a sentence that sounds insane, totally untrue, to say. he truly never thought it would be something he even accepted, never mind loved.
but somehow seeing you, seeing the way you float around the kitchen in your pyjama shorts… and that damn little vest that shows too much sometimes.
maybe it’s not the domesticity - maybe it’s just you.
his favourite part about it all? when he gets to fuck you just the way he likes - and what he likes, is making you cum in all the places he can think of around the house.
“Frankie! fuck.” you squeak, his hips pushing in and out, he groans watching the way you grip the kitchen counter - godly tits falling out of that fucking vest.
“Good girl, my good girl, aren’t you?” he asks, giant hand swirling its way around your neck, big frame towering behind you, pulling your head back so his eyes can meet yours - so he can see the destruction he is wreaking on your body. “taking all o’me like this. so good.” he thinks he might just be talking to himself now.
his cock drives in and out of you, so deep you can feel him everywhere. the sound of your wetness filling the room, your moans and hint grunts - all you were trying to do was cook him some food.
“y-yes, just yours, just for you.” you mumble, looking at him and seeing how big his pupils are.
his other hand drifts from your hip, right onto your soaked clit - and you jump at the feeling of him rubbing little circles, trying to push you over the edge.
“fuck feels s’good frank, please don’t stop.” you beg, the way he hammers so good, at the right spot over and over again, so deep in your pussy - you can feel the end coming, so desperately wanting to fall over that edge. “pleaseplease, frankie fill me up please.”
“ahh, my sweet girl, always beggin’ for me. want me to fill this pussy up? wan’me to make you cum?” his words come out fast, and slurred together, and you know he’s close too.
“yes frankie yes, p-oh god!” you say, finally tipping over the edge, vision whitening head dropping forward onto the counter and hip pushing back, taking as much of his cock as you can get.
you don’t even realise how loud you’re screaming until he lifts your head, one hand covers your mouth, and he says, “you want the neighbours to know what i do to you, baby girl? want them to know how i make you scream in the kitchen?”
he’s still driving into you, hips slapping against yours as the wetness he created drips down onto his thighs, onto his clothes that swim around his ankles.
“yes frankie, wan’them to hear everything.” you moan out, vision still spotty after such a strong orgasm - just like he always gives you.
and finally, with a low, drawn out groan - you feel him fill you up, right to the brim. his warm spend filling your walls, dripping right out onto the floor. his thrusts slowing to a stop, his head meets your shoulders, and you can feel the way he smirks run across your skin.
you're sitting on the couch, phone in hand, pretending to scroll through instagram. but your eyes keep drifting up—over the screen, past the glowing feed of strangers' lives—to where dex is standing in the kitchen doorway.
he's not doing anything. just standing there in grey sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, scrolling through something on his own phone. the light from the kitchen backlights him, making his shoulders look broader.
he's being completely normal. completely casual.
and you can't stop staring.
it's the way his jaw moves when he lifts his coffee mug to his lips, the way his fingers curl around the ceramic—long and deliberate. the way his shoulders fill out that shirt like it was made for him, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the bob of his adam's apple visible even from your spot across the room.
you've been doing this a lot lately. looking. watching. noticing things you should not notice about your stepfather.
the house is quiet, your mom left an hour ago for brunch and shopping with friends—"won't be back until late." she had said as she pranced toward the door, eager to spend money. now, it's just the two of you, and the silence feels thicker than usual.
he catches you.
of course he catches you.
his eyes lift from his phone, and there's a beat of silence where you both just look at each other. your face goes hot immediately. you drop your gaze back to your phone, heart hammering in your chest, pretending you weren't just ogling your stepdad like some kind of—
"what?" his voice cuts through the quiet, casual but amused. "something on my face?"
"no," you say too quickly, your voice coming out higher than normal. "nothing."
you hear him hum—a low sound in the back of his throat—and then the soft pad of his footsteps crossing the living room. the couch dips as he sits beside you. not at the other end. right beside you, close enough that his thigh brushes yours as he situates himself against the cushions.
you don't move away. you can't. your body has gone stiff, frozen in place, every nerve suddenly aware of how close he is, buzzing at the mere proximity.
everything about him invades your space—the heat of him, the smell of his cologne, something woodsy and clean that makes your stomach flip.
"you sure?" he asks, and his voice is closer now. softer. "cause you were staring pretty hard."
"i wasn't—" you start, but the words die in your throat when you look up and find him already watching you. his face is inches from yours. too close. you can see the pale ring around his irises, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his lips curve into the smallest smile.
your fingers tighten around your phone. you don't know what to do with your hands. you don't know where to look. your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears.
"you know," he says slowly, like he's thinking out loud, "you're at that age. curiosity and all that. it's normal."
your brow furrows. "what?"
"boys." he says it simply, like it's obvious. his eyes don't leave yours. "you're curious about them, right? about what it'd be like to be kissed by one." he pauses, and his smile widens just slightly. "all that stuff."
your mouth goes dry. your heart is trying to break out of your chest. "i—i don't—"
"it's okay." his voice is so gentle. so patient. almost paternal. "you don't have to be embarrassed, honey. it's natural. every girl your age wonders about these things."
you swallow hard. your throat feels tight. your hands are trembling slightly in your lap, and you press them together to hide it. "i guess. yeah. maybe."
he tilts his head, studying you with those pale, unblinking eyes. cataloging every detail of your face, storing them away in his mind.
"have you ever been kissed?" he asks. "properly, i mean. not just a peck behind the bleachers." he must think he's a comedian, the way he laughs at his own question, not even bothering to hide it.
your face burns. you shake your head, unable to form words. your fingers twist together in your lap, picking at a loose thread on your jeans.
"thought so." he sets his coffee mug on the side table with a soft clink, then turns to face you fully. his knee presses against yours, warm and solid. "you know, i could show you. if you want."
your head snaps up. "what?"
"show you how it's done." he says it like it's the most reasonable thing in the world. like he's offering to help you with homework or teach you to drive. "so you don't embarrass yourself with some boy your age who doesn't know what he's doing either. you deserve to have your first real kiss be something memorable. something done right."
your brain is screaming at you. this is weird. this is wrong. this is your stepdad offering to teach you how to kiss like it's a freaking chemistry lesson.
but instead your mouth says: "okay."
the word comes out before you can stop it. small. uncertain. barely audible.
your mouth is an idiot.
his smile is slow. satisfied. something dark flickers in his eyes. "good girl. come here."
he shifts closer—or maybe you do, you're not sure—and suddenly there's no space between you at all. his thigh is pressed fully against yours. his shoulder brushes your arm. you can feel the heat radiating off his body.
one hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you flinch slightly at the contact. his palm is warm against your skin, slightly rough with calluses. his thumb traces your cheekbone, feather-light, and you shiver.
