PIXIE
Bullseye!Dex x College student!reader
Part III
Rating: 18+ (eventual smut, big smut!!!!!, dex is pathetic :), mentions of violence, slight stalking, reader is a psychology student)
Summary: Dex is your neighbor, and your secret admirer. After finally receiving your number, you two agree on a date in exchange for Dex being your subject in a psychology class.
Part I
Part II
note: thanks everybody for reading. this is the last chapter, unless i decide to post another one, but i really enjoyed writing this short series, and am thankful that some of you enjoyed it as well.
Dex didn’t hesitate - at least not for too long - to reach out to you.
He waited until you reached your apartment for him to send the text, the notification rolling through as soon as you secured the deadbolt.
You free this Thursday?
He knew you were - Thursdays were nights you spent knitting, or quietly conversing with your cat; Dex simply didn’t want to be invasive, because perhaps he miscalculated for the first time in his life.
Yeah, as long as you’re paying.
Your reply was just as nonchalant if not considering the heartbeat thumping in your throat.
I am a gentleman, Sweetheart. You read the text in Dex’s voice, your breath hitching at the thought of his low teasing voice uttering the pet name. Try to wear something cordial.
Cordial? The word caught you off guard: you shuffled to the closet, ruffling around the hangers of coats, jackets, jumpsuits, forgotten dresses, and…
Something finally keeled over from its loose grip on the hanger and fell to the floor. Your eyes darted to the navy fabric pooling on the ground, and without thinking, you lifted it by her shoulders and presented her, a wrap-around dress, before yourself.
You grinned to yourself before draping it over your streetclothes and glancing at your reflection in the body mirror nearby.
—
Dex didn’t send you an address, despite your several texts poking at him. He checked the notifications each time, chuckled to himself, and replaced the phone back into his tactical pants pocket before slashing another threat’s throat, or slicing their bicep (whatever way he approached it, he smiled through it).
Thursday afternoon could not have come sooner, and before Dex knew it, he was fixing his blazer, and the pocket square neatly tucked into the pocket. He gave precisely three knocks to your door, and stepped back to wait. He hoped Mrs. Smithers wouldn’t spy on them, and glanced over his shoulder at her door behind him to anticipate such a pesky intervention.
“Hey!” You opened the door and let Dex in, his body crossing the threshold into your space. The air inside was different than on the balcony where he often watched you; Dex thought it would be dusty (considering your poor cleaning routine, with which he could happily assist) or carry a dark whiff of marijuana (you attempted to use it discreetly, but found yourself coughing up a fit, no matter how many times you would inhale the poorly rolled blunt); instead, the air brought Dex an unfamiliar sense of home, his nose swimming in cardamom and vanilla notes. He wished he thought to pack a bag with his knives, hoping to capture the scent in a jar for him to open when he returned to his lonely hut next door to yours.
He tried to follow the sound of your voice, which inconveniently led you to your closed off sleeping space, but he didn’t dare cross the divider, staring only at your illuminated silhouette. “Dex?” The siren asked, your curves and rolls darkly drawn against the dividers for Dex to gawk at.
“Y-yeah.” He shakily responded, eyes unable to detach from your silhouette, and everything it has given him.
“Could you please tell me how this looks?” You placed a fabric overhead, shimmying your backend to squeeze your body into it. Before Dex could reply, you emerged from the dividers, revealing the secret you withheld from him: a cotton linen dyed his signature navy hugging your frame, the ends coming to a close with a firmly tied knot at your side.
The same cotton stuffed Dex’s mouth, preventing him from responding. He blinked twice (maybe for help, salvation from the thoughts that instantly flooded his mind the moment the chaste levee broke), and his lips hugged, as if to begin saying something, before they parted again to let out a shaky exhale.
“Are you okay?” You asked, flattening the wrinkles on the dress. Dex nodded feverishly, heat rising to his neck and jaw.
The words never came, whatever they were to Dex, disappearing the moment his eyes laid on you - on your walk through the night city, the lights reflecting from your face (the nearby fire burning in an alleyway lit your lips, and Dex took it as a sign from heaven to kiss you, if only he had the willpower); as he held the door open for you, the aroma of vanilla and obsession intoxicating him; and even when the date came to a close and you paused in front of your apartment door, one hand on the door handle and another holding his. You beamed up at him, your lips glossy enough for Dex to nearly glance at his reflection and feel temporary abhorrence for the monstrosity that was in close proximity to you. That singular moment eviscerated the remaining confidence he was collecting to kiss you; Dex accepted that the closest to intimacy would be the very hand he was holding on to, and the thought alone was a murder of crows circling around his corpse.
