out of everywhere you've woken up after a night out drinking, wakin' up in your sullen, vaguely scary neighbors apartment after too many drinks might be the worst one.
tw questionable morality
You reached towards the clipped metal of an unfamiliar bed frame, not quite registering the scene. The edges of your vision are blurry, memories past your third margarita simply flashes of movement, a firm touch guiding you, hands fumbling with keys, a chill spreading up your arms.
Everything was upside down, you were peaking through spaces between the curved metal and trying to identify what you saw within them: green cabinets, a table that looked shaky with hanging pots and utensils in the background.
Too minimalistic, too clean to be your own apartment. You were half to an explanation, almost there, groggy, still waking up and slow to register that this was your neighbors apartment. Something you only faintly recognized from when he had first moved in and you, being endlessly and abundantly curious about everything that didn’t concern you, leaned to the side to peak past him while your hands were full of sliced, carefully wrapped fruit for him.
Really, you just wanted to see what your neighbors were talking about. How mean could he be? You found he wasn’t really mean at all. He just had that sort of stern, solemn look to him—perpetually anticipating the worst. He was off-putting, definitely, a little awkward and he greeted you quietly, eyes always averted.
Your head was pounding, a consistent and aggressive force not dissimilar to the one threatening to split from your chest. You want to stand, wanted to communicate this to your legs that definitely should be, at minimum, working to stand. Then came the realization you were on your back—everything wasn’t upside, this wasn’t some demented tilt-a-whirl, you had been comfortably on your back, now you felt the bile begin to rise. You clamped your lips tightly shut, the mortification of potentially throwing up all over your too handsome neighbor’s apartment enough to make you feel the need to skip out on your lease.
You couldn’t fathom why you were here. Your stomach was clenching, the weighted blanket draped half-over your lower half was too warm, almost burning. Who used a heated blanket in the summertime? You lowered your hand, searching for the fabric to toss it off but brushed against something very, very soft and too much like hair. Your hand stiffened, the weighted blanket moved, the weighed blanket let out a soft hum then looked up at you with eyes that were horrifically clear, aware.
The scene in front of you snapped into place. You were on your back, in a shirt that was too big, too soft, most definitely not the tiny minidress that you had left in. You were unbearably sore, and this was your neighbor laying on you—whose name you still didn’t know, something, something with a ’T’? Or was it a ‘D’? A ‘B’? though Mrs. Smithers had introduced the two of twice. You had once received mail for a ‘Benjamin’ that matched his address and he had taken it, though you swore you had heard another man call him something with a ‘D’’??
You hadn’t been sure when a good time to casually ask for his name was before and now, with him situated between your spread thighs wearing only his boxers and, your eye twitched, his socks, with his arms wrapped under your legs as he used your stomach as a pillow for his head you didn’t think that casual scenario would ever appear.
You swore his muscles rippling with just his breathing.
Even in your most depraved, filthiest imagining he had never been this built. You also hadn’t anticipated the excessive scars that covered him, especially the long, jagged surgical scar that went up the length of his spine. Your face heated at the sheer extent of the reddened marks from nails you assumed to be yours, immediately looking away. You needed to focus on the task at hand: find your underwear, find any article of clothes that belonged to you.
You didn’t get a chance to, as he began to gently push the shirt that was most definitely his up, slowly, until if he had pushed up just slightly more, your pussy would’ve been exposed. “W-wa-wait!” Your hands went beside his, pushing down at the fabric.
“We’re neighbors.” You reminded.
He tilted his head, a movement too innocent for the devious quirk of his mouth—a man satisfied, smug and still annoyingly endearing.
You couldn’t remember stumbling home, you couldn’t remember running into him and more importantly, couldn’t remember why you were so sore, but in that moment, you would’ve given anything to relieve it.
“I— Make me breakfast first, at least.” His chest rumbled with laughter, the sensation vibrating against your stomach,
His studio was cast in the warmth of gentle sunlight, this was the type of moment that existed only in cheesy romcoms where your neighbor should’ve been looking up with a twinkle in his eyes, excitement should’ve been coursing through you--this should’ve been the beginning of the rest of your life.
This should’ve been a whirlwind romance waiting to happen, this was how they began, after all: the startling attractive neighbor, the one-night stand, him draped over her with a lazy smile. It was something so casual, so perfect, something so cliche, something you innately felt to be practiced.
None of that was happening. This wasn’t a romcom. You found the stillness in his eyes to be deeply unsettling. You felt yourself waiting for his mouth to split open, to stretch unnaturally into a gaping, toothy maw and for him to swallow your head whole, then bite it clean off your body.