"relax," he murmurs, and his voice is so soft. so soothing. "it's just me. nothing to be nervous about."
you try to relax. you really do. but your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can feel it through your skin. your hands are trembling in your lap, and you curl them into fists to hide it. your whole body feels like a live wire.
"okay," he says gently. "close your eyes."
you hesitate for a second—some instinct telling you not to, telling you to get up and go to your room—but then you do it anyway.
the world goes dark. you can feel the warmth of him in front of you, can hear his steady breathing, can smell that cologne that makes your stomach feel like it's full of butterflies. your other senses sharpen in the absence of sight.
"now tilt your head up. just a little. yeah, like that."
his thumb guides your chin, tilting your face toward his. you feel his breath on your lips—warm and soft and smelling faintly of coffee—and you hold your own breath without meaning to.
"relax your mouth," he says, his voice low and close. "don't tense up. just let your lips be soft."
you try. you really try. but your lips are pressed together tightly, your jaw clenched, your whole body rigid with nerves.
"you're nervous," he observes, and it's not a question.
you nod, not trusting your voice.
"that's okay." his thumb strokes your jaw soothingly, back and forth in a slow rhythm. "everyone's nervous their first time. just breathe for me, okay? nice and slow."
you take a shaky breath. then another. your chest rises and falls unevenly. his hand stroking your hair isn't exactly helping with the calming.
"that's it. good girl."
the praise makes something warm bloom in your chest. you want to hear it again.
"okay," he says. "i'm going to kiss you now. just a soft one. nothing scary."
you nod again, barely moving. your whole body is tense, waiting.
and then his lips are on yours.
it's gentle, soft. just the lightest press of his mouth against yours, warm and dry. you feel his lips move slightly, like he's testing the shape of you, learning the contours. your whole body goes stiff.
he pulls back after a few seconds. you open your eyes, blinking, and find him watching you with a small smile. his hand is still cupping your jaw.
"see?" he says. "not so scary, right?"
you shake your head. your lips are tingling. you touch them with your fingertips, smiling at the sensation.
"you held your breath again," he says, and there's amusement in his voice. "you gotta breathe through it, honey. can't kiss if you can't breathe."
"right," you say, and your voice comes out squeaky. you clear your throat. "sorry."
"don't apologize." his thumb is still stroking your jaw, slow and soothing. "you're learning. that's what this is for. ready to try again?"
you nod, a little more confident this time. your heart is still racing, but it's not just fear anymore. there's something else mixed in. something that makes your stomach flip.
"okay. close your eyes."
you do.
"this time, don't tense your lips. let them be soft. and remember to breathe."
his mouth meets yours again, and this time you try to do what he said. you let your lips relax, let them mold against his. it's still gentle, still soft, but there's something different about it now.
you feel him smile against your mouth. "good," he murmurs, his lips brushing yours as he speaks. "that's good. you're doing so well."
his lips move against yours again, and you try to follow. clumsy at first, unsure of the rhythm, but he's patient. his hand stays on your jaw, softly guiding you, tilting your head just slightly to get you exactly where he wants you.
"there you go," he says, pulling back just enough to speak. his breath ghosts over your wet lips. "that's how it's done. you're a natural, honey."
your breathing stutters at the praise. "really?"
"really." he leans forward and kisses the corner of your mouth, soft and brief. "you learn fast."
you smile, giddy and breathless. your heart is still racing, but it's not fear anymore, now it's something else. something warm and fluttery that makes you feel like you're floating .
"want to try again?" he asks. "a little deeper this time?"
you bite your lip, nervous again but excited too. "okay."
"close your eyes."
that must be his new mantra, you think as you do what he says, the world fading away again.
"now part your lips. just a little. yeah, like that."
he kisses you again, and this time you feel the difference immediately. his mouth is more insistent, his lips parting against yours, and you feel the briefest brush of his tongue against your lower lip.
you gasp, pulling back instinctively. your eyes fly open.
"what—" your voice is breathless. "what are you doing?"
"using my tongue," he says simply, like it's nothing. like he's explaining a math problem. "it's part of it. when you get more comfortable. you don't have to use it yet if you're not ready."
your heart is racing. "'kay."
"but you should know how it works," he continues, his voice taking on that patient, instructional tone. "too much and it's sloppy. too little and it's boring. there's a balance."
you nod, hanging on his every word. your hands are shaking in your lap.
"want to try again? just a little tongue this time. nothing scary."
you hesitate. some part of you—the part that still has a functioning brain—is screaming that this is wrong. that you should get up and leave. that this isn't normal.
but his hand is so warm on your jaw. his voice is so gentle. and he's looking at you like you're something precious.
"hey." his voice is soft, coaxing. "look at me."
you do. his eyes are warm, patient. concerned. concerned you're going to tell your mother what her husband just did to you.
"i'm not going to do anything you don't want," he says. "if you're not ready, we can stop. but it's just practice, honey. it doesn't mean anything. it's just so you know what it feels like. so some boy can't take advantage of you later."
you take a shaky breath. "okay."
"okay?" he smiles. "good girl. eyes."
you let out a breathy giggle, the word eyes having been said so many times, it's starting not to sound real anymore, but you shut them anyway.
his mouth meets yours again, and you feel his tongue touch your lips gently. you part them without thinking, and he slides in just barely—just enough for you to feel the warmth and wetness of it.
you make a small sound against his mouth. surprised, maybe. or overwhelmed.
he pulls back. "you okay?"
"yeah," you breathe. "yeah, i'm okay."
"that was good," he says, and his voice is rougher now. "you're doing so good. are ready for more?"
you nod.
his tongue touches yours this time—light, teasing—and you feel your whole body shiver. it's strange and unfamiliar. but not unpleasant. his hand moves from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he pulls you closer.
you let him.
you let him kiss you until your lips are tingling, until your head is spinning, until you've forgotten that this is supposed to be practice. his tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, and you try to follow his lead. your hands come up to grip his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.
when he pulls back, you're both breathing hard.
"see?" he says, and his voice is rough. strained. "nothing to be scared of."
you smile, dazed. "yeah. nothing."
he thumbs your bottom lip, and you shiver. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
"you want to practice some more?"
you nod before you can think about it.
—
it happens again two days later.
you're in the bathroom, reaching for a bottle on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, when you feel him come up behind you. his chest presses against your back, solid and warm, and his arm reaches over you to grab the bottle himself.