On the other hand, you were sure to invite him inside if he was willing - sex wasn’t the furthest thing on your mind, considering the way his large hand rested on the small of your back when you two walked into the restaurant together, or the way the tail of his lip twitched when he teased - but you also wanted to read into what made Dex…Dex. “Do you wanna come in?” You lifted the heel of your shoe before pressing it against the door. “You still have your end of the bargain to uphold.”
Dex’s tongue clicked in his mouth, and his mouth twisted like a vine into a wicked smile. “That’s right.” He blinked as he openly checked you out. “I don’t have anywhere else to be right now.” And that was the truth - technically. Dex was a wanted man in more ways than one as it seemed from the way he noticed your dilated pupils. He leaned into the doorframe, one of his arms moving from his side to the top frame, his hand gripping the petrified wood.
You cursed under your breath as he leaned closer to you, his eyes focusing on your lips and lips alone. You took your bottom lip between your teeth, and used your hand toggling on the door handle to fumble the key and unlock the door, your balance struggling as you stumbled backward. Dex caught you with both of his hands on your back, his reflexes too quick for a guy who lives next door and nothing to do.
“Can I get you something to drink?” You offered, playing hostess in an untidy apartment amusing Dex. He shook his head, and took a seat at the table near the fridge. “Lemme go grab the forms, and we can get started shortly. Just make yourself at home.”
He sat back and relaxed his shoulders, the tension slipping from him as his shoulders slumped down. He exercised his wrist mobility, circling his hands, then his neck. You watched from the other end of the tiny apartment before disappearing into the mess of coats and backpacks hanging on the hooks near the bathroom, scratching your hair as you frantically searched for the forms, notebook, and a pen.
You bent over as you searched, and Dex cocked his head to the side to ogle at your legs, his tongue darting out and licking his bottom lip as he stared. Even when you walked back to the table, he didn’t look away, and instead doubled down, grinning unevenly at you as he shifted his seated position so his legs opened wider, almost beckoning you.
As the professional you were feigning, you avoided his attempt at seducing (or teasing) you and took a seat at the other end of the table, tossing the assortment of papers and notebook on the surface.
The carelessness you carried with you was annoying. “All right,” you began, fixing your posture so your back was straight. “I’m gonna ask you a series of questions, and you can answer on a scale of one to five, with one being never, and five being all the time. If you are unsure, please let me know - don’t just guess a random number, because it will skew the whole thing.” You searched all over your hair for something, before your hand fell on a pair of glasses nearly falling from your head. You wore them, the frames round and accentuating your round cheeks.
As the game of tennis occurred - you asking questions, and Dex answering them with a playful tone - the tension continued to crescendo, crushing the air of the room. You stole glimpses of Dex while still striving for professionalism, and he saw right through your act; at one point, while answering your questions about sleep habits, Dex removed his blazer and unbuttoned his dress shirt, revealing part of his muscular chest to you.
You lost your train of thought and had to restate the question… three times. Dex loved teasing you like this, so subtle and small that you lost sight of yourself, your adeptness failing.
You eventually forgot about the closedoffness you swore you would adhere to when conducting the mock-intake, and focused on his facial features. His pores were concave, and the skin on his nose was oily, giving it a shine that reflected the navy light from outside.
You flipped through each paper with scribbled notes on it, mindlessly wandering through Dex’s dark attic. You didn’t mind the cobwebs because it seems that the cloth-like texture gave him character much different than you initially thought; you were thankful, in fact, that Dex was so willing to open up to you.
But he had no control. The way your clementine lips tickled his chest each time you smiled, or the way that your fingers were so soft when you rested them on the back of his hand, tenderly, like you were afraid of breaking him. Never had he been treated like china, nor had he been looked at like he didn’t have the cracks underneath his glossy finish.