In this moment, your neighbor was less man and more unpredictable monster. This was the man who always looked like he was having the worst day of his life, this was the stern man you waved at and watched the three second delay as he tried to remember how to be a person and move his hand in a weak wave back after your cheery ‘good morning’s.
He more thousands of red flags bundled together in the shape of a man so attractive that despite every ounce of reason within you telling you otherwise, you found your hands snaking through his short, messy blonde hair, “I like my eggs over easy, with both salt and pepper please.”
summary: Dex was sent to kill her; to end this dance for good. He can't.
wc: 4.2k words
a/n: This is my first time writing smut AND a fight scene AAAAH anyways the reader is technically a super soldier and an agent for Matt kinda like a Jessica Jones vibe, but not rlly, so yea hope u enjoy
ps: the pictures above dont belong to me. divider by @firefly-graphics . steal my work and see what happens🔪🔪🔪
WARNINGS AND TW: BLOOD, GORE, and VIOLENCE, smut (minors dni), also yearning hah
Climbing up through the fire exit was a rather tame strategy for an assassination. Especially for someone like Benjamin Poindexter, who could literally be three blocks away and still pierce his target right where he needs to.
To cripple.
To immobilise.
To mutilate.
To end.
Fisk didn't tell him to go about it like this. This was the last thing he needed to do to end this dance between Fisk and Matthew. If Matt loses her, he has nothing against Fisk. He gets the upper hand. He wins. But this methodology, logically, was stupid in his books-- he just wanted to be face to face to kill her. She was ferocious, knew how to put up a good fight, and got on Dex’s nerves. It has been years. And he cannot take it anymore.
Maybe he just wanted to be there, to see her one last time. To hear her last breath- just to confirm, of course. Mission accomplished, Sir. She is dead.
The last nail in the coffin.
He took the stealthy steps up the emergency ladder reaching the fifth floor, hers. Dressed head to toe in black, he was as dark as the damn night could have got. He checked the perimeter of her living room through the window and quietly stepped in, right hand firm on his Glock 17, silencer in place, as he slowly walked through the small apartment. One shot through her forehead was all he needed. And she’d most likely be asleep, so no need to bust out the moves. Because god knows, she can fight.
“You look like you need tea, Ben. Also, this isn't the first time you've been in my apartment, right?”
Y/n said from his left, standing against a counter with her legs crossed; angled to see the entire living room from the door of her kitchen, wearing just a black tank and matched sweatpants, hair tied into some type of braid hanging from her left shoulder to her chest. Loose strands framed her face gently; a white Murdock and McDuffie mug warming her hands, the steam gently brushing her cheeks. Her usual quaint nature was replaced with a nonviolent, open, even peaceful demeanor. He looked at her and sagged his shoulders, slightly defeated, and stepped into the kitchen in slow measured movements. Eyes on hers the entire time. Dex won't admit, but he was slightly taken aback seeing her like this. Like when a person admits something deeply personal, and you have nothing to say, except, i had no idea you had that side to you; bewildered, vulnerable, honest. Each time he has seen her in the past, it has always been armoured, physically and emotionally– beyond her body. Sharp, precise, powerful, audacious and lethal. Just like him. To this day, he has no idea why she is helping Murdock get to Fisk. She has so much potential to her. So much that they could've accomplished together. Too bad.
“I break into your house and you're offering me tea?” Dex questioned, hand still on his gun, stance as still as could be. “Would be here sipping with or without you; I don't let no motherfucker disturb my 4-in-the-morning tea time. Even the ones who break in to kill me.” Dex lowered his head and chuckled slightly, to which y/n just looked at him earnestly. Of course, she knew he was coming. She turned around to grab another cup from her cabinet, dropping a tea bag in it and filling it up with water from her kettle. He looked at her in bewilderment, but he stayed quiet. Or maybe he just enjoyed this miniscule form of domestic care that he hasn't felt in a long time. Probably never has to begin with. So he waited. He knew he had to put up a fight because she’s awake, so maybe he’ll have his first and last cup of tea with her. Couldn’t hurt, could it?
Dex looked up at her, stepping towards her slightly and taking the cup from her hands, their fingers brushing slightly. This weird intimate dance was making him question everything. It happened in some capacity each time they went against each other, but this? Dex did not come prepared for this. He held the mug in his hand free from the gun, blew on it slightly and took a sip. She’s looking. Trying to read. She always is.