"here," he says, his voice low near your ear. "let me."
you freeze. your whole body goes rigid. you can feel the hard planes of his chest through his shirt, the heat of him seeping into your back. he doesn't move away immediately. just stands there, arm still extended, boxing you in against the vanity top.
your heart is pounding. your hands are gripping the edges of the vanity so hard your knuckles are white.
"thanks," you manage, voice small.
he sets the bottle of body cream down in front of you but doesn't close the mirror to the cabinet, nor does he step back. his hand lands on your hip, warm and heavy, and he turns you around to face him, pressing the tips of his fingers into your hip bones as he does. you're trapped between his body and the vanity, and he's looking down at you with that same soft, patient expression.
"you've been thinking about it," he says. it's not a question.
your mouth goes dry, just play dumb, you think. "about what?"
"the other night. the kissing." his other hand comes up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. "haven't you?"
you should lie. you should say no. you should push past him and walk away and pretend this never happened.
"yes," you whisper.
his smile is slow. satisfied. "i knew it. i could tell. you've been looking at me differently."
you have been. you've been replaying that night in your head over and over, touching your lips when no one's watching, wondering what it would be like to do it again. wondering if it felt as good for him as it did for you. because it surely felt good for you.
"you want to practice again?" his voice breaks you out of your racing thoughts.
you hesitate. your hands are shaking at your sides. "i don't... i don't know if we should," you say, and your voice is uncertain. wavering. "it feels..."
"what?" he asks, and his voice is so gentle. so concerned. "what does it feel like?"
"wrong," you whisper. "it feels wrong."
his expression softens. he reaches out, cups your face with both hands, and you flinch slightly before forcing yourself to stay still.
"it's not wrong," he says firmly. "it's just... unusual. but that doesn't make it wrong. i care about you, you know that, right?"
you nod, still uncertain.
"i want to help you," he continues, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "i want you to be ready when you meet someone your age. someone who deserves you. and i'm the only one who can teach you properly. your mom can't do this. your friends don't know what they're doing. but i do. don't you trust me?"
you do. that's the problem. you trust him so much it scares you.
"yeah," you say quietly. "i trust you."
"good." he smiles, and it's warm and reassuring. "then let me help you. okay? just practice. that's all it is."
you nod, and he slides away from you for just a moment as he closes your bathroom door—caging you in, putting a barrier between you and the rest of the house. a barrier between you being able to get away.
it's different from the first time. slower. his mouth is more demanding, and you feel his tongue slide against your lip almost immediately. you gasp, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss.
your hands come up to his chest, not pushing, just... holding. you don't know what to do with them. they feel useless and awkward and sweaty—gross.
"put your hands on my shoulders," he murmurs against your lips. "or in my hair. wherever feels natural, honey."
you slide your hands up to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt. he makes a sound of approval—a low hum in the back of his throat.
"that's it. good girl."
he kisses you again, deeper, and his hand slides from your hip to your lower back, pressing you against him. you can feel everything—the hard muscle of his chest, the heat of his skin through his shirt, the way his breathing is getting faster.
and you can feel something else. something hard pressing against your stomach.
your eyes fly open. you pull back slightly, breathless and confused.
he's watching you, his eyes dark. "it's okay," he says softly. "that's normal. that's just what happens when someone makes you feel good."
your face burns. you don't know where to look.
"you make me feel good," he continues, his voice low and rough. "you're so sweet. so responsive. it's hard not to react, baby."
you're trembling. your whole body is trembling, and you don't know if it's nerves or excitement or both.
"you're shaking," he says, pulling back slightly, but still holding your shoulders, studying your face closely "you okay?"
"yeah," you say, but your voice is shaky. "i'm just—i'm nervous."
"i know." he strokes your hair, soothing. "it's okay to be nervous. this is new for you. but i've got you, remember? i'm not going to let anything bad happen."
you nod. you believe him.
"you trust me?"
"yeah," you say, and you mean it.
"then just let go," he says softly. "let me take care of you."
he kisses you again, and this time you let yourself sink into it. you let your body relax against his, let your hands slide up into his hair, let him kiss you until you're breathless and dizzy.
when he pulls back, you're both breathing hard. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. his hands are gripping your hips tightly.
"you're doing so good," he says, and his voice is rough. strained. "so fucking good."
you blush at the praise, at the curse word. "really?"
"really." he kisses your forehead, tender. "you're a quick learner."
then he steps back abruptly, and you almost stumble without him there to hold you up.
"we should stop," he says, and his voice is tight. controlled. "i'll call you when your mom's ready for dinner."
you blink, disoriented. "what? why?"
"because," he says, and he sounds strained, "if we keep going, i'm not going to be able to stop myself. and you're not ready for that." he's putting distance between the two of you as he speaks, guiding you away from the vanity with gentle pressure on your shoulders, clearing a path to the door.
your cheeks burn, but there's a part of you that wants to say i am ready. that wants to see what he'd do if you pushed.
but he's already opening your bathroom door, running a hand through his hair as he leaves your bedroom, stepping out into the hallway with a loud sigh.
you lie on your bed, staring at the ceiling, and you replay every moment. every kiss. every touch. every word.
you're doing so good.
such a good girl.
you make me feel good.
you press your thighs together, heart racing. your body feels hot and restless, like there's something building inside you that needs release.
you don't question it. not once. because why would you? he's your stepdad. he loves you. he said it's normal. he said it's natural. he said he's just teaching you.
so you trust him.
you trust him completely.
—
the third time, you're not even pretending it's practice.
you're on his bed—his and your mom's bed—sitting cross-legged while he sits across from you. she's at work. won't be home for hours. you've been here for twenty minutes, talking about nothing, and you both know what's going to happen.
"you've been getting better," he says, watching you. "really improving."
"thanks." you look down at your hands, picking at your nails. "it's cause you're a good teacher."
he laughs, low and warm. "that's one way to put it."
you look up. he's watching you with that same intense gaze, and your heart starts hammering. your stomach is full of butterflies, your palms are sweaty.
"come here," he says.
you crawl across the bed to him, and he pulls you into his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world. your thighs straddle his, and his hands settle on your hips, and you're so close you can feel his breath on your lips.
"you know," he says slowly, "you're still making a few mistakes."
you frown. "i am?"
"mmhmm." his thumb strokes your hip through your thin shirt. "you keep trying to take the lead. you're not letting me guide you."
"i'm sorry," you say quickly. "i didn't mean—"
"it's okay." he kisses your cheek, soft and reassuringly. "you're still learning. just let me show you, okay? let me take control."
"okay," you say, and you mean it. you want him to take control, you want him to show you how it's done. that's all you want, you tell yourself.
he kisses you, and you let him. you let him tilt your head just how he likes it. you let him guide your hands to his shoulders, his chest, wherever he wants them.