Still, it was hard. He wanted to give you everything, each memory free for you to explore the ways you wished to, but something in him wanted his memories chained, isolated from everybody. He was broken, remember? Of course he couldn’t forget the way his chest heaved with each imposing nightmare haunting his every night. You chalked it up to occasional bad dreams, or an affinity for horror films, yet it was far greater than that.
Perhaps you didn’t see the blood staining his hands and chilling his blood. Ending a life is a prison sentence of its own, eternal damnation in the formation of sleepless nights and voices paralyzing his every waking moment. Dex looked at his fingernails to clean them of any flesh from his life’s work; nothing, other than dirt, accumulated.
“I just need you to understand that I’m not a professional, and although the diagnosis I am giving you is fake, I do not also have to adhere to the same APA standards that professionals have to endure.” You fixed the eyeglasses on your face, the topaz frames complementing your warmly toned skin. “Do you understand that, Poindexter?”
Dex nodded, placing his folded hands on the table across from you. The hands were clasped, each finger perfectly knotted into the other to build an unbreakable barrier between you two. Still, he gazed at you longingly, as if it was outside of his control that he was unable to close the distance between you two.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Your throat closed at the response, simple but respectful. You glanced directly at his eyes, and he watched you with a hunger-sodden stare.
—
Each blink of his eyes were erasers wiping the slate clean; they were slow, almost deliberate, like he was flicking the channel to avert his attention from the ideations projected, and he could not turn away. You waited patiently for a response - anything other than the silence - and it took eons for him to respond.
“I didn’t really know my parents. I grew up in an orphanage.”
The ink of the pen bled into the paper as you listened to Dex recount his upbringing. No home and not a lot repeated itself in his retelling, the unbearable humidity of loneliness dampening his voice. His eyes were distant, walking away from the table while the rest of his body stayed to retell his lived experience, and you noted the mannerisms on your paper, too. Dex looked down at his hands, picking at the skin of his fingers near his nailbeds, and although he wanted to look to you for guidance, sympathy, love that he had yet to experience, something within him prevented it.
“It’s not your fault.” You responded. Dex shook his head and scoffed at the statement. “No. I mean it.” Your voice wasn’t as doting as it was earlier in the evening, or at the restaurant - here, it was firm. Agitated, even. “You don’t get to choose who your parents are. Frankly, a lot of the people I’ve had to study theorize that you don’t get to choose who most of your support system is as a kid. So none of that is your fault.”
You set down your pen beside the finished questionnaires, and propped your elbow on the table, holding your chin with your hand. You scratched the underside of your jaw, thinking of the next appropriate professional point of action, but the unprofessional set in, clouding your judgement. Perhaps this was why your professor assigned this.
“And what about as an adult? You said you were in the army, right? Can you tell me about that?”
Dex nodded slowly. “I was enlisted at the recommendation of my former therapist.” Dex’s eyes darted to you writing in your notebook, the scratching of pen on paper drilling in his ears. “I needed structure.”
“Is that why you are so uncomfortable with settings that lack structure and repeat your routine as much as you do every morning?” The question was short of professional, and Dex realized how observant you were of him.
“Yeah.” The sigh reverberated against his whole chest. You wondered what it felt without the shirt fabric in the way.
You waited for him to say nothing else, but he didn’t, only taking slow breaths with closed eyes. You occupied the silence with another question. “What hobbies do you have?”
The shift in the conversation was drastic, but Dex kept up with the pace, unphased by it. “I like to listen to music. Read. Work out.”
“That much is obvious.” You commented without thinking, the words bringing horror to your face as you facepalmed.
Dex chuckled. “What about you?”
You shrugged, doodling on the margin of the paper as you thought. “When I’m not studying or working, I dunno. I like to draw sometimes. Or put on the occasional scary movie.”
“What kind of scary movies?”
“Why are you asking me? I overhear screaming from your apartment like you’ve got bloody murders going on every night.” You were defensive, professionalism finally thrown out of the window, and Dex grinned at the nerve he struck with you.
“And if I am?”
You rolled your eyes at him. “Don’t give me that.”
“No, really.” Dex’s lips sharpened into a steep curve, and he ran his fingers through his hair, the blond strands falling exactly back into place. “What if I’m this big bad guy, and you don’t even know it? I mean, think about it.” He painted the picture as he leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m out wearin’ a mask, settlin’ scores and killing people like life doesn’t even matter. What do you think of that?”