Eyes deep with trepidation; he weighs it out. He’s curious. He lets his armor slip, just a little. Not because he wants to, but because it's probably the last time he can, “Y/n, Tell me something- Why do you call me Ben when they call me Dex?”
She smiled from where she stood, unmoving– matched his stare, just as deep; just as full of ache, meditating over what she could say that would not have the pot boil over– “Because I only see Ben." she said solemnly. "I wish I didn't.”
Benjamin shuddered at her response. He involuntarily dropped his arm holding the cup down. Breathing in, pulling his guard back up. He smirked despite how her words made his knees go wobbly, “You think you know me.. You see me. You don’t know anything. You don’t see anything clearl–”
“Do you really think you have it in you to end this?” She questioned, cutting him off. It's bullshit. She knows it. She feels it.
“Nah, I was just in the neighborhood, decided to drop by” he replied cockily. The dent between her eyebrows grew deeper as she drilled holes into his eyes. She doesn’t buy it. “Why haven't you done it yet? Why are you stalling?”
He can't tell her. He can't do this. Hell, he can't even admit it to himself. Why he agreed to take this on, or accepted that Fisk wanted her dead was beyond him. hell, after everything they have been through, he's not so sure why he keeps coming back. It's not like her warm gaze makes the voices in his head go quiet. Not like even though she is siding with his boss’s enemy he can't help but see her as if she was one of his own. Someone who shares his pain; who has seen the worst of the world like he has. Someone who knows how it feels to be preyed on for their powers until you're left with a room of your own nothingness? Nah. He has a job to do. He owes it to Fisk. He has to pull his shit together and get this out of the way. Crushes mean nothing when you've got a bigger purpose. When you can prove you are worth something more than someone who can lose themself to frivolous desire.
Dex screamed at her back, wanting to say something, “I don't know! Now shut the fu-”
She stepped closer to him, eyes bubbling with words unsaid, now flowing free: “You know you cannot do it! That’s why you came here. You knew I saw this coming. You had to come face to face because you know that way you could say you lost, or that I got away, or, hell, if I’ll just... kill you. You can’t brawl with me, Benjamin. You know I'd leave you useless. Your strength lies from afar. Distance is your weapon. Then why did you come so close, huh? Are you that incompetent? No. It's because you see yourself in me. You need me. I'm the rope that tethers you to the earth. But you're too pussy to admit it!”
It's like he was disarmed by her words– Even with the gun locked and loaded in his pocket. Ready to fire off at his command. And yet. She stripped him bare, like an implosion. At that moment, he was trembling. Undone by her unbearable kindness of seeing him. She screamed in his face, but Dex could swear it was like someone finally held him how he needed. And god, did it feel like he wanted to run away. He was never eager to face what he felt. It was always too much. Too inconvenient. Too… unworthy of being understood.
“Fucking do it, you coward, do something– hit me! KILL ME!” y/n grabbed at his shirt aggressively, pulled him so he could feel her threat in his bones, and snarled right to his face. Their faces close enough to exchange breaths. At that, Dex had heard enough.
Been long enough pulling my punches. I'm fucking bullseye.
Shoving his inhibitions back where they belong, he landed a punch right to her jaw, knocking her to the ground. She gets up half way swatting him off as soon as he gets low to attack her, sending his head crashing into the dishwasher causing a dent, using her newfound leverage to sit up and land blow after blow to Dex’s upper half. He crouches his legs to kick her away from him, she takes no time to roll back and send a punch straight to his gut, making him scream. He then grabs her with a death grip on her shoulders and smacks her to the floor hard enough she can't stand for a couple seconds. He uses this time to reach for her counter to grab at the kitchen knife lying idly and aims it straight to her chest. Just as he is about to aim, she sends a nasty kick right to his fibula, knocking him off his feet and groaning in pain. She quickly gets up to walk up to him and sits right on top of his torso with legs on either side, snatching and throwing the knife right out of his hand to the other side of the apartment, landing a punch similar to the one he started with right to his face, breaking his nose, which he surprisingly didn't rebut.
“This is gonna be a fair fight, Ben. You can't just pull pussy moves on me now. Fight me, asshole!” she said with another punch to his face, a trail of blood crawling down her hairline. Dex screamed, turning them around so her feet were locked around his and he was on top of her. Arms in a death grip in his precise left hand. He turned upwards and found the pair of scissors she used to cut open the tea box and grabbed it. Pulling his arm back to aim. He stopped. Paralysed. Arm frozen to the spot. He was breathing heavily, not being able to catch enough oxygen to get his mind in its right place and shove it deep in her chest. One move, and this will all be over. His years of yearning and internal fight, it won’t have a purpose, won’t have a source. It would slowly die down. He could go about his life normally, not feeling like this anymore.