"relax your jaw," he murmurs, nipping lightly at your lips. "you're clenching."
you try to relax, but your whole body is tense with nerves and anticipation.
"breathe, baby." he reminds you. "slow and steady."
you take a shaky breath, and he kisses you again. this time, it's deeper. his tongue slides against yours, and you feel your whole body shiver. his hands stroke your sides, warm through your thin shirt, and you arch into the touch without meaning to.
"that's it," he breathes. "you're doing so good."
he kisses you until you're dizzy, until you're panting against his mouth, until all you can think about is the feeling of his lips on yours and his hands on your body.
"you feel that?" he asks, pulling back just enough to speak. his voice is rough. "the way your body responds? that's natural. that's just your body telling you it feels good."
"it feels good," you echo, and you sound dazed.
"yeah?" his lips trail down to your jaw, your neck. you gasp, your head falling back. "you want more?"
"yes," you breathe. "please."
he chuckles against your throat. "so polite. such a good girl."
his hands slide under your shirt, and you gasp at the contact—his palms hot against your bare skin. your back arches instinctively, pressing closer to him.
"relax," he murmurs. "it's okay. this is normal. this is what people do when they're attracted to each other."
"we're not—" you start, but the words die when his mouth finds that spot behind your ear.
"not what?"
"we're not—" you can't think. your brain is fuzzy, scattered. "we're not... people."
he pulls back, looking at you with those dark eyes. "no," he agrees softly. "we're not. we're something else. something special."
your chest aches at his words. "special?"
"yeah." he kisses you again, tender and sweet. "and that's why you can trust me. i'll take care of you. i'll teach you everything you need to know."
you melt into him. completely. utterly. because he's right—this is special. this is different. and he's taking care of you.
"now," he says, his voice low. "let me show you how to really kiss someone."
he kisses you again, and this time there's nothing gentle about it. his mouth is firm and demanding, and you whimper against his lips. his hands grip your hips too harshly for your liking, pulling you closer, and you can feel how hard he is beneath you.
"open," he murmurs, and you do. his tongue slides in, and you moan, clutching his shoulders.
"that's it," he groans as he pulls away, throwing his head back in a pant. "god, you feel so good."
"i do?"
"yeah, honey. so good. you're making me feel so good."
you're not sure what exactly he means—the kissing or the fact that he's rubbing against you—but it makes your stomach flip in the best way. you press closer, rolling your hips slightly, and he makes a low sound in the back of his throat that you feel everywhere.
"okay," he says, pulling back abruptly. his breathing is heavy, his eyes dark and wild. "okay, that's enough for today."
"what?" you blink, disoriented. "why?"
"because," he says, and he sounds strained, "if we keep going, i'm not going to be able to stop myself. and you're not ready for that yet."
your cheeks burn, but again there's that small, beyond reckless voice in your head whispering i am ready, i want this. i want you. but you can't find the courage to vocalize it before he's already lifting you off his lap, setting you on the bed beside him, hands shaking slightly.
"go to your room," he says, and his voice is rough. "i'll call you when dinner's ready."
you nod, even though you don't want to leave. your body is buzzing, hot and restless, and you feel like you're living outside of your own body.
it's starting to feel like a routine as you walk down the hall to your room.
you lie on your bed—again,—staring at your ceiling—again,— and you replay every moment from the past few weeks since your 'practices' began
every glance.
every 'good girl.'
every rough groan from the depths of your stepfather's throat.
your hips shift restlessly against the mattress, searching for something you don't have words for. your body feels too warm, too tight, like you're wound up and don't know how to unwind.
he's so patient. so kind. he's teaching you things you never knew, showing you what it feels like to be wanted, and it's—
it's everything.
you don't question it. not once. because why would you? he's your stepdad. he loves you. he said it's normal. he said it's natural. he said he's just teaching you so you'll be ready.
so you trust him.
you trust him completely.
you don't see the way he smiles to himself on his bed. you don't hear the quiet laughs he lets out as he adjusts himself in his sweatpants and heads back downstairs, happily chatting with your mother, already planning the next lesson in his head.
18+ mdni - smut - p in v, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, established relationship, some angst.
w.c - 2.5k
Frank works a lot. And he never works near home, either.
He’s always away for lengths of time, missing you, your voice, your touch. He hates every second of being away - but he knows he has to do it. And however much you hate the space he leaves behind, you also know he has to.
But the worst part about it all? about the void he leaves when he goes? It’s his return.
And yes, that sounds crazy - given the intense loss you feel whenever you wake up and his broad body isn’t next to you, warm enough to heat the entire house on its own - but the worst part is when he comes back.
When he comes back so bloody and bruised that you wonder if it’s someone dropping his body off. Then comes the question of whether it’s his blood, or someone else’s. The god awful feeling of opening the door to his oh-so-distinctive knock, the find a man drenched in blood right in front of you.
And the fear it brings for the first couple seconds you see him.
That’s why, when he got back off his last ‘trip away’ - he gently knocked, and opened the door with his key himself - partially hoping you were a asleep, so he could wash himself off, clean up his own wounds. But he knows that life isn’t that easy, especially for him.
“Frankie?” he immediately hears your quiet voice, hesitant and concerned, as your head pops up from the couch.
He can tell by the look in your eyes he’s done it again - you’re scared.
“Hi, sweet girl.” he whispers, quieter than he thinks he’s ever been before, “i promise it’s a lot better than it looks.”
You sit up on the couch, eyes scanning over him, assessing what damage you could see. He wonders if you know what it does to him to see you like this, so afraid of the man you love.
Your show is still playing in the background - that reality shit he hates so much - but it’s you. Everything you do, is all you. The way you look at him, the shows you watch, how quiet you are when your bare feed plod across the floorboards. Everything that could be about you, in franks world, is about you.
And then he drinks in what you look like. Well, he always knows what you look like - he has many images of you burnt into his brain - but right now, wearing just his t-shirt and that pair of tiny black panties with the bow on the front, he can’t quite believe that you’re really here.
“What- uh, what happened?” You question, just before realising that you ask this each time - and somehow, you still don’t know anything he’s ever done on his ‘trips away’ as he calls them. He never tells you what he does, who he hurts.
You just know it’s for good reason.
“Nothin’ baby, blood ain’t mine. I’m just gonna go clean up.” He grumbles in that just-so-Frank way - boots shuffling and turning round toward the bathroom, when you say, “Frank no, let me clean you up. You must be so tired.”
It’s moments like these when he wonders how he managed this. How he has someone like you - so caring, angelic. In Frank’s mind, he deserves the hide in his bunker, alone and just existing in the void that he became after he lost everything. But somehow - he gets to come home to you, who wants to take care of him, who doesn’t ask questions, who understands who he is.