Dex was slow when he spoke, syllables of some words like molasses as he illustrated it for you. If not for the assignment, you would have met him across the table, dangled your panties around your ankles before him, and given him another piece of flesh to kill - another day, if you two could make it through the night alive.
“Off the record.” You started, removing the mask from your face in seconds as you understood the setting he prepped for you. “If you’re like that guy who’s killing the AVTF or whatever they’re called? Those fucking guys?” You whistled. “I think I’d jump your bones.”
Dex was relieved to hear your answer, and he tucked a groan under his tongue to prevent you from indulging. “I’m really surprised someone like you is single.”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly looking for someone to sweep me off my feet.” You rolled your eyes and returned your focus to the notebook in front of you. “You mentioned that you had a therapist. Do you mind telling me a little more about that?”
“It was part of the package deal I had to take when my baseball coach died.”
“I’m really sorry your coach died.”
“Hm.” Dex’s mouth stiffened, and you made note of the shut-down in your notebook.
You were warned about this tango - a mismatched pair between a counselor and client, and how one may evade healthy direction. You were also advised to steer back when appropriate. “How did you like baseball?”
“It was nice. For a while. Why?” Dex’s neck muscles flexed when he asked, crimson rage creeping up from his button-up top.
You shrugged, not looking up from your notebook. “Just trying to make conversation, Dex. There’s no need to be defensive.”
“I’m not.” Dex sighed, his hands gripping a brace on the underside of your table. “I did it, he died, and then I stopped shortly after. If you’re gonna be a shrink,” in an attempt to seem lighthearted, Dex forced out a laugh that seemed closer to a thirsty bark from his throat, “you should really learn to ask better questions.”
The inked tip of your pen left the paper, your eyes shifting to Dex. He was visibly defensive, shoulders tense, and chest rising underneath the shirt. A part of you wanted to explore the obvious thorn in his side - how long it had been there, or maybe whether or not it affected other parts of his life - but another part of you (the one that you locked in the cellar) desired to pick up his chin and distract him from his pain.
It wasn’t right, and you swallowed the idea. “How good was your aim, Dex?”
You heard yourself ask the question. When you glanced at the margin of the paper, the blue ink drew a dot, along with circles surrounding it; almost as if you knew, your subconscious cautioned you on the masked figure sitting across from you.
“Can I be honest with you?” The way his serpent-like lips turned a grin twisted your insides. You were done for.
You put down your pen and sat back in your chair, crossing your arms. “Of course.” You crossed your legs and eyed Dex’s eyes shamelessly wandering to your thighs, dangled in front of his wolf-like eyes. “I never miss.”
The clock in the bathroom ticked slower, more gradual, as you allowed yourself to come to the realization of the man that not only agreed to court you, but to shower you with protection since you introduced yourself. Without another word leaving you, Dex offered up the answer himself: “I am Bullseye.”
The admission would have made you laugh, but the glint of darkness swirling in Dex’s irises were enough to tell you the truth. You remained in your seat, your position stiff as you processed the answer. Then, you glanced at the questionnaires, silently going back and forth from examining the answers Dex provided, to the man himself sitting across from you in your apartment.
Thank goodness you weren’t a fascist. “You know, when you answered all the time for having thoughts of hurting others, I thought you were joking.”
Dex laughed out loud, and the sound brought chills down to your spine, and a miniscule jolt to your core. “I didn’t want to come across as dubious.”
“Well, I appreciate the honesty.” You nibbled on the butt-end of the pen as you stared at Dex, who was staring straight at you. His top buttons were unfastened, and at some point, he rolled up his sleeves, exposing his toned forearms to you. “Just to think you couldn’t get any better.”
A chill air swept through the apartment, her gentle touch triggering goosebumps on your spine. Dex acknowledged it, and stared openly at your buds peeking through the fabric of the dress; he didn’t move from his chair, but grinned sinisterly as he offered an alternative to your assignment. “Sweetheart, you have no idea.”
“Show me.” Your mouth was moving faster than you could filter the allurement; you fell to the hypnotism of Bullseye, and have forgotten just how risky a man he was.
In a swift motion, Dex arose from his chair, the metal toppling to the ground, and marched over to you, cupping your cheeks with both of his hands. You felt the calloused marks underneath his fingers, the scars and prints you formerly excused as accidents from his job. Dex leaned in closely, his breath blanketing your skin, and hovered his lips over yours. He wanted you to make the move, for you to call to him.