Looking down at where she lay beneath him, she looked ready to accept everything he was about to give her, looking like she was challenging him, Do it, asshole. A drop of blood trickled from his nose and landed directly on her cheek, startling her out of the intensity of his carnal stare. No.
“Fisk sent me here so Murdock knows he means business this time. That stupid blind punk has done enough damage. It's time to show him back where he belongs. Send his ass right back to signing probation documents in hell's kitchen” Dex barked out, taking in sharp breaths as he spoke to try and gain his composure.
“Then do it, goddamnit! Why the fuck are you giving me an explanation?” Y/n fought back with the same bite.
“Because I-” Dex stuttered, closing his eyes and taking a breath. He dropped the scissor and brought that hand to hold hers with both of his. She lay under him, anticipating, hoping, say what you need to me, Ben. He brought his body closer to hers defeatedly before proceeding, “You got any idea how crazy you make me? It's been years of us fighting, and yet each time I see you it's like I turn into a little boy. Afraid to do the wrong thing. Indulging your nonsense. Enabling all the shit you do when it would take me a fucking paper plane to silence you forever. Can't you see? You've got my hands in chains behind my back.” He let go of her, resting his forearms to either of her face now instead. Their faces close enough to know how things will never be the same for either of the two.
Y/n looked at his eyes somberly. Her gaze fell down to his lips and back to his eyes, “You know we're both capable of killing each other. And if we really wanted, either one of us would've done it by now. This is your last chance, Ben. Either kill me or kiss me.” She spoke with purpose, and saw it come alive in his eyes too in that moment. Like he came alive. A sudden ray of hope. Something he had been trying to run away from for so damn long he forgot the urge came from within. He was done running away from himself. He was done being Fisk’s puppet. He deserved more. He deserved more than mindless bloodshed. He doesn't deserve to kill the one who makes living worth it.
Been long enough pulling my punches. I'm done.
Dex let himself take in her face. He let himself indulge in her intense stare, trying to garner the courage to pull his next move. Y/n’s expression was serene and accepting; free from any vexation. She needed it too. She was tired too. Tired of fighting, pretending he doesn't matter to her, that he's just an enemy she can't seem to get rid of.
He moved closer to her face; slowly, deliberately, closing his eyes and experimentally touching his nose to hers. Y/n chased his glint of affection, closing the absent distance between them and savouring the moment by touching her forehead to his. He quivered, opening his eyes to look at her face. The glint in her eyes, same one she gets each time they go head to head against each other. The love, in her eyes, that he failed to notice until now. God.
If there is a god, she lies in this woman.
He kissed her devoutly. Slowly bringing his hands to cup her head and forehead, afraid she was gonna crumble away, deepening the kiss as he laced his fingers into her hair. Y/n mirrored his actions bringing her arm around his neck, and a hand in his scalp; grasping hard. They kissed with fervour. tongues clashing with each other's, Dex tilting his head to fall deeper into her hold. The room was quiet and debris that surrounded them right where they left it; other than the stolen breaths and their soft moans. Y/n wrapped her legs around his waist, bringing him impossibly close. He pulled away a little and brought a hand to her cheek, gently cupping it completely opposite compared to the force with which he landed a blow there less than five minutes ago. Savouring her. Letting himself. Y/n leaned into his hand and held it there with her own and looked into his eyes. “I didn't know you had that in you. Thought you were gonna die keeping it in that you felt something for me” She giggled lightly.
“I didn't know either.” Benjamin admitted. “You make me feel like there can be more than misery. It scares the crap out of me.” She looked at him fondly, wiping the blood still dripping from his broken nose on her thumb.
“Let yourself live, Ben. It's been long enough we've been caught up in a fight that's not even ours.”
At that, he kissed her again. This time with a newfound ease in his body. She grabs his neck tightly as he lifts her up off the floor, groaning suddenly at the impact in his core from their heated brawl earlier and her weight attached to him. He stabilised himself on his feet, with her nosing and nipping at his jaw; Benjamin was in heaven.
He sat her down on the counter, grabbing her legs to wrap them back around himself as she started to loosen her grip on them. She pulls him close greedily, attacking his lips again– both now charged for a different reason than before. She paws at his trousers, unclasping the holster wrapped around his thigh, disarming him, as he watched her movements with wonder. This is what I've been missing this whole time?
