now—
“Okay.”
It hit him somewhere between the Williamsburg Bridge and the mouth of your street, a strange hollow equation he couldn’t solve.
Away from you, the restlessness ate at him, he couldn’t settle, couldn’t quiet the noise inside his head.
But here, with you in the passenger seat, so close he could feel the warmth coming off your skin through the space between them, he wasn’t any better. His body was locked tight, every muscle braced for a mistake he hadn’t made yet.
He couldn’t stop glancing at you while he drove.
His hands were rigid on the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the passing streetlight. You leaned back in the seat, your head tilted, completely relaxed, watching the city slide past the window.
No tension in your shoulders. No flicker of anxiety. Just calm. It made him feel transparent, like you could see every loose wire and frayed thread in his head.
By the time he pulled up outside your building, his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, a quick, raw pulse that wouldn’t steady.
How had this happened so fast? He’d spent years wanting you, fantasising about you from a distance, and now that you were here, the wanting had twisted into a kind of fear.
The fear of doing something wrong. Of saying the wrong thing. Of breaking whatever fragile spell had let him into your space tonight.
You turned toward him. Your expression was different now. At dinner, your eyes had been sharp, playful, like a vixen toying with her prey.
But here, in the dim lamplight bleeding through the windshield, your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, and your gaze was wider, softer, something he didn’t have a name for.
“I had a good night,” you murmured.
Dex opened his mouth. His tongue felt thick, useless. “Me too.” It came out pitiful, barely a whisper.
You kept looking at him, waiting. Your lashes lowered, then lifted, like an invitation he couldn’t decode.
He stared back, frozen. Should he get out? Open your door? Walk you inside? He had no script for this, no smooth line rehearsed. His eyes drifted from yours to your parted lips. Red. Soft.
He was still scrambling through the noise in his head for the right move when your hand moved. It slid up the back of his head, fingers threading gently into his hair.
Before he could react, before his brain could catch up, you were pulling him forward.
Your lips met his.
For a long, heavy beat, Dex didn’t move.
His body locked up completely as the reality of your mouth sank in. You were kissing him. The thought cracked through the static in his brain like lightning. You. Kissing him.
Then instinct took over before he could wreck it. His lips started moving, awkward and unpracticed, trailing behind the rhythm you set.
A shaky breath left him, his shoulders dropping a fraction as he relaxed into the warmth of your mouth, the simple unimaginable fact of it.
Until he felt the wet tip of your tongue brush his bottom lip.
He tensed immediately. His eyes cracked open, found yours closed, your face slack and completely lost in it. He parted his lips. Let you in.
The second your tongues met, a raw sound caught in his throat. His cock hardened painfully behind his zipper, a rush of blood that made everything else go distant.
The taste of you flooded his senses, faintly sweet, the slick slide of your tongue against his. His brain went quiet for the first time all night.
Then something inside him snapped.
The careful, terrified version of himself fell away. He had to touch you. Now.
He pulled his hand off the wheel, lifted it. Fingers spread, hesitated. Your hair? Your waist? Your cheek? He had no idea what he was doing. Every option felt wrong, but doing nothing was unthinkable.
His palm landed on your throat before he could decide.
His fingers curved around the column of your neck, thumb settling against the flutter of your pulse. You moaned into his mouth, pleased and approving, and the sound shot straight through his chest. You liked it.
He pushed harder against your mouth, greedier. The hand on your throat tightened fractionally, pulling you closer across the console.
He didn’t care about breathing anymore.
The taste of you flooded every nerve in his body like a drug he’d been starving for his whole life. He’d rather suffocate against your mouth than take another clean breath of empty air.
Your hands found his jaw, and for a split second his brain screamed that you were pushing him away. Too rough. Too fast. He ruined it.
His grip started to loosen, a fresh wave of shame crawling up his throat—
But your fingers dug into his skin and pulled him closer.
The sound that left him was raw, almost animal. Relief and hunger tangled together as you yanked him deeper into the kiss.
Little noises escaped your mouth, muffled against his tongue, and he tried to memorise each one even as he lost himself in the wet slide of your lips.
His hand slid from your throat to your jaw, fingers curling around the bone, tilting your head back as he pushed further into your mouth.
His tongue swept against yours, messy and desperate. He didn’t know what he was doing, he just knew he needed more. He wanted to crawl inside your skin.
Then your palms pressed flat against his chest.
Push.
The separation hit him like cold water. He broke away gasping, and his mouth chased yours before he could stop himself. But you didn’t pull further back.
You caught his lips in soft, quick pecks, barely there, just enough to soothe the ache you’d left behind.
Your mouth brushed against his when you spoke, voice low and rough.
“Do you wanna come up?”
Fuck.
The words hit him square in the chest, then dropped lower, settling hot and heavy in his gut. He was already nodding before his brain caught up, pupils blown wide, lips wet and swollen.
“Yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, “Yeah. Fuck—yes.”
Dex’s pulse slammed against his ribs the second the lock clicked behind him.
Standing in your apartment. He forced his eyes to wander like he was stepping in here for the first time, even as his brain catalogued every detail against the map he’d already burned into his memory.
“Nice place.” The words scraped out of him, rough and distracted.
He tilted his head at the bookshelf, the framed photograph he knew was your mother, the throw blanket draped over the armchair that he’d watched you buy from a street vendor three months ago.
Every careful glance was a lie, but he wore it like a second skin.
“Thanks.” Your voice came from right behind him.
Then your hands were on him again, sliding over his shoulders, turning him around. He went without resistance, boneless under your touch. You pulled him down and met his lips halfway.
Your tongue pushed past his lips and he opened for you like a starving thing.