You brought your hands up to his face in return, the texture of his stubble so naive compared to the bloodied mess New York claimed he was. Your fingers curled around his jaw and under his mask, the one made of tin that preserves his injured spirit. His exhale was noticeable, and you wondered how long he spent like this, hiding underneath poorly welded scraps of metal barely together like a steely paper mache.
You drew circles in that sensitive spot under his jaw, right where you wanted to press your lips and count his pulse. Dex looked at the way you were leaning over, exposed skin aching for his touch, and had to close his eyes to stop himself from acting on impulse.
The way that your chest poked out from the dress, and your brow slightly cocked, waiting for your reaction, was so…hot. He wanted to kneel before you, spill everything for you, give you anything you demanded from him. For a demon like him, worshipping a false idol was laughable - yet when he met you, especially carrying yourself with such mischief saturating each question you asked, stare you gave his way, smirk that found its way to him, why not worship the fallen saint clipped of her wings?
His name drooled from your lips, sticking to the air, and then in his inner ear.
“Dex…”
“Yes.” You felt the hum of his lips when he responded.
You stared up at him, past his blond lashes and into his hazy eyes. In another world, he wouldn’t have found you, and you wouldn’t have noticed, but this was real - your life was in his hands, and his soul in yours. You searched for the right way to say it, but you could read it on his forehead; he waited for permission. “You can.”
From afar, the statement was incomplete; yet Dex must have heard whatever else you said under your breath, because without skipping a beat, he hunched forward and dandled his lips against yours, his nostrils flaring as he tried to contain his breath, but failed.
You felt Dex’s lips quiver, and you believed it was fear, but when you pulled away, his expression was different - his jaw was sharp against his skin, nearly cutting through it from the way he tensed; Dex’s pupils expanded, and you could no longer see the paradise in his eyes that were now disintegrating into the black hole; his hands were fists at his sides - you don’t know when he lowered them, but he did, and they remained at his sides.
Dex was holding back. He didn’t want to hurt you, it seemed, by the way his eyes blinked sadly at the monster he believed he was. So desperately waiting for permission to relax himself, remove his superego from control over his otherwise recalcitrant body.
How could he be such a horrible person if he restrained himself so well for you? “Tell me what you want.” You reached out to touch the clenched jaw, and Dex’s shoulders fell.
“I-I want you to be mine.”
You grinned softly, your thumbprint reaching over his stubbled cheek. “If I wasn’t, then you would have been out of here by now.”
To be honest, you didn’t know if you had the power to do such a thing - you saw the crime scene photos that were leaked online by the anti-Fisk organization, and it was grim - but Dex would have obeyed, listened to you like it was he was meant to do, until he found a way to antagonize you.
“No.” He replied, his voice torn. “I want you to be mine. Forever.”
Forever. The word burned into your shoulder when his breath left his lips. You contemplated for a moment, digging your thumbnail into his cheek as you pondered, but then looked up at him. And nodded.
“Only if you are mine.” You didn’t notice the scratch mark left on his cheek by your doing, but Dex did; he removed your hand from his cheek and pressed your knuckles to his lips.
An exercise of devotion to you, Dex removed the remaining buttons of his shirt, his ivory peach skin contrasting the dark fabric. He lowered himself to his knees, unbuckling his belt and removing it from the belt loops with a tight zipping noise.
You watched as he did this, because you couldn’t do anything else; your feet were planted on the ground, afraid of keeling over, and you took your bottom lip between your teeth as you batted your eyelashes. You didn’t mean to entice him - it was accidental - but it caused him to lean up, firmly grounding himself with his hands on your plush thighs as he left ginger kisses on your shoulder.
“I’ve been waiting so long for this.” he was the first to admit between kisses, the words tattooed on your skin in a scorching ecstasy. “If your skin is as smooth as it looks, or tastes as good as you smell.”
Each word was a carefully demonstrated admission of sin that you too felt. He was a marionette, and you the ventriloquist, using his mouth to express every thing you felt. All that you could surmise was a “Yeah?” that was as breathy as it was tainted with the very same desire that possessed the man attacking your neck.
“Let me take this off.” His hands rested at your wide waist, his thumbs nestling in the pinch of fat he felt underneath the dress.