She kisses him again deeply, bringing their bodies impossibly close. He put his hands on her waist, seeing part of the bruised and purple on her right side– his work. God knows how many times in the past he put those bruises on her. It sent a stabbing pain through his chest, even if they will heal in the next hour, suddenly noticing the gravity of their fucked up bond. He pulled the t-shirt upwards, taking it off her body to reveal the rest of her upper body, marked with bruises in different shades and intensities. He ran his hands down her body as he took her in, his movements now slow and mindful. She observed this change in pace and playfully looked him in the eyes, “like what you see, Agent Poindexter?” He chuckled, lightly grabbing her neck with one hand and waist from the other, pulling her close, “You'll find out soon enough, sweetheart.” She obliged and latched back onto his mouth and body altogether. “Second door on the right.” He takes her to the bedroom– letting go of any restraint, trusting her fully; It's not like he has a choice anymore. He doesn't even want one.
They couldn't care less about turning on the lights; both their senses too saturated with the taste of each other. He lay her down on the bed gently, hovering over her with one hand beside her head and the other on the soft curve of her waist. The pale gold of the sun slowly coming up bled into the room through the fibres of the old lace curtains, giving y/n’s dark brown eyes an otherworldly sheen– benign to the untrained eye, but to Dex, her eyes always shone like carved brown obsidian. He remembers seeing it each time fate brought them together in the past, as enemies, having to tell themselves they are bloodthirsty for the other. It was like each of those times her eyes spoke, I could kill you without any trouble, but I'm not going to– I enjoy this game too much. He stared deeply, his gaze saturated with unbridled lust and pure admiration. She looks at him, mirroring his feelings as he takes her hand and brings it to the button of his trousers. She reluctantly casts her gaze downwards, hands slightly shaky due to the headiness of the moment and the intensity of their duel in her kitchen. Snapping the button and sliding the zipper down she lets out a weak sound, Ben had never seen her so vulnerable– like staring into a candle flame until your vision swims. She moans, pleads, “God just…do something”. He slid his pants and underwear off in one go. Y/n then let out a playful chuckle at the sheer length of his erection, “I don't think that's gonna fit” she looked upward at him again. He tilted his head slightly, a hint of a fond smile gracing his features. “When have we ever let up before a fight?”
Benjamin had a way of seeing her so simply, in ways she had been unable to herself. Or if she did happen to see it, she was never able to accept it. He mirrored her own darkness, her fragility. He had a way of seeing life through a lens of someone who has been through the worst, and yet chooses to do his best. They kiss with limbs intertwined, lungs out of breath; him now completely on top of her. They let out moans of both pleasure and airlessness. The sweltering air of the room only made them chase each other more, y/n attacking his scalp and tugging; pulling him impossibly close. He reluctantly pulled away, giving his cock a few tugs before positioning himself against her slit, rubbing against it experimentally. He looked back up into her eyes for approval, as she gazed at him with longing, Ben, its been too damn long, propped up on her elbows, not being able to stay at a distance to help herself. He couldn't help but bring his forehead to hers, the bareness too heavy for their open eyes. Ben slowly inserted himself in her, letting out a sigh of relief as he went deeper. The sheer size of him, nor the intimacy of the moment– She couldn't bear it. She couldn't get enough. She wanted more.
“Ben, I can't take it.. Please move” she whined desperately. He buried his face into the crook of her neck as he slowly started to shift and build some modicum of rhythm; she brought her hand to his hair, grasping at it to anchor herself. “Oh god…” She groaned, encouraging him to give in as he started to move faster. He thrust deep and slow, feeling every inch of her insides, burying his head in her neck sucking more deep bruises– different ones of course. These, he will cherish. She brought her legs around his torso, pushing him impossibly deeper. “Ben im not fucking kidding, move faster or ill smack you so hard your nose is gonna fall of your face” she threatened, and Ben, through his euphoria could not be more aroused for her. She was made for him.
“You need fast’ huh?”
He got up slightly, the weight of his body on his forearms, forehead on hers, determined with a newfound intensity. He started thrusting at a menacing speed inside her, drawing the most sinful noises at the earliest hour of the day. “Fuck, fucking hell, fuck me just like that, baby!” She brought her hands to the sides of his face, holding him close as he brought her closer and closer to her hilt.