Your fingers twisted into his hair, yanking his head forward just enough to deepen the angle, and he let you. He’d let you do anything.
You bit his bottom lip, sucked it into your mouth, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.
His hands began to move. Everywhere. Your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips.
He grabbed desperate handfuls of your ass, pulling you flush against him, and the heat of your body through that thin dress made his head spin.
You were soft in ways he’d only ever imagined, and his imagination had been thorough, but nothing prepared him for the reality of you pressed against his aching body. He wanted to touch every part of you at once, to map you entirely.
You broke the kiss first, panting, lips slick and swollen. Your forehead rested against his, your breath hot and uneven on his mouth. “I don’t do this often,” you murmured, the confession raw and almost shy.
“I know,” he breathed without thinking.
The second the words left him, he felt you stiffen. You pulled back, confusion knitting your brows. “What do you mean, you know?”
Dex’s stomach dropped into freefall.
His eyes snapped open, panic flooding his veins.
Fuck. Fuck.
He scrambled for a lifeline, his mouth opening and closing before the lie managed to crawl out. “I mean I—I know what you mean. Me too. I don’t—I don’t do this often either.”
You held his gaze for a long moment. The sharpness in your eyes softened, and you snorted, a puff of warm breath against his lips. “You’re so weird.”
Relief flooded him so fast it made him dizzy. Before he could dwell on it, you were kissing him again, swallowing whatever fragile composure he had left.
Your hands guided him backwards. He followed blindly, drunk on your mouth, stumbling until the back of his knees hit something soft. You shoved him. Hard.
He landed on the couch with a grunt, bouncing once before settling, looking up at you with wide, dazed eyes.
Before he could ask, you leaned down, bracing your hands on his knees, and kissed him again. Slow and deep, a thorough occupation of his mouth that erased every thought trying to surface.
He melted into it, his hands finding your thighs, stroking the warm skin exposed by the hem of your dress.
You broke the kiss gently, pulling back just enough that he could see you.
You were on her knees. Between his legs. Looking up at him through your lashes, your lipstick smudged, your hair loose around your face.
The sight of you there stole the air from his lungs.
“What—what are you doing?” Dex heard himself ask, his voice thin and wrecked, stripped of every layer he hid behind.
You smiled as your hands slid up his thighs, fingers pressing into the muscle.
“Having my dessert.”
Dex’s brain went completely blank when your fingers found his belt buckle. The soft click-clack of it coming undone rang through the room like a gunshot in his ears.
He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, to do something other than lie there like a trembling mess offering himself up to you, but all that came out was a strained, cracked confession,
“Are you sure—you-you don’t have to—”
His hips lifted off the couch cushions anyway.
A complete betrayal of every word coming out of his mouth. His body didn’t give a single fuck what his brain was trying to negotiate.
It wanted you. It had always wanted you.
You didn’t hesitate. You dragged his slacks and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, baring him completely to the warm air of your apartment.
He shivered, his cock springing free to slap against his stomach with a wet, heavy sound.
He was already painfully hard, leaking against his navel, the swollen head flushed dark and slick, and the sight of you looking at it made his stomach clench so hard he thought he might be sick.
Your hand wrapped around him like it belonged there. A firm grip that made him grunt, his hips bucking up into your fist before he could stop himself.
The heat of your palm was everything. He watched, completely mesmerised, as your thumb swept across the sensitive head, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there, using it to slick your stroke.
You looked up at him through your lashes, your mouth hovering inches from his tip.
Your breath was hot and uneven against his sensitive skin, and there was a tremor in your voice when you spoke that made his heart stutter in his chest.
“You don’t want me to suck your cock?”
Jesus Christ.
The visual was so fucking obscene, you, on your knees, looking up at him with those wide, innocent doe eyes while your hand worked his shaft and your lips hovered so close he could feel the ghost of them.
He had to lean his head back against the couch cushion and squeeze his eyes shut. He was going to cum just from looking at you.
A soft, dark laugh came from between his legs. “That wasn’t a no.”
Before he could answer, something wet touched him.
His eyes snapped open. He looked down just in time to see your tongue trace a slow path along the thick vein on the underside of his cock.
An embarrassing, needy whimper crawled out of his throat before he could strangle it. His hips twitched, desperate to push into the warmth of your mouth, but he held himself still by sheer, crumbling willpower.
You didn’t stop. You laid a soft, lingering kiss right on the crown, your lips parting just enough to ghost over the sensitive slit before pulling away.
When you looked up at him, your eyes were dark and hooded, your lips slick and parted.
“Keep your eyes on me, Dex.”
He nodded. A dumb, jerky motion. He didn’t trust his voice. He didn’t trust anything. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You didn’t even have his cock in your mouth yet and he swore he could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, coiling tighter with every second you held his gaze.
His hands fisted in the couch cushions, knuckles white. His breathing was ragged, each inhale a desperate gasp.
He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, watching in rapt focus as you parted your lips and took the swollen crown of his cock into your mouth.
Your eyes stayed locked on his. You held his gaze as you sank deeper, inch by agonising inch.
The wet heat of your tongue curled around his shaft, the velvet pressure of your cheeks hollowing as you pulled him further into the slick, perfect heaven of your throat.
Every inch you swallowed made his hips twitch involuntarily against the cushions. Every flutter of your lashes made his stomach clench tighter. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t.
Oh, fuck. Your mouth was so warm. So impossibly wet.
The slick slide of your tongue curling around his shaft, the flutter of your throat when the tip pressed against the back of your mouth, he didn’t think anything in this world could feel better than having his cock in your mouth.
He was certain of it. This was the single best moment of his entire miserable life. He was ready to die right here and call it a life well-lived.
You pulled back slowly, dragging your tongue along the thick, throbbing vein on the underside of his cock before taking him deep again with a low moan.