He steps out of the way so your frame can pass, into the bathroom where the clean ups usually happen.
“Sweet girl, i can tidy myself up.” He reminds you, little smirk drawn across his face when you give him that look that tells him the answer already - “Oh i know you can, i just don’t trust you to do a good job of it.” you wink, smiling back.
Standing in front of you, Frank lifts you up to sit on the bathroom counter - facing him, legs spreading for his large, looking frame to stand in between.
Frank always had a prescience - which is a broad statement to make. But somehow, it captured him so well. No matter where he went, no matter where you went, you could always feel him when he was in the same place as you. That’s what makes you wonder if this is just meant to be, even when it’s hard.
Even when he comes home like this.
“i hate it when you come home like this.” you whisper, wiping his face, tissues coming off red. He looks at you knowingly - the sadness in his eyes, understanding why you hate this.
But he knows you understand why he has to do this.
Gently, your hands wipe away the blood of those who crossed your big bad boyfriend - while he looks at you with the softest, most loving brown eyes you’ve ever seen. Sometimes when you see him like this, so vulnerable… gentle, you wonder how anyone else could see him any other way.
Soon, Franks cuts are stitched back together, his body washed and cleaned and back to his normal self… almost.
“you know i’ll always come home to you.” he says, back to where you were before the shared shower - standing between your legs at the bathroom counter - you looking up at him, his hand on your cheek.
“i know you’ll always come home, Frank. I just sometimes worry it’ll be in a casket instead.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, you can see how much it breaks his heart. His other hand joins, both holding your face close to his, as he whispers, “I’ll always try my damn hardest to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Frank kisses you just as he talks - gently, slowly, softly. Lips tangling with yours like it’s the last chance he’ll get to do it - forehead touching yours like it’s the last touch he’ll ever have.
Even though he won’t say it, can’t bring himself to say it, he knows exactly what this is - Frank loves you.
His tongue finds its way past your lips, intertwining with yours as the warmth envelops you. Your hands hold onto his forearms, his giant hands still holding your face as close to him as he can get - almost in fear you’ll walk away.
“I need you.” you say, his lips moving down and meeting the skin of your neck - wet, sloppy kisses left behind as a note of his unspoken feelings. “I know, my girl. I know.” he grunts, in that classic Frank way of mumbling what he’s saying.
His hands carry on the way his mouth does - downwards. Gentle touches head toward the bottom of his tshirt you threw on to sleep in, tugging at the hem of it, a clear message. Frank lifts it, breaks contact with your skin for a painful second to let you steal yourself of the fabric, bare chest on show - all for him.
“You’re so beautiful. My beautiful girl.” He says, strong arms moving your hips closer to his, feeling the tent in his grey sweatpants rub against you, a wet patch already forming for him. Hands grabbing at your tits, pulling your nipple and relishing in your reaction, taking the chance when you gasp to set his tongue on yours again.
“Frankie, please.” You let your hands grab at him, holding at his shoulders, body begging for more of his touch. You’re aware that you’re begging for him, begging for the man that disappears for weeks on end, comes back bruised and covered in blood - all to end up in this situation again. He knows how to get you, knows your soft spots.
But you also know his.
“S’ok baby, let me make you feel good.” Frank grumbles, setting down on his knees, face meeting with your hot core - he lets his lips meet your panties, the ones you know he loves, pink with a little bow on the front. He kisses over the material, teeth nibbling gently on the skin that sits underneath, smirking at your quiet moan you tried so hard to hide.
A thick finger comes up, pulls your panties to the side, and Frank can’t help but whisper, “fuck.” just before his wet lips plant a kiss right over your already soaked folds - his tongue reaching out and desperate to taste you all over again, like it’s brand new.
“G-oh shit, fuck yes.” you gasp, leaning gently backwards on the counter with one hand, the other grasping onto his hair, weaselling through his soft strands of hair.
Frank licks gently, but with so much need. Tasting how sweet you are, how wet you are already for him makes him impossibly harder in his sweats. His lips gently suck your clit, revealing in his face being soaked in you. “Frankie, feels s-so good.” Your hips rocking slightly, trying to grind along his sharp face, seeking more of his touch.
“I know sweet girl, doing so good for me,” He speaks, looking up at you. Frank has one hand gripping to one of your thighs, holding still the shaking - the other reaches up to your hole, fingers spreading the wetness that threatens to drip out, and gently push in. He listens closely to the way you gasp and moan, becoming louder the more he lets his fingers inside your tight walls.
“Feels good, baby?” Frank smirks, waiting for you to try and muster an answer, before he presses his face back into your pussy, and all he hears is a loud, “oh fuck!” before he lets his fingers speed up, and wraps his lips around your clit again, and sucks. “i’m-i, oh shit, i’m coming.” you gasp, voice not quite coming out as a whole, as your vision whitens and you hold onto his hair tightly - the pain making Franks cock ache in its constraints.
He lets you ride out your orgasm, fingers only slowing once he feels your grip on his hair soften. He stands up, slowly taking his fingers from your core as you gasp at the loss - moving them from your soaked core, to your mouth.
“Holy fuck, sweetheart.” Frank mumbles, your tongue swirling around his two middle fingers, tasting all the remnants of the orgasm he just pulsed through you. “Makes me rock fuckin’ hard doin’ that.”
You pull him closer, hands finding his face and pulling him in for another soul crushing kiss - the wetness that still covers his chin sticking to yours, as messy as it always is between you both.
“Fuck me, please,” you begin, hands palming his cock through his pants, feeling how hard you always have him at just a glance, “need you inside me.”
He knows you need to feel close to him, need to feel him so deeply that he remains there forever - because no matter how many promises Frank makes, he knows there’s always a chance this could be the last time he has you like this. Stripping himself of his minimal clothes, he palms your ass and drags your hips to the edge of the counter, prime position for him to take you as he needs you.
“Tight squeeze, baby, let me in…” He says, rubbing the already leaking tip of his cock through your folds, spreading the wet remnants of your orgasm around to slide in.
The first push is always tight, Frank is big - you’ve known that since the first time you did this. He’s wide, he’s girthy, in more than one sense. Once he’s slid home, your head falls forward onto his chest, gasping and groaning at the full feeling.
“Feels s’good, love having you so close.” You gasp, looking up at him as he looks down at you, and he starts to move. Hips gently sliding in and out of your tight grip, as he makes a low, deep grunt at the feeling of you sucking him right in. “Always here, sweet girl. Never gonna leave.” And he truly means it, Frank never wants to go somewhere you aren’t.