Ben looked into her eyes, still going at it with the otherworldly speed, hitting her spot before she could even describe it. “Better?” She looked into his eyes, bleeding with passion, intoxicated with the feeling of him. She brought his face closer, making him falter slightly, kissing him, grounding him, until he felt a sharp pain, “Aah! Fuck!” she bit him hard on his lip, drawing blood, giggling like a menace, “Better.” He laughed with her, incredulously, until she latched onto his lip again, sucking the blood to stop the flow. He groaned at her deranged gesture and resumed his fast pace.
“Ben, I can’t go much longer” She moaned into the side of his face, grabby hands at his back, scratching with her nails, drawing blood, again. “You tryna kill me, baby?” he responded, at the mixed sensation of pain and pleasure she gave him. “Would’ve done it ages ago if I wanted, this is for my own fun.” He chuckled, bringing his face down to her breasts to suck like he needed to satiate himself. She moaned loudly at his ministrations; left hand carefully played with her nipple, the right one latched on. Ben, im gonna cum” He looked up at her proudly, “Let go baby. I need you to.”
He thrusted at a heavenly pace until y/n's cry of pleasure flooded the room, a resounding declaration of her peak. He kept thrusting into her, reaching his own high mere minutes later, moaning into her mouth as he came. He slumped on top of her completely, both trying to catch their breaths through the thick haze of their post coital stillness, skin still humming with phantom touches– bodies, a tangle of soft limbs and aftershock shivers. He slowly slid out of her, making both of them gasp, and lay softly beside her, looking at her as she looked back, they both couldn't help but giggle lightly at each other, finally accepting of their union, albeit unusual; it felt fated, and Benjamin Poindexter believed it. They lay there, looking at each other for a while– a moment untethered from time.
She brought her knuckles to his cheek, grazing at it softly, his light stubble sending shivers through her arm. His skin was hot, flushed, blood drying at the corner of his lip, but he didn’t move. He looked at her now like everything he went through somehow led him here.
“I call you Ben because… someone should.” She whispered, not wanting to shake the sanctity of the moment too much. He took her hand at the tender admittance and kissed her knuckles, closing his eyes in worship.
“Don’t stop, Never stop.” Ben croaked, and came closer to her, kissing her tenderly. She brought her fingers to his nose, being able to see the crooked bridge clearly as the sun shone through the windows.
“We gotta get you to a doctor for that broken nose. Also get the hell outta New York altogether. Forever.”
The first time that Dex held one of your guinea pigs, he had stared blankly down at it as the rodent sat in his lap. It smelt like hay.
It was oddly heavy for its size, but its fur was soft.
Roxanne, you said she was a ‘silkie’ so that tracked. It was fine, until Roxanne peed on him and then he was box breathing until you picked her up, revealing that she had also been pooping in his lap—small round pellets that you informed him were 'actually' cecotropes which allowed them another chance to absorb nutrients and proteins. He did not care, to Dex, it was poop and he needed to immediately shower himself in scalding water.
Afterwards, when he was freshly showered and finally felt clean again, you asked if he wanted to hold another guinea pig—Hollywood, because you didn't care that your guinea pigs had peed on him while you referred to her as a ‘lilac’ but that Dex thought of as blond, he declined, but then you said, ‘Oh c’mon, doesn’t she look just like daddy?’ Hollywood had a vacant look to her red eyes, which seemed to be looking opposite directions.
He imagined she saw near 360.
Dex did not think she had ever had a single thought. Only one of her eyes looked at him, while he used both to look at her. Dex did not see the resemblance, but he liked that you alluded to Dex being her father, which made you her other parent, so he relented.
She didn’t move in his lap like Roxanne had, simply sat there and looked ridiculous. She didn’t pee in his lap, or poop, which was great. Really, the bare minimum. She also smelt like hay, but Dex was petting between her ears and found that it wasn’t that bad. He didn’t love them, not like he loved you, Dex thought that you loved them enough for both of you. If Dex was forced to choose, he would say he mostly just loved that you loved when he interacted with them.
“Okay, sisters go together.” You had said, adding Cheesecake, who looked nearly identical to Hollywood, except Dex thought she might have a thought or two occasionally. She naturally fit beside Hollywood in his lap and he was now petting them both, awkwardly moving both arms in tandem.
Dex wasn’t sure how you wanted him to interact with them, but judging from how many photos you were taking and how often you were kissing him all over his face, he thought this was a good start.
You loved your guinea pigs and Dex loved you, so he didn’t say how much he thought they smelt bad, even when you ran multiple air purifiers and vacuumed their enclosure religiously (morning, noon and night.) because to Dex, they still smelt like wet hay.