A broken whimper crawled out of his throat before he could clamp down on it. “Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” His voice was wrecked, barely more than a ragged whisper. “You gotta stop—or I’m gonna—”
You just hummed casually against his slick, swollen tip, your breath hot and uneven against his sensitive skin.
“No, no, wait—please, I want it to last,” he heard himself begging, the words tumbling out in a desperate, breathless rush. “I’m not gonna make it—I swear to God—”
You didn’t stop. You just held his gaze with those innocent, wicked eyes and took him deeper.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was so fucking pathetic. Lasting like some inexperienced teenager, his first time all over again.
He tried to think of anything else; baseball statistics, the cold metal of his gun, the layout of the presidential hotel, but it was no fucking use at all.
Every nerve in his body was tuned to the wet slide of your mouth, the curl of your tongue, the soft, muffled gag when he hit the back of your throat.
He squeezed his eyes shut, could feel the frustrated tears prickling hot behind his lids. He couldn’t look at you anymore.
He had to stop himself, had to make this last, but his body was betraying him completely, trembling, arching, pushing deeper into your heat.
You took him back into your mouth in a single, fluid motion. Hollowed your cheeks. Pressed your tongue flat against the underside of his shaft.
And when you swallowed around the head of his cock, pulling him deeper into the wet velvet of your throat, he shattered completely.
“Oh fuck—I’m coming—”
His hips bucked involuntarily, driving himself deeper into your throat, feeling you gag around him, feeling your throat constrict and pulse as you swallowed, milking the orgasm out of him.
His release slammed into him like a freight train.
Hot, thick ropes of his come spilled into your mouth, and you swallowed around him, milking every drop, refusing to let him go even as he convulsed through the aftershocks.
His back arched off the cushions. His hands fisted so hard in the fabric he thought he might tear it. His vision whited out completely.
When his hips finally stopped stuttering, when his body went limp and trembling beneath you, you released him with a soft, wet kiss to his oversensitive tip.
The tenderness of it made his chest ache.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he felt himself mumbling, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “That was so fast—I couldn’t—I didn’t mean to—”
His hand came up to cover his face, shame and self-disgust crashing over him in waves.
But you wouldn’t let him hide. You caught his wrist, gently pulling his hand away, and crawled up his body.
Your lips were slick and swollen, your chin wet with him. You cut off his rambling apologies with a kiss, and his own taste flooded his senses. He groaned into your mouth, as your tongue played with his.
You broke the kiss just barely, your lips brushing against his as you murmured, “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He blinked up at you, dazed and trembling. “Yeah?”
You hummed against his lips, a slow, satisfied sound. “And I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”
The words hit him like a spark in a gas tank. The shame, the self-hate burned away in an instant, replaced by an animal surge of hunger.
He looked at you, still dazed, a slow, disbelieving smile pulling at his lips.
He still hadn’t ruined anything yet. He still hadn’t lost you.
His hands found your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. Before you could react, he was moving, wrapping his arms around you and hauling you up with him.
You let out a surprised squeal, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.
He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss as he stood, walking blindly toward the hallway where he knew your bedroom was.
Dex lay perfectly still, afraid that even the smallest movement might shatter the fragile, impossible peace of the moment.
You were curled against him, your back pressed to his chest, your breathing slow and deep, the sound of someone completely and utterly spent.
He had never felt anything like this. Not once in thirty-two years. This is what it feels like. This quiet. This rightness. This terrifying, exhilarating certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Happiness.
His mind drifted back over the hours, replaying the sharp, vivid highlights like a film he couldn’t look away from.
He had learned so much about you tonight. How your breath hitched when he scraped his teeth along your pulse point. How your fingers twisted in the sheets when he found the perfect angle.
You loved being on your hands and knees for him. The first time, he’d followed your lead, sinking into you from behind, gripping your hips so hard he knew there would be bruises.
He pounded into you, watching your body rock forward with every thrust as you cried into your pillows, muffling your pleasure.
But something in him had itched. He hated it like this.
He couldn’t see your face. Couldn’t watch the expressions that flickered across your features when he hit that spot. Couldn’t feel your heartbeat against his chest or taste your moans with his own mouth.
It felt too much like taking, and not nearly enough like having you.
After you came the first time, your body shuddering and clenching around him, he pulled out before you could catch your breath and flipped you onto your back.
He needed to see you. Needed to watch the way your mouth fell open, the way your pupils blew wide when he settled between your thighs.
He buried his face between your legs and drank you in with a need that bordered on worship.
He lapped at your slick, swollen folds until your second orgasm crested, your hands fisting in his hair, your hips grinding against his mouth as you gasped his name into the dark.
By the time your third orgasm rolled through you, he had your legs wrapped high around his waist, his body pressed flush against yours.
He was buried so deep inside you that the world outside the space between your bodies ceased to exist. His nose touched yours. His forehead rested against yours.
He captured your gaze and held it hostage.
“Look at me,” he breathed, the command barely a whisper. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.”
He wanted you to see everything he had felt since the first moment he saw you in that diner. The obsession. The desperation. The hunger that had consumed him for years.
He wanted you to feel it in the way he moved inside you, as if he was trying to pour every ounce of himself directly into your bloodstream.
He knew you probably didn’t understand the full scope of it.
But lying here, in the aftermath, he let himself pretend. He pretended you had been waiting for him all this time. That your body recognised him. That this was always meant to happen.
When he finally let go, he held himself perfectly still, pumping his release deep inside you with a low groan.
He pressed so close that he could feel your heartbeat through his chest, grinding against you as if he could transfer his devotion through sheer physical proximity.