You nodded and lifted your arms, ready for him to remove it completely; instead, Dex lowered your arms by your sides, whispered a silken, “Relax,” and lifted the hem of your dress to your waist, revealing the panties you carefully chose. Based on the color, you planned for the date to return to your room, and he let out a dark chuckle that sent chills to your lower body.
Dex’s broad reach was put to use, exploring each inch of your clothed body until he reached the waistband of your underwear. He looked up for permission, which you granted hastily; Dex hooked his fingers underneath the band and pulled the underwear off, smiling at the dark patch of moisture collected in the cotton bridge that covered your slit.
“All for me, huh?” His smirk was damn near cocky, and you wanted to smack him for teasing you. He did, too. “Want me to clean that mess off that pretty pussy of yours, Baby?”
You swallowed a moan before toying back with him. “No, Dex, I was actually thinking you would give me a pap smear while you were down there.”
A laugh from your lips was abruptly cut short by a moan triggered by a stripe of Dex’s tongue swiped on your slit. You heard a chuckle from between your legs. “What, cat got your tongue?” He winked up at you, continuing to leave kisses on your hips and stomach.
His eyes never left yours as he lowered his head, kissing your thighs once, twice, thrice, until you felt a welcoming warmth along your wet core. Dex’s muscular shoulders tensed as his hands came up to massage your thighs gently while he traced his name against your clit with his tongue.
“Yes.” was a hiss that reverberated throughout the small apartment. Your hips bucked into Dex’s face, and he embraced the actions, moaning into your pussy as he plucked at you.
Eyes sewn shut, you continued to ride Dex’s face, your ass barely on the seat anymore as you shamelessly searched for your release. One of Dex’s hands disappeared from your thigh and met you at your entrance, slowly sinking in until he curled his finger right at your spongey button.
“So tight for me.” He smirked in response to your moan, sitting up and removing his mouth from your pussy to watch you unravel as he fingered you. “And to think the neighbors swore you were a whore, the way you were dressed with everything exposed.”
“Wait, what- oh my god.” You wanted to know who would call you such a thing, but Dex reminded you of more pertinent issues as he circled his thumbpad along your clit, summoning your primitive mind to take over.
And you did, your hips bucking uncontrollably into Dex’s fingers and face while your coil snapped. He adored the way your body stuttered and thighs trembled while he just kept going, uttering coy praises as deliverances from self control.
Dex found himself relinquishing such control, rising to his feet as he moved to remove any barrier between you two. First, he yanked down his pants, kicking them from his ankles after he removed his shoes; next, his hands grabbed at the fabric of your dress, removing it quicker than you had time to process his actions.
Once the two of you were completely naked, he stood upright, his steel spine straight, as he licked his lips and stared at your bare skin seated on the chair, your cheeks flushed from your first orgasm.
It was that stare. The same one from earlier, and again from the library - even with his cock hard, seeping pre-cum, he wanted permission to indulge in you.
But you didn’t want to play marionette anymore; a brutal idea emerged from your head, and you explored it, lowering your fingers to your core and spreading your legs. You rubbed yourself, placing yourself on full display for Dex to solely watch, knowing that he couldn’t touch you without permission.
And to his dismay, you said all but ‘touch me’, calling his name over and over like a siren drawing her next victim. His dick twitched, and he fought against spilling right there with only the air touching him. “Please.” His voice was strained, and you dug two fingers into your hole, all for Dex to watch.
“Please, what?”
Dex’s bottom lip disappeared into his mouth, his eyes fluttering as he eyed you fucking yourself. “Please let me have you.”
“Aw,” you teasingly remarked, removing your fingers from yourself, “I thought you’d never ask.”
You reached into your purse, and handed Dex a condom. He stared at it, kissing his teeth before smiling at you, “No.”
“No?” To be fair, you didn’t ask him to wear it; you offered it to him like a lollipop. You swallowed thickly. “I don’t want to be a single mother.”
“Who said you would be single?” Dex tossed the condom in its wrapper on the table, and leaned in to your ear, whispering, “If I get to fuck you tonight, you will be taking all of me, and you’ll have me forever.”
You studied cases in which abusers dismissed their partners during intimacy; this was Dex, a man with patience, precision, and powerlessness. In his eyes, you saw it; in his voice, you heard it - he belonged solely to you.