Frank starts to move his hips quicker, the sound of how wet he has you loud and clear for the two of you to hear - just as loud as the gasps and moans coming from your lips. You need to feel him fill you, pull you so close there’s no breathing room, show you he’s here to stay.
You lean back on your hands, as you see Frank look down and watch the way his cock fills you up so good - and you know it’s almost over for him - but he’ll never finish without making you cum at least twice. A rule he’s had your whole relationship.
“You gon’ come for me again?” He speaks, looking up at you and, as one hand holds your thigh up to his hip, the other meets your clit again - rubbing right but gentle circles, feeling the way you clench so tightly around him. “Y-yes, Frankie please, need you s-so bad.” You blubber, as he sees the tears that drop onto your cheeks, and he knows this is it for him.
“You got me babygirl, i ain’t never letting you go.” And that’s the moment that breaks you, a loud moan escaping right from your chest - and the way you clench so tightly around him, walls pulsing around his cock sets off his orgasm too. Franks warm spend fills you up, feeling the way he pulls you impossibly closer, not wanting to let go.
Frank drops his head to your chest, hands holding your waist, not letting go of this moment quite yet.
“Was that true?” You ask, breaking the silence. Your heart beat quickens, awaiting his answer.
You know Frank is a man of few words, and those few words are chosen very carefully. But you also know he has suffered so much loss, that staying in one place makes him too restless, he needs to go in search of things that make him feel whole - even if he hasn’t found that yet, after years of running.
“What?” he asks, softening cock still revelling in your warmth, looking at you as you say, “When you said you’ll never leave.”
“Of course it’s true. I don’need anyone else. I’m comfortable with you here,” He says, and you almost miss the few words that quietly follow, “i ain’t comfortable with many people.”
“Then i’ll be here, to clean you up. As long as you come home safe.” You smile gently, stroking his cheek and watching for his reaction.
{ wc } 3.7k
{ summary } After following you down to the kitchen, you and Bullseye have a cup of tea together, and get along much better than you should; causing you two to confront both his mission, and everything left unsaid...
{ tags/content } SFW, but there is tensionnn, and the next few chapters will be very suggestive then pure smut hehe. Angst, mentions of dead loved ones, mentions and references of murder, knives/gun, danger(?), depression/reader is a bit reckless, morbid jokes, flirting, touching, hand holdinggg, size comparison? Dex pov at one point (he's in total turmoil about you hehe), reader cries awww and Dex is totally unprepared lol, also reader calls him Ben until he corrects her
“So, have you decided?”
Ben just gives you a blank look.
“Oh– not on killing me…I mean chamomile or peppermint?”
You place the two teacups you had fetched from the cabinet onto the kitchen island, glancing up at Ben, who stood on the other side. Ben. It felt almost too casual for an assassin. In fact, you didn’t even know if that was his preferred name. He hadn’t really answered; then again, he hadn’t stopped you. So, Ben it is then.
Upon entering the kitchen, you’d pulled out a seat for him before crossing to the other side to put the kettle on. Now, you watched as he analyzed the space, probably accounting for every weapon that could possibly be in the kitchen, before stopping on you. Slowly, he sat down, maintaining eye contact as if daring you to pull some sort of shenanigans. He made himself comfortable, spreading his legs and leaning his forearms on the counter, still maintaining the sense that, in the blink of an eye, he could be on his feet with a weapon at the ready. If he so chose. Finally situated, he gruffly replied, “Black.”
Your mouth quirked up into a half-smile. “I don’t remember offering black, but I guess you’re in luck.” You stepped towards your tea cabinet, scanning over the plethora of varieties before settling on a nice, strong black English breakfast. You popped a tea bag into each of your mugs before placing your elbows on the counter and leaning in, somewhat mirroring him. You tried to look anywhere else, but he was almost magnetic. The pistol strapped to his chest could only distract you for so long, and you even attempted to count how many knives were visible on his form. Finally, you met his gaze.
His eyes were hazel.
Steam began to billow from the tea kettle behind you, but you paid it no mind. His eyes carefully dissected you, honed to look for the details after years of training. It was the type of eye contact that made the world slow down into something wholly insignificant. The type where breaking it would be like shattering something sacred. The type where you didn’t want to be the first to look away.
That decision was made for you when his hazel eyes flitted, just once, to the whistling kettle, then back to you. With that, the world came crashing back into focus, and you spun on your heel. You poured the boiling water into the mugs, the deep reddish-brown of the English breakfast tea immediately seeping out of the teabags. You set the kettle back down and fought to think of something to say. Were you distracting him, though, or yourself? You sighed,
“Are you hungry at all? I could go for a midnight snack…or last meal, or whatever,” you added, with a sheepish, small smile.
It was a morbid “joke” that you probably should be more careful about making. You were getting bolder now, whether it was because you were becoming more confident that you would live to see another day, or because there was some natural instinct to throw caution to the wind when in the face of inescapable death; you weren’t sure. It all mattered entirely too much for you to be caring so frighteningly little.
Ben’s gaze followed you as you stepped towards the pantry, opening it and scanning your options. After a moment, you asked, “Anything striking your fancy?” turning to look over your shoulder at him. Your eyes widened, and you had to clench your jaw to prevent it from dropping.
In the instant you had taken your eyes off him, he had removed his mask and was now staring at you, staring at him.
Your mother had been right, as she was about most things. He was, without a shadow of a doubt, too handsome to do what he does. Too eye-catching. It crossed your mind that perhaps that was one of the reasons he wore a mask, but he also didn’t seem the type to be very cognizant of his own good looks. His cropped hair, which was certainly blonde at some point but had darkened and slightly greyed at his temples, was tousled from pulling off the mask. He had a noticeable scar on his forehead, totally overshadowed by a deep, jagged gash across his right cheek. They were both healed a pinkish red, yet the scars only further complemented his sharp features. His chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes all combined to create an uneasily alluring countenance.
He had smile lines around his curved lips, which threatened to deepen as he spoke, “You know it’s not even 10 pm, right?”
You were so wholly distracted by his fucking face that your mind short-circuited, going humiliatingly and totally blank.
You took entirely too long to compose yourself, all under his heavy gaze. Right. Midnight snack. “Well…just a snack then,” you murmured half-heartedly, turning back to the pantry. You’re not even processing the snacks in front of you; your mind was running a mile a minute. You were suddenly all too aware of his eyes on you, your unglamorous pajamas and slippers making you feel bizarrely self-conscious. You make a game-time decision, grabbing a container of homemade cookies and returning to the island. He stares as you remove the lid, choose one, and slide the container halfway between you two. You take a bite, glancing at him expectantly. “Have one; they’re really good.”