His nose stayed pressed to yours, his lips hovering just over your mouth, sharing the same warm, humid breath.
He whispered things against your lips. Broken things. Beautiful things.
Confessions that would never make sense in the harsh light of day, but here, in the dark, felt like the only truth that mattered.
“Been waiting so long. So long. I fucking worship you. You’re mine. I’m yours. Don’t ever leave me.”
His voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t care. He let himself be cracked open, let you see the raw, jagged edges of him that he had spent a lifetime hiding.
You didn’t answer. You probably didn’t even hear him. Your eyes had fluttered shut, your body going lax and heavy against him.
Lost to sleep. Lost to him.
He smiled against your hair, a real smile that softened all the hard lines of his face. He didn’t need you to answer. Not tonight.
Just having you here, warm and trusting and full of him, was already more than he ever dared to hope for.
The air in the room had cooled, but wrapped around you, he was warm for the first time in as long as he could remember.
Only twenty-four hours ago, he had been suffocating. Bound by rules and routines and the desperate need to keep himself contained.
But Fisk had shattered the cage he kept himself in. He had shown Dex a version of himself that was raw, hungry, and unapologetic. And instead of retreating from the wreckage, Dex had stepped into it.
He had let go of the ropes and the rules and the white-knuckled grip on control. He had chosen himself for the first time in his miserable, constrained life.
And by choosing himself, he had found the path that curved inevitably, beautifully, right back to you.
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder. His hand splayed across your stomach, feeling the warmth of you.
I did this, he thought, pride blooming in his chest. I chose this. I chose me. And it led me to you.
Dex buried his face in the curve of your neck, his nose pressing deep into the warm, sleep-soft skin just behind your ear.
He inhaled slowly, letting your scent flood his lungs. You smelled like home—the faint coconut trace of your shampoo, the salt of dried sweat from the hours you had spent tangled together, and something deeper, muskier, that was entirely, irrefutably you.
God. This was unbelievable.
And that was where his next problem laid.
He spared a glance down, past the rumpled sheet that clung to his hips, and saw the unmistakable tent of fabric where his cock had hardened again.
He let out a quiet, shaky breath, his eyes tracing the outline of his own need with a mixture of frustration and irritation.
He couldn’t fucking help it.
He felt like a kid in a candy store. The kid being him, a thirty-two-year-old man who had never known what it felt like to want something and actually get it. And the candy store was you. Access to your body.
The knowledge that he could touch you, taste you, sink into you whenever he wanted, and you would let him. You would want him to.
He had known it would be addictive. He just hadn’t realised how quickly the addiction would take hold, how it would wrap around his nervous system and tighten until he couldn’t think of anything else.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
Spooned against you, chest to your back, he felt his hips roll forward in a slow, instinctive grind.
The thick length of him slid into the warm cradle between your thighs, pressing against the soft, slick heat of you through the sheet. A low sound caught in his throat, a choked half-groan that he swallowed against your skin.
Fuck. He should let you rest.
He had been so rough with you tonight. Your body had given him everything.You deserved sleep. You deserved peace.
But his cock didn’t give a shit about what you deserved.
Before he could stop himself, his hips rolled forward again, and this time the tip of him nudged past the edge of the sheet, finding the bare, wet seam of your cunt.
He gasped against your shoulder, his eyes squeezing shut. The slide of you against him was obscenely slick, unbearably warm, a friction so perfect it made his toes curl against the mattress.
Shit. You were still leaking him from earlier.
The evidence of what he had done to you was still there, pooled between your thighs, making you slick and ready for him all over again.
He pressed a quick, guilty kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering just long enough to form a silent apology. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I just... I need you. I can’t stop needing you.
His hand moved, sliding over the curve of your stomach, tracing the soft dip of your waist before cupping your breast.
The weight of it filled his palm perfectly, the flesh so soft and warm, molding against his fingers like it was made for him. He squeezed gently, then let his thumb drag across your nipple, feeling the peak tighten and pebble under his touch.
A small shift rippled through your body. A subtle arch of your spine. A soft, breathy sound that caught in your throat.
He froze.
Every muscle in his body locked tight. His breath stopped. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he was sure it would wake you on its own. He waited, suspended in the pure terror of being caught.
She’s going to wake up. She’s going to see what I’m doing. She’s going to realise what a fucking creep I am—that I can’t keep my hands off her even when she’s asleep, that I’ve been watching her for years, that I am completely, irreparably obsessed with her.
The seconds stretched like hours.
But you didn’t wake. Your breathing deepened again, settling back into that slow, even rhythm. Your body relaxed against his, soft and trusting and completely oblivious to the war raging inside his chest.
He should have stopped. He should have been grateful for the reprieve, thanked whatever cruel god had given him this moment, and let you sleep.
Instead, he kept moving.
His hips resumed their slow, steady rhythm, grinding against your soaked cunt, the head of his cock sliding through the mess of his own release and your combined arousal.
The sensation was maddening; a wet, slippery tease that promised heaven without delivering it.
His hand stayed on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, feeling the way your body responded even in sleep.
He pressed his lips to the back of your neck, a long, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of salt and skin. His breath came hot and uneven against your nape.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your skin, barely a whisper. “But I can’t... I can’t stop touching you. Every second I’m not inside you feels like I’m wasting time I don’t have.”
His hips rolled again, slower this time, deeper, the blunt tip of him catching at your entrance before sliding away, teasing both of you.
A shudder ran through his entire body.
“Please. Just a little more.”
The words slipped from Dex’s lips against the warm skin of your neck, a prayer offered to himself more than you, a plea for permission he was already taking.
He buried his face deeper into the crook of your shoulder, breathing you in until his lungs ached, and let his hips move.