This was a promise, a lifetime opportunity. And you obliged with one singular nod, and your lips gently gliding against his.
In the kiss, he picked you up by your ass, your thighs on either side of his waist, as he carried you to the bed on the other end of the apartment. He laid you down gently against your comforter, his hands immediately going to cup your cheeks as he deepened the kiss. His tongue danced against yours, and you swallowed each open moan he exhaled into your mouth.
Your nails raked Dex’s back, an action you didn’t think about until it drew a whine from him. “Do it again.”
If only the news could see him like this, you thought as you repeated your motions, watching Dex’s strawberry blond brows nearly kiss.
If only you could have controlled yourself when you said, “Please fuck me.” in response.
Without another word, Dex obeyed your plea, moving a hand between your bodies, guiding himself past your folds and into you. You breathed through each inch that he sunk into you, and Dex breathed your throwaway breath, wanting to be enveloped in you.
“I love you.” you swore you heard Dex whisper as he bottomed out, his cock only slightly stretching your walls.
He tucked his feet behind him, and sat back on his heels and knees as he adjusted your position so your hips and back were on his thighs, and your legs wrapped around him.
Still, he waited. His patience was thinning by the way he stopped himself from exiting and re-entering you, but his grip on your hips were piercing. “I’m ready.” You told him.
Dex watched his cock appear as he pulled his hips back, then disappear when he sheathed you, your skin rippling with each thrust. He groaned aloud with the first thrust, so relieved to scratch the itch he had been suppressing.
Soon, Dex’s pace quickened, and he hunched over to lean into your ear, attempting to stifle each loud sound that emitted from his lips while listening to your every moan and whimper.
Whines and low curses floated from your body as he cooed into your ear soft praises, exorcising the sinful demon terrorizing his sweet.
“So tight. Anybody fucked you like this? Taken you like I have?”
When he aimed his hips, his swollen tip brushed against your cervix, and a broken string emerged from your throat. To Dex, it was a sole violinist practicing her tremolo, the note carrying through the exposed brick of your apartment; music he didn’t want to stop hearing, or stop making, with you.
“So good for me, so good.” The words spilled from his lips like melted ice cream, the heat causing it to drip onto your clothed chest. Your fingers clawed at the gritty brick, omitting the muted pain of the scratching against your nails and skin.
His shoulders rounded and iron spine bent to kiss you, disregarding his need for order while he sought another impulsive need for himself to conquer - your body, each crevice, unseen inch, blemish, were all for him. There was no turning back now, with Dex's hands firmly gripping your broad hips, watching your body surrender to him with each thrust he gave.
You could barely muster cohesive words, overwhelmed with the feeling of Dex’s cock brushing against your cervix with comical precision, and his openness in letting you hear every sound he made, as he made it. He didn’t hold back. Not for you, not with your orgasm approaching, and your pussy tightening around him.
You were the first to fall from the ledge, a sharp cry leaving you as your legs and pussy squeezed around Dex. He stared at you, eyes black with desire and possession as he relished in the way he was making you feel.
The very thought of it alone could have been enough for him to explode, but it was instead the way that you repeated his name like a chant, your hands raking against his abs as you became overstimulated. Dex’s orgasm found him suddenly, choking on your name and letting out breathy moans while he spilled himself inside you.
His hips finally stilled after a few moments. His hand came up to your cheek, stroking it while giving you a weak grin.
He exited out of you and winced at the mess, disgusted with himself. He left to the kitchenette and returned with tissues, cleaning you up before he blotted excess waste from himself. After satisfied, Dex tossed the used tissues with two fingers.
You found the charade amusing, propping yourself up on your elbows as you watched him disgusted with his own fluids. It could explain why his apartment seemed sterile when you peeked inside of it.
Dex returned to the bed, crawling beside you and immediately pulling you to him, chest to chest. It was peculiar, sure, since you normally preferred spooning, but Dex wanted to stare at you, continue looking at you so you didn’t disappear in a blink.
He was terrified of it, holding on to you and dotting kisses on your head even when you were long asleep.
When you awoke (before him, to his surprise), he was still holding you, but with his mouth slightly open, his eyelids twitching as he was fighting something in his unconscious.
What an odd, odd duck.