He eyes the cookies like they’re a completely foreign concept to him. Chocolate chip- what could be more basic than that? Then again, based on the hard planes of his chest visible through his dark compression shirt, he didn’t look like his diet consisted of many sweet treats.
“C’mon Ben, I made them earlier, you’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t try one,” you say over your shoulder as you grab the milk from the fridge. You smile when, after a moment of considerable deliberation on his part, you hear the container slide a few inches across the counter, and the cookies scrape against each other as he carefully selects one. As you fetch the sugar, you eye him simply holding the cookie like a fucking alien. He turns it once, quickly, like an inspection, before taking a small bite.
Strangely, you feel a hint of something like pride. Not only had you managed to stay alive in the face of one of the deadliest known assassins, but you had gotten him to try your chocolate chip cookies with only a little persuasion. You removed the tea bags and tossed them into the trash before pouring several spoonfuls of sugar into your tea. The spoon clinked rhythmically in your mug as you stirred; you didn’t need to look up to know he was watching you. “Don’t judge me, okay? Now, how much sugar do you want?” You scoop a hefty spoonful of sugar from the dish and hold it over his steaming mug of tea, poised to dump in a boatload. He didn’t respond right away. Perhaps the whole situation was entirely too weird for him to process. How often did he have tea with people who were supposed to be dead by his hand? How often did anyone make him tea?
“Ben, if you don’t answer, I’m just gonna keep adding more until the whole thing’s sugar. That’s how I take it, anyway.” Despite the playful lilt in your voice, Ben’s eyes dart between the spoon and his tea before he answers, urgently, “Don’t.” It’s not loud, not aggressive, maybe just a little too serious for the question you asked. You’re a little surprised at his urgency, your body tensing slightly. Maybe he was tired of this. Maybe he wanted to get the job done and go home. To not be pestered with inane questions from someone whose body should already be cold by now. You tried to calm yourself: If he wanted to, though, he would. And he didn’t strike you as a particularly patient individual.
“Alright, received. Here,” you say, crossing to his side of the island and setting his tea down in front of him. You take a seat next to him, not thinking to leave an empty stool between the two of you. You do it mechanically, not even considering that you should probably be as far from him as possible. He’s eyeing the tea, plumes of steam rising into the air. Ben still holds the cookie gingerly between two fingers, and you have the sudden recollection that he could kill people with almost anything. Probably not a cookie though, you theorized. There were endless stories about him, some true, many fabricated, but it was hard to tell the difference when the truth so closely resembled fiction. A toothpick to gouge an eye, a playing card used to slit a throat, a can of soup for an irreparable concussion, his own tooth to–
“Don’t call me Ben.”
His words came out entirely too soft for you to comprehend. Then, he took a sip of tea, as if you were on a nonchalant date. You were almost too stunned to speak, the silence stretching until he set his mug of tea back down and took another bite of the cookie.
“I-” you stutter, “Okay. You could’ve mentioned that at any time.” You’re strangely flustered, especially when he gives you a sideways glance and sighs, “Nobody calls me Ben.” You can’t help but smile incredulously. “Fine, what do they call you then? Or should I start guessing?”
He turns to look at you fully then, and you feel yourself shrink a little. This is the closest you’ve been to him, save for the moment you breezed by him as you exited the office. He was closer than arm's reach, close enough that you should be very, very afraid. But also close enough that you could make out the fine details and lines of his face. Close enough that you noticed how long his lashes were as he blinked. Close enough that you could get lost in the flecks of green in his eyes.
He was studying your face now, making some sort of mental decision. “Dex,” he finally says, looking back to his tea. He says it quickly, unceremoniously; like he wants to move on from whatever code he had just broken. He takes another sip of tea.
“Dex,” you repeat, mulling it over. “Okay. How’s your tea, Dex?” He sets down his mug and turns slightly to look at you again. For whatever reason- fear, adrenaline, the fireplace roaring- your cheeks feel oddly flushed. He notices. Of course he notices. But, thankfully, he says nothing. He’s seen people scream, cry, beg, and barter; surely he isn’t too taken aback by a faint blush across the apples of your cheeks. And yet, his gaze lingers. “Here, try mine,” you say, rushed, pushing your own cup towards him. His eyes stay on you as you stare holes into the countertop, for fear of looking anywhere else. Finally, he picks up your mug and takes a sip. Your eyes flit up as he does so, before returning to the countertop after what you see. He must not have done it purposefully. But he also doesn’t strike you as careless. He’s neat, well-put-together, obsessive about order and details, so you’d heard.
So, why exactly did his lips meet the rim of the mug precisely where yours had been?
You watch his Adam's apple bob as he takes a sip. He was generally stone-faced, from what you could tell. Somewhat expressionless. But maybe he saved facial expressions for those who weren’t sentenced to die. In that moment, remarkably, his face moved more than you had seen it move all night: his eyebrows knit together, and his lip curled. “Too sweet,” he grumbled, his eyes meeting yours as he set your tea back in front of you. Before his hand retreated, he turned the mug just slightly, so the handle was at the right angle. Yes, your tea was too sweet for most people. But…if you were being entirely honest with yourself, you detected something in his voice. The way his gaze darkened just slightly. Like he wasn’t just talking about the tea.
Whether it’s that internal realization, your nerves, or simply the insanity of the situation, you laugh. It’s small, breathy, but genuine. He just watches you, one of his eyebrows raising in a surprisingly judgmental fashion. It only makes more laughter bubble up, filling the wide open space of the kitchen. You can’t help but notice the corner of his mouth twitch up, and you are suddenly filled with the overwhelming need to see what an actual smile would look like on him. You take a breath. “Dex. Am I detecting a smile?” you say softly, slightly teasing, but not too much to scare him off. He was like a skittish alleycat…who could also kill you if you pushed too hard. His sharp jaw clenched, not angrily, more focused. Like he was trying to get a hold of himself. His eyes met yours, something unreadable beneath them. A warning. Or was it a plea?
His thick forearms rested against the cold marble, making his wide shoulders slouch inward. He looked even bulkier that way. Even if he tried, there was no way to make himself small; he was still looking down at you, even though you were both seated.
You sighed, turning your mug absent-mindedly in a circle. Your voice turned into something vulnerable. Something unintended, yet completely honest.
“Before I die…” You started, the words feeling strange on your tongue, “I’d like to see you smile. I-...I think you’d have a nice smile.”