There was nothing graceful about it. He rutted against you like a man possessed, the thick length of him sliding through the slick heat pooled between your thighs.
The sensation erased every rational thought. There was only you. The need to be inside you again. To own you. To fill you so completely that you couldn’t forget him, couldn’t leave him.
His breath came heavier against your nape, as his hand slid from your breast down to your stomach. He pressed his palm flat against the soft curve of your belly and pulled you tighter against him.
The arch of your back pressed your ass directly against his cock, and a fractured groan escaped him.
That’s when he felt it. A shift in your body. Your muscles tensed, your breathing changed, the subtle alertness of waking. Your voice cut through the dark, rough with sleep.
“Dex...?”
He froze for the span of a heartbeat. Then his hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back just enough for him to press a kiss to your cheek.
His hips never stopped their relentless grind, his cock catching at your entrance before sliding away again.
“Shhh,” he breathed against your ear. “Go back to sleep, honey. I’ve got you. Just let me stay right here.”
He needed you to stay in that space between dreaming and waking, where you were pliant and accepting and he could pretend his need wasn’t completely out of control.
But you turned your head toward him, your lips parting.
“Dex—”
He couldn’t let you finish. He kissed you, his tongue sliding into your mouth before you could form the rest of the sentence.
And you let him. No, you kissed him back. Your mouth softened under his, your body melting into his, your tongue meeting his with a lazy, sultry rhythm that told him everything he needed to know.
He felt your hand slide down between your bodies, your fingers searching blindly until they found him.
You traced the slick head of his cock, your touch featherlight, and a shudder ripped through him so violently he had to brace himself against the mattress.
“Fuck,” he gasped against your lips. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged. “You want this too.”
You didn’t answer with words. You nudged the tip of him against your opening, a silent direction that drove the last shred of his restraint into the dust.
He answered with a small grunt as he pushed inside.
The heat of you swallowed him whole, and he dropped his forehead to yours, breathing you in. A soft, breathy moan escaped your lips, and your fingers curled against his back.
“Dex,” you murmured again, but this time it wasn’t a question. It was a sigh of surrender. A welcome.
He pressed another kiss to your mouth, before he began to move.
He tried to start slow. He tried to savour the sensation of sinking back into your slick heat. The attempt lasted only a handful of careful thrusts before the hunger surged through him.
His strokes turned hard and punishing. The rhythm of his hips fell into a desperate tempo that rocked the mattress beneath you, the steady thump-thump-thump of the headboard keeping time with the wild beating of his heart.
His hand slid up from your hip, fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach, your ribs, before curling around your throat.
You looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, your pupils blown wide, your lips parted around soft, broken ah-ah-ah sounds that spilled from your throat with every deep thrust.
He leaned down, his mouth hovering over yours, and deliberately let a thick string of saliva fall into your open lips. He wanted more of himself inside you.
More of his taste, his mark, his presence seeping into every crevice of your body.
A low, guttural groan rumbled up from his chest as he watched you swallow it without hesitation, without question. Your throat worked under his palm, accepting him, taking him in, and the sight nearly sent him over the edge.
“Fuck,” he murmured against your lips, his balls slapping wetly against your ass as he drove into you harder. “You liked that, didn’t you? Touching you while you were asleep. Groping you. Fucking you like I own you.”
Despite the dazed pleasure softening your features, despite the way he was fucking the very thoughts out of your head, you still had the audacity to smile.
That slow, lazy, knowing curl of your lips that had haunted him since the first time he saw it. You hummed a soft, satisfied, “Uh huh.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, a fractured sound against your cheek.
He hooked your thigh higher over his arm, opening you wider, sinking deeper into your perfect, willing heat.
Your voice came out in fractured moans, but there was a teasing edge to it. “’S fucking hot. Knew you were a freak the second I saw you.”
Dex couldn’t help it. A laugh cracked out of him, low and disbelieving, pressed against the warmth of your cheek.
Here he was, balls deep in the object of a years-long obsession, and you were calling him a freak like it was the highest compliment.
The laugh faded into a shuddering exhale as he shifted his angle, driving into you with hard, deep thrusts that pushed the air from your lungs and left you gasping beneath him.
He wanted to leave a permanent mark on your soul. He wanted your cunt to remember the exact shape of him, the exact weight of him.
He wanted the memory of this night imprinted so deeply into your body that you would feel the ghost of him every time you closed your thighs.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, breath ragged and hot.
“I’m gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”
Your response came as fractured, desperate moans, words swallowed by the rhythm of his hips driving into you.
Without breaking pace, his hand moved. Two fingers pressed against your lips. You opened without hesitation, taking them into your mouth just as you took every part of him.
He pushed them deep, curling them against your tongue in perfect time with his thrusts, a double rhythm that had you moaning around his knuckles.
The sight of you like this; mouth full of him, cunt full of him, eyes glassy and fixed on his face, pushed him to the edge. He could feel the tension coiling tight in his gut, the familiar ache building at the base of his spine.
He was seconds away from coming. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
He needed you there first.
With a wet gasp from you, he pulled his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva breaking between his skin and your lips. His hand dropped without hesitation, finding your clit.
He rubbed fast, precise circles against the swollen bud, his own rhythm faltering as he poured every ounce of focus into your pleasure.
His eyes locked onto your face. He watched every micro-expression. The furrow of your brows, the way your lips parted on sharp, punched-out breaths, the flutter of your lashes as pleasure overtook you.
You looked up at him, dazed and pleading, and he nodded like a man possessed, a dumb, frantic motion that matched the speed of his fingers.
“C’mon,” he breathed, the words cracking. “Let go f’me. Let go, baby.”
And you did.