Dex could realize now that your frequent kisses were less out of excitement, but more to distract him from you adding more guinea pigs to his lap, until all four were piled, chewing on two pieces of chard.
“Okay infestation,” you leaned down, petting Hollywood between her empty eyes, “I need to clean the walls, so just stay with dad.” dad.
Dex picked up a small piece of chard that Dragonlord Placidusax (you called her a ‘sheba’) had dropped, returning it to the rodent while he watched you scrub the walls around the enclosure, then change the bedding (a task you performed every three days.) In retrospect, Dex wasn’t sure how he hadn’t known you had guinea pigs—he had watched your weekly laundromat trips, he had watched you pour scent free detergent into the machine, then eyeball white vinegar.
He just thought you had a weird routine with your clothes.
As he looked down at his lap, guinea pigs wandering now and threatening to spill over his crossed legs while looking ridiculous, Dex wondered if it was possible he had forgotten that guinea pigs existed outside of stereotypical elementary school classrooms.
you are having a horrible shift, Dex is content to sit and grade papers for you.
tw for extremely toxic relationship dynamics & domestic violence: reader walks dex like a dog. stay tuned for my hc's about his antipsychotics
You hate your hotel.
It is 1am. The issues started at midnight, really 12:02am. You know because while printing out the folio for your walk, you thought—I can run the audit after this, but you don’t get to run the audit after printing the folio, because your night is determined not to be that easy.
Occupancy is at one hundred, you are oversold by one. You had hoped that the silver tier member wouldn’t arrive and make your life easy, but your life is never that easy because not only does he arrive, but he insists on making every step of the walk progress difficult. He doesn’t want to go to the hotel you had called ahead at and verified availability, okay. That’s fine, he’s being relatively cordial about it so you help him. He doesn’t want to put down a card for the other hotel, you are firm: if he doesn’t want to put down a card, he needs to go to the hotel that you chose.
Why couldn’t you call him? He wants to know, because you don’t have a phone number on file. He isn’t listening, you’re just glad he’s gone. He eventually agrees to tap his card, your AGM will set up direct billing in the morning. That’s not the worst part.
That would be room 410’s gnat infestation. You did not expect the sheer volume of gnats in the video that this guest is now showing you—a man who came up when you were discussing billing complications with aforementioned walk guest.
You have no rooms to move him to. This is not good, this is horrible, this is your worst shift in recent record and you’ve had to evacuate the entire hotel before. They gnats had taken over the light above the entrance door, a black swirl of movement that was merely agitated when you attempted to take the housekeeping long lint-roller to the light, walls and doors in order to try and slightly fix the issue. It did not help, at all.
He says he noticed yesterday, but didn’t report it. He wants to be put into a different hotel, you cannot do that.
You do not have raid, you have searched the hallway closet, the house person closet, the maintenance supervisors office, the back room, it is overdramatic to say you want to die, but you definitely want to smash your head against the wall until your face is imprinted.
You are finally freed from trying to fix the gnat infestation, looking at your dashboard. You feel guilty, really, you hate nights like this—stuck between impossible situations.
OOO. Out of Order. Room 201, What is this? out of 175 rooms, four floors, you have one room that could be used. You check the details, marked OOO by housekeeping supervisor based on odor, okay, you can work with that. 410 is begrudgingly sleeping in his room, he will have to be moved immediately upon the earliest check out but maybe, maybe you could just clean this room. You are trained in housekeeping, okay. You almost run to 201, skipping the slow and outdated elevator that multiple people have gotten trapped in (you refuse to be one of them.) you tuck the giant keyring into your pocket to stop the jingling as you begin to jump over multiple sets of stairs to reach the second floor, trying your best to close it softly behind you but a heavy door is going to make a noise louder than a clink when it locks as you tab your master key against the door of 201.
Once, twice, three times, “I’m opening the door.”
“I’m in here! It’s Christian.” You jump, half-thinking that you are hallucinating as you pause with the door slightly open, chain lock taunt as it stops you from opening the door any further.
Your General Manager is in an out of order room marked vacant.
“Oh. Have a good night.” You do not ask, ‘what the fuck?’ Because years of customer service experience have taught you to always keep a level tone and with met with rejection, always ‘have a good day.’, ‘thank you.’ Rather than ‘you make over six figures and can’t pay for your own fucking hotel room?’ As you walk down the stairs in a haze of confusion and annoyance—now you can’t hide in the back room and grade piles of student work, now you had to pretend to work to keep up the appearance of being busy.