Maybe that was a weird final request. By the look in his eye, it definitely was not part of his routine. Then again, was any of this? But you didn’t feel ashamed for asking. It wasn’t a ploy to escape. It wasn’t disparaging or a distraction. You simply, genuinely, wanted to see him smile. He seemed to be processing for a moment, but undoubtedly he heard you loud and clear. He didn’t owe you anything. He didn’t have to smile. He didn’t have to drink the tea. He didn’t have to let you take another breath.
But, despite his assignment, despite the money awaiting him in an offshore bank account, despite the years of training to turn him into a weapon, despite the forces that turned his own broken mind against him, despite the fact that his smile was typically reserved for bloody cruelty and mockery, despite it all…
His lips began to pull upward, slowly, as though it took considerable effort. The fine lines around his mouth, defining his cheeks, deepened. His mouth curled into a crooked, almost bashful grin that, despite it all, reached his eyes. His cold, calculating gaze seemed to melt into something resembling warmth. Something entirely and uniquely human.
It wasn’t a grin; you didn’t get to see his teeth. But it was something. Something he didn’t need to do. Something that wasn’t part of any mercenary handbook, if such a thing existed.
He did it simply because you had asked.
You couldn’t control the way you began to beam, and the breathless laugh that glided through the kitchen. You were positively elated. He looked away, his smile shrinking but not disappearing entirely. He seemed almost…flustered? It didn’t seem like an apt description for the hulking murderer seated in your kitchen, yet there was no other way to put it. Bullseye, Benjamin Poindexter, Dex, had smiled for you and now was dodging your gaze like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.
“See, was that so hard?” you questioned, your voice unmistakably overjoyed, still laughing.
Here’s the thing. You didn’t mean to do it. You had been afraid all along of scaring him off. Of making him do the thing that, frankly, he didn’t seem too set on doing. But…you were someone who grabbed the hand of your friend during a scary movie. Someone who hugged people when you first met them (something you were trying to winnow down to a firm handshake). Someone who wasn’t afraid to rest your knee against someone else's. Physical touch was a natural reaction for you.
So, it took you a moment to recognize that all of the progress you had made that night may have been carelessly unspooled when you reflexively placed your hand on his forearm. Your grip wasn’t tight; you didn’t grab him. But it dawned on you that it was certainly far friendlier than he was used to, as he stiffened into a cold statue beneath your touch.
His reaction wasn’t panicked, though. More like every nerve in his body was equally bewildered, so the best thing to do was just freeze. No one touches him like this. Gently. Voluntarily. Without malice. Your small, manicured hand coming to rest on his thick forearm, the muscles of which had been honed at the cost of countless lives. And you did it so…casually. Like you forgot who you were dealing with. Or…like you were aware, but you still chose to touch him anyway. A thought that made his breath hitch in his throat.
You are just about to pull your hand away, embarrassed at having crossed a boundary, a little scared of the consequences, when the tension in his arm eases. It spreads through his body as he seems to remember how to breathe. There is a thick silence then, your bygone laughter still hanging in the air. Even the hum of the refrigerator faded into nothingness. You can feel the warmth of his skin beneath his sleeve.
Then, ever so slowly, as if you were the unpredictable one, he turned his forearm and offered his open palm to the ceiling. You didn’t dare to look one another in the eye, opting to watch the scene play out as if it were two different people entirely; in an entirely different situation. Your heart is hammering. Two pairs of eyes track your hand as it inches down his forearm. Neither of you breathe.
You reach his palm and gently place your hand in his calloused one.
Dex’s hands are tough, weathered by years of violence, while yours are soft, polished by years of manicures and expensive hand creams. It’s almost funny, the contrast, the way his hand dwarfs yours, yet laughter was the furthest thing from your mind. Again, watching as if it were someone else’s hand, your fingers slide in between his, fitting like that was where they were always meant to be.
His hand was frozen, as he was in entirely new territory. He should pull away. His heart shouldn’t be thudding the way it is. He shouldn’t be consciously keeping his hand from shaking. But, for what felt like the first time in forever, his mind felt…blank. Calm. Like something else was taking over. Something that had been dormant for a long, long time. Perhaps his entire life.
With the utmost unexpected tenderness, he incrementally closed his hand around yours, squeezing enough to fully interlace your fingers. You hadn’t realized your hands were even cold, but feeling the comforting heat radiate from his hand to yours made you squeeze just a little bit tighter in return.
And just like that, you were holding hands with Dex in a way that negated every time you’d held someone's hand before. It wasn’t like this. Nothing would ever compare, until the day you die.
Oh.
Right.
It was like someone dropped a cinder block on you. Your chest started to ache. You didn’t want to hope. You didn’t want to care. You didn’t want to beg. You didn’t want to stop holding his hand.
But you did hope. You did care. Yet you were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Your mind began to spin out. You knew all along what he was here for. You were convincing yourself of a fantasy. You could joke all you wanted. Take every glance as something it wasn’t supposed to be. Though he hadn’t killed you yet, he never said he wouldn’t. He told you his name, took off his mask, drank your tea, held your hand. You found them all to be small miracles. But maybe it just didn’t matter to him. After all, none of that is a big deal when only one party leaves this room. There were too many things happening. Too many emotions that you didn’t want to name fluttering through your chest. Overwhelmingly, you felt like a fool. And it didn’t help that the small part of you that trusted him wouldn’t shut up.
Who were you to think that somehow, by the grace of god, you were so goddamn special to escape a fate that had sentenced so many others to death?
“Dex?” you whisper in an impossibly small voice. “Could you just…I-I know you’ve done this before. Will you just…make it quick when you do? So it won’t hurt?” Your voice breaks then, the gravity of your words feeling all too real.
Dex can’t speak. He can hardly move. His throat feels tight. Your hand is still cradled in his, even as you ask him to do something that makes his stomach sink. The best he can do is brush his thumb against your pointer finger, once, twice, three times, until it’s natural, instinctual. But then…oh no.
He hears a sniffle. He doesn’t want to look. No, he can’t look. It’s too much. It’s all too much. He was getting familiar. Attached. Something that rarely, if ever, happened. And when it did, the outcome was never good. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be drinking tea and eating cookies. And he certainly should not be holding your hand while you try to accept the impossible with more courage than he’s ever seen. And he really, really shouldn’t be feeling…anything. For you. For the situation. And selfishly…for himself. Because, if he’s honest, if he drops everything he’s come to know, every rule he follows with the utmost diligence– he doesn’t want to hurt you. The second he threw that knife into the desk instead of your hand or your heart, he made a choice.
Whether it cost him everything, whether his life depended on it, you were not going to die by his hand, nor anyone else's.
This he was sure of.
This he knew.
***
Notes: I loveee this chapter sm, especially Dex's POV at the end hehe! I hope you guys like it too, things are about to heat uppp