The orgasm hit you like a wave, your back arching, your mouth opening in a loud moan. Dex felt it, the way your cunt clenched around him, choked him, milked him.
The sensation ripped a loud, guttural groan from his chest, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. He closed his eyes, the world going white, and let himself go.
Deep, pulsing spurts of cum filled you, and he thrust into you with every wave, pushing himself as deep as he could go, holding himself there, making sure every drop stayed inside you.
When it was over, the room was filled with nothing but harsh, shared breaths.
He collapsed against you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. He made no move to pull out. No move to let you go. He stayed buried inside you, as close as flesh could get.
“Jesus Christ,” you murmured in a daze, the words barely a whisper.
The silence that followed was a dangerous thing. It let the thoughts back in. The insecurity. The horrible, gnawing fear that he had done too much.
He pressed his face into the curve of your neck, hiding, breathing you in until his lungs ached. His voice was rough, muffled against your skin.
“Too much?”
A beat. Then your hand, slow and heavy with exhaustion, slid into his hair. You laughed, soft and drowsy.
“No.” A pause. “By all means... keep me in your basement if you want.”
Dex’s eyes snapped open.
The joke hung in the air, clearly just a sleepy, affectionate jab. But he didn’t hear the joke.
He heard the offer.
Having you to himself. Forever. In a place where no one else could touch you, see you, take you. A place where you were his, every single moment of every single day.
And if you wanted it... if you offered it up with that same trust you gave him your body, your mouth, your cunt...
Then why the fuck wouldn’t he do it?
He lifted his head slowly, looking down at your face. You were half-asleep, lips curved in a soft sex-dazed smile. You had no idea what you had just given him.
His voice dropped, quiet and raw. Completely serious.
“Yeah?”
Your lashes fluttered. You hummed, already drifting back into sleep, but the sound was an affirmation. A yes.
His hand slid up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced your cheekbone, and when he spoke, the words were a vow pressed against your lips.
“Then I’m never letting you go.”
a/n | dex feeling absolutely blessed and a surreality of being seen and chosen by you, meanwhile reader is just a youngho and overly horny
summary: You go to a bar after being stood up and really hit it off with the cute bartender.
word count: 2.1k+
It's a really slow night at the bar for Eddie, which really shouldn't be surprising for a Thursday. There's the usual suspects that are here pretty much every day and that damn flickering bulb that he's been meaning to change. A popular rock song plays softly over the speakers as Eddie wipes down the bar, seeing that the time displayed on the clock behind him means that it's almost time to close.
He's whistling along to the song as he continues to wipe everything down, knowing that he definitely needs to mop when he hears a pair of shoes sticking to the floor. And when he looks up, his whistling comes to a stop as he takes you in.
He doesn't know what you're doing here and why you're wearing a dress, but he's not gonna question it. You look out of place amongst the brick wall and heavy metal band posters and he wonders if you had a prior commitment. And just when he thinks you're going to realize that you're in the wrong place, you make your way over to the bar, sitting on one of the stools.
You set your clutch on the bar as you peruse the menu, clearly unsure of what you're going to order. Eddie's trying to keep up with his closing tasks, but he can't keep his eyes off you, trying to psych himself up to take your order. You seem to be eyeing him too and he wonders if the flirty looks are all in his head or if you really mean them. He's still not quite used to the female attention he's gotten since he's left Hawkins and has a hard time deciphering what's flirting and what's being friendly.
"What can I get for you?" He asks as he makes his way over, throwing the towel he's holding onto his shoulder. He's cute with his unruly, curly hair and his smile that you just know makes everyone swoon. In the dim lighting you can barely make out his brown eyes, imagining that they've gotten him out a lot of trouble.
"I was thinking about a glass of wine, but I think I'm gonna go with the-" you cut yourself off, looking down at the menu in front of you. "The Bahama Mama." You're pointing to the radioactive blue colored drink on the menu and Eddie can't help but laugh at that. In the almost year that this place has been open, only a handful of people have ordered the Bahama Mama. They all like the cheap beer or hard liquor.
"Something funny?"
"No, no," he shakes his head. "Coming right up." You watch him mix your drink, wondering what you'd be doing right now if tonight had gone according to plan, but you think you prefer being here with with cute bartender. Even though this is a side of town you don't usually end up on, you don't feel like your in danger here. In fact, this place feels cozy, much like being wrapped up in a warm blanket.
The music playing over the speakers isn't typically something you'd listen to, but you don't mind it. All of the other metal music you've heard has been very harsh on your ears, but this-this is nice. You just know that the bartender controls the music by the way he's singing along as he mixes your drink.
He's not the kind of guy you'd normally be into, but there's something about him that's reeled you in. It's the mysterious air about him that's intrigued you. You can't read his mind and you like that. Too many men have been far too forward with you and if this guy's interested, you have no idea.
"Here you are, one Bahama Mama." He sets the drink in front of you and it's just as blue as the picture, like someone has poured Windex into the glass. He watches you take a sip, smiling when he sees you nod in approval. It's strong but you prefer it. It's been a long night and you deserve a fucking drink.
"Thank you," you pause, waiting to him to give his name.
"Eddie." The name fits him, you think, then immediately wonder if it's short for something or just Eddie. Part of you wants to call him "Edward" just to see his reaction
You give him your name in return and you love the way it sounds when he says it. It sounds so pretty coming from his lips. You have to keep yourself from imagining how it would sound during climax, trying to keep your mind from straying into dirty thoughts territory.
You make small talk as he continues to clean and you sip on your drink. A few of the regulars are still in their usual spots as others have left. It's getting closer and closer to closing time and Eddie really doesn't want to say goodbye to you. You're the most interesting part of his night.
"So, who is this?" You ask, pointing upwards to signify that you're asking about the music. His eyes bug out at the question so you're assuming that you asked the wrong one.
"You're joking," he sputters out a laugh as his hands slam down onto the bar, looking you directly in the eyes. "You've never heard of Black Sabbath?" You shake your head in response. "Ozzy Osbourne?"
"Well, I've heard of them, just never listened to them. At least, not on my own time." He's so used people hating on him for the music he listens to but he appreciates how polite you're being.
"Voluntarily? I can't believe what I'm hearing. You have to be pulling my leg now." He knows you're not and wonders who turned you off of metal. An ex most likely.
"Sorry, metal just hasn't been my thing, but I'd definitely listen to more of this." He can't seem to keep the smile off of his face for the first time tonight. He's not used to talking to customers like this but you're just so easy to have a conversation with. The playful side of him just comes out so easily and he can actually see himself talking to you more after tonight."
"Tell you what, after I close up, we can go upstairs and listening to their greatest hits." You don't usually go home with people you've just met, but you promised yourself you'd get out of your comfort zone. And even though you've just met Eddie, you feel like you can trust him. You fully believe that you're just going to listen to music and that this isn't some ploy to take something from you.
"I'd actually really like that," you nod. It's already 11:30 according to the clock on the wall behind Eddie so you don't have much longer until the bar closes up. You talk about everything and nothing as you help him finish cleaning despite him telling you not to. You don't seem to understand the concept of sitting there and looking pretty which is a damn shame because you're so good at it.
He reluctantly agreed to let you mop the floor, unable to deny that pretty smile you flashed him when you offered. He's pretty sure he'd let you do anything just by seeing the way your lips curl up, showing off your nice teeth. God, he's so easy. You came in here in that fucking dress and charmed him despite your dislike of metal, (he's really going to have to change that) he really wants to get to know you better.
Once the bar is all cleaned up, Eddie takes you by the hand like the gentleman he is and leads you down the hall where the restrooms are located to the door at the very end that's locked. Eddie unlocks it to reveals a staircase that you assume leads up to his apartment. The stairs are very narrow so Eddie makes you go first, so he can catch you if you fall. He truly has no idea how you're wearing those heels, deciding that you have to be a warrior of some type to do it.
You get to the top with no issue and he unlocks the door, opening it for you and letting you in. He's trying to remember if he left it a complete mess before he left but he can't be sure. When he peeks inside, he doesn't see anything wrong until he fully gets through the door and sees the singular bowl in his sink from breakfast. How embarrassing.
You take in the place before you as Eddie turns on the overhead light, the kitchen coming into view as you step inside. It's a small studio apartment, but he's done what he can with the space. You move out of the small kitchen and head into the living/bedroom, his unmade bed taking up most of it. There's a small TV on top of a short bookcase across from the bed. Next to the bookcase is a large stack of books that clearly wouldn't fit and you admire that he likes a read since you know a lot of men don't. And if they do, they're those bullshit shelf help books.
You make yourself at home by sitting on his bed, moving to take off your shoes as he does something in the kitchen. Just when you wonder what he's doing, he comes into the room with two glasses of water.
"Just wanted to make sure you were hydrated after that drink," he says as he passes you one of the glasses which you take gratefully.
"Thank you." You take a few sips then set it on the bed side table to your left before collapsing onto the bed. It's been a long night and the comfort and sheets are so soft that you could just-
"Nice place you've got here," you compliment before you can fully fall asleep. You turn to your right to see Eddie putting on a record and adjusting the volume on the record player that you haven't noticed until now.
"Thanks. The commute to work is really long, though," he jokes and you can't help but laugh. He's got a Black Sabbath album playing just like he promised and when he's got the volume to where he wants it, he makes his way over to the bed and sits next to you but keeps his space.
He wants you to feel comfortable here and really doesn't want to ruin whatever is going between the two of you by not reading the room. You surprise him by scooting closer until your thighs are touching.
"This is a nice dress." He's starting to sweat at his embarrassing attempt at flirting but you seem to be into it with the way that you lean into him, a smirk playing on your pretty lips. He admires the way it flows out, stopping at your thighs, the shade of red popping against your skin.
"Thanks. I actually wore it on a date."
"Did it not go well?"
"Nope. He stood me up." You don't know why you expected anything else since was like pulling teeth to get him to pick a restaurant. It was clear from the beginning that he didn't want to go out with you in the first place so you don't know why you even went through it. Maybe it's just because you're tired of being alone.
"What a dick." Eddie already has a hard time getting dates in the past so he can't imagine just not showing up. He'd consider himself the luckiest guy in the world to be with you. In fact he already does because you'd rather be in his apartment right now than anywhere else.
"Yeah, he was, but all worked out because I'm here with you." Eddie cheeks heat at your words and they're practically on fire when your hand lands on his thigh. It's an innocent touch in this context but it's still burning through his jeans. You lean closer and he closes his eyes in anticipation, only opening them when you lean your head on his shoulder. His arm wraps around your waist awkwardly as you scoot even closer.
You've been quiet for a while and when he turns his head, he sees that you've fallen asleep. He can't help but let out a laugh before slowly moving to lay you down on the bed, draping the comforter over you. You look so pretty like this and he turns off the record player and puts the record back in its sleeve to prevent dust from collecting on it.
And as he places a pillow on top of the rug that's going to be his bed for the night, he wonders what you'll think when you wake up. Like when you realize that this was all a mistake like they all do, will you be mean about it, or will you be the sweetheart he knows you are? He guesses that only time will tell.
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Written for the third of the @steddiemicrofic 3rd year anniversary celebration prompts, micro | WC: 555 | Rating: E | CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI insecure!Eddie, body worship, mention of scars, oral sex, orgasm delay/denial, cum eating | Tags: Post-S4, semi-established relationship
Steddie masterlist | General masterlist
Eddie feels like he's under a microscope. It's a sunny afternoon, and he's never been examined in such detail before. Ordinarily he'd be uncomfortable, squirming under such close scrutiny. What if they dislike his body? What if the more they see the less they want? What if they somehow uncover his true self? What if they run…?
But today, Steve's inspecting every curve of muscle, every crease, every inch of skin, every freckle, inked line and perceived imperfection. And all Eddie can do is lie there and take it.
They've hooked up a few times, albeit hurriedly. Eddie’s van, the break room in Family Video, midnight at Skull Rock. Always mostly clothed, or somewhere dark enough where Eddie doesn't care. So it's a new feeling, being this naked, this… open with someone.
He allows Steve's eyes and fingers and mouth to travel wherever they please, over sharp bones and spindly limbs, second-rate and half-decent tattoos, all his scars, his very being. Lets him lick and stroke and suck and sigh, focusing only on the experience and sensations, ignoring the niggling apprehensions about what Steve might be thinking or feeling and trying to believe the muffled murmurs that sound like he can't bear to leave Eddie’s skin,
“My god, Eddie. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”
Steve's mouth skims over the uneven, pink flesh of Eddie’s chest. Humming, he sucks the peaked flesh of his remaining nipple past his lips. Eddie whines, gasps, hands grasping his own hair, trying to ground himself while Steve’s attention moves down his stomach and happy trail and he mumbles,
“And you taste… mmm… so fucking good.”
Soft skin slips around his cockhead, and Eddie hisses as Steve slurps his smeared precum like its manna itself before wet heat suctions around him. Eddie jerks and bucks, Steve's broad palms holding his hips static as he swallows him down.
Eddie writhes and moans, finally yielding to the restraint, and suddenly he's succumbing to the bliss of Steve's mouth embarrassingly quickly. He grunts unintelligible warnings as his balls tighten and abs tense, and his hot spend pulses forcefully into Steve's receptive throat.
Breathing heavily, he lifts his head to watch Steve sit back on his heels, groaning as he swallows Eddie's seed. He's accustomed to them having quick hookups, and anticipates Steve'll leave now, but Steve's heavy, lidded eyes lock to Eddie's. He dips to lick a wide stripe along his softening length, suckling gently at the head to garner every drop of release, Eddie’s cock twitching valiantly even as he shudders with overstimulation.
Hands squeeze his hips affectionately before sliding up his sides, and Steve continues watching, assessing, examining until their lips connect. Eddie tastes his tongue, himself mingled with Steve's unique flavour, and now Steve's exploring every crevice of his mouth, tongue mapping the roof and dragging around his teeth. Eddie registers Steve's hard member rutting against his damaged thigh as his mouth moves to Eddie’s jaw, hairline, earlobe, his large hands still exploring every location he can reach.
And unexpectedly, Eddie realises this isn't an examination. It's a proclamation. Of adoration. Of addiction. Of love.
And if Steve ever decides to crack him open and examine his soul and psyche with similar microscopic scrutiny? After today, Eddie thinks that prospect might not be quite so frightening after all.
you're constantly testing him, fliting around the apartment doing chores in panties that leave very little to the imagination, and a thin white top that outlines the sensitive buds of your nipples. he just can't help but chub up in his sweats, palming himself and getting all embarrassed when you smile at him sweetly over your shoulder.
he literally whines when you bend over to pick up a sock under the couch, a damp spot from your slick seeping through your lace panties. "baby..." a deep red flush makes its way up his neck, tinting all the way up to the tips of his ears.
"what's wrong, dex?" you furrow your eyebrows softly in faux concern, walking over to him and rubbing his bicep gently, putting on that innocent act that he stupidly believes. he really thinks he's the pervert here, you've got him wrapped around your finger.
a bit later, he's taking an important work phone call, nodding along to the men on the other line. you come right along and flop down on the couch next to him, swinging your bare legs so they're resting in his lap. he gives you a small smile, his face a tinge of pink. big warm hands come up to rub at the fat of your calves tenderly.
what he doesn't expect is you hooking your fingers in the hem of your crop top and pulling it up just enough so that your tits are spilling out, on full display right in front of his face. his breath hitches, blushing like a fool and his hands gripping his phone so hard you're surprised it hasn't broken. he stutters over his words, tripping over each syllable and trying to ignore the way he's literally throbbing in his boxers. he's so hard, he feels like he could cum from a gust of wind! unfortunately, that's the type effect you have on him. poor baby has to go through the phone call eyes locked on your tits and his mind hazy.
it's not until he has to hop on a zoom call that he finally breaks. hes sitting at the kitchen table listening to others speak about something that sounds important, but you just can't help yourself.
you slide under the table and smile up at him through his legs, rubbing his thighs up and down. he had just gotten his dick to go down from earlier, and now you're getting it up all over again! his eyes flick between you and the screen, clearly not sure where to place his attention.
you go to palm at his clothed cock, stroking the already leaking shatt through his sweats and enjoying the way he tries to weakly push your hand away, no matter how bad he wants it. he's just looking down at you and shaking his head, squirming and trying to take hold of your wrist, whispering little sorry's.
he can't take it anymore when your fingers find the waistband of both his pants and boxers, tugging at it like you're going to suck him off right there. he quickly turns his camera off and his mute, dragging you out trom under the table, making you yelp in suprise. he's just apologizing the whole time, he gets you on the bed and starts rutting into you desperately, pathetic little whimpers falling from his lips.
he truly thinks you could do no wrong, like he's the one who's being a creep. it's fun to test him because no matter how far you go, he'll still think you're just his angel.