By the time you’ve walked back to the front desk, Dex is there.
He is halfway towards the door leaving to the back room, a place that you have lectured him on multiple times that he can not go because he is not an employee and now, you have caught him red-handed with his hand outstretched to push the door open.
He must have paused when he heard your footsteps, as if he stood still enough you wouldn’t notice that he was once again, attempting to go into employee only areas. Tonight, you don’t really have the energy to lecture him.
You know that he knows it’s wrong, that it’s not allowed—he just doesn’t care. Dex will nod along, apologize at the correct time, but you know that next time you do not immediately show yourself when he walks in, he will do the same thing.
Sometimes you just like to lecture Dex for the thrill of game, really. It keeps him on his toes. Tonight is not that night. You know that it is useless to be disappointed, but you cannot hide it. Instead, you walk past Dex and hold open the door of the employee only area for him to hover in the entrance way, solemn as he plays when he has done something he knows is wrong, but does not particularly want to draw attention to it while simultaneously wanting you to absolve him.
You gather ungraded work, stacking it neatly and evening out any papers sticking out from the stack before tucking away your laptop, then pull out the stack of papers that will eventually be a book that you are reviewing for a colleague then hand the ungraded work to Dex. On the top of the stack is the rubric and answer key, “Please grade these for me. I need to pretend to be busy in case my GM comes out.”
Dex leans down, just slightly, he is too cute. You pat his cheek, once, twice, then trail your hand down his jaw, his neck, his chest above the loose black long sleeve and pat his forearm to get him moving.
You aren’t supposed to sit in the back, but it has never stopped you and no one has ever mentioned your habit to you.
Really, you tried to sit in the restaurant for the longest time, then tried to sit in the far corner in the dark but had scared too many guests to continue. After years of testing out new positions to hide, you had eventually given up and decided it really was best to just sit in the back—avoiding guests who had weirdly quiet footsteps seeing you with your laptop.
Dex does not argue that reading is not being busy.
He moves from the door frame, sitting on the couch in front of the TV, in direct line of the front desk though from his angle he can’t see what you’re reading.
He has the papers directly in front of him: answer key to the left, ungraded in the middle, graded to the right.
His natural state is obsessively observant, he knows that it is not you who needs to look busy, but him: the one who’s out of place, who doesn’t have a room and only visits the hotel because he hates that you work overnight.
So intensely that Dex had once sent your immediate notice to quit via email when you were sleeping, your manager had replied by asked for additional time to hire a replacement and you had lied, managed to keep that fucking job.
He had thought you’d go along with him—that’s all you had to fucking do but Dex had a fundamental misunderstanding of your character based on what he wanted to see and you had thought it was time he woke the fuck up.
You had been mad at him, but he had thought he could’ve smoothed it over. You just had to listen to him, see his point of view, how much he loved and cared for you and just wanted the best for you.
He hadn’t. Dex was used to picking fights: challenging you to see how much you’d fight for him.
That fight had been different, an entirely different game than he had meant to play. He had stepped on the field expecting baseball, but you came on with a tennis racket.
Even now, you don’t realize how close he was to killing you—he had never told you. Dex hadn’t wanted to hurt you, but you had been forcing his hand.
Why couldn't you see that Dex was just trying to protect you? Wasn't it obvious? As he was pressing all of his weight into keeping you pinned to the floor, he had completely engulfed your smaller form.
Dex was the dragon and you, his captive princess. All your fault it was, you were making him do this.
‘I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt you.’ This could’ve all been avoided—you just had to quit. You didn’t need that shitty minimum wage job—you had Dex, you had your full-time job. People fought tooth and nail to land where you had stumbled.
It didn’t matter how little academia paid, that being a professor was more something you did out of sheer love and determination. Dex would cover everything else—he was all you needed. ‘I’m sorry, sorry, so sorry.’ Repeating something don’t make it true.
He wouldn’t forget the vibrancy of panic as he pushed your face harshly into the hardwood, grappling with you to reach your phone. It had calmed him, just a lapse that hardly lasted a second—you were never supposed to look at him like that, the deer-in-the-headlights sort of shock as if you were seeing him for the first time. In that brief pocket of time where Dex thought you might’ve hated everything you saw.
It was just enough for you to shift away from his hold, just slightly, just enough for you to twist around and pull your foot up to kick him, first blow landing against his nose, second against his jaw. It stunned him, out of the character, you were changing the script. Dex fell slightly to the side, the intent more painful than the contact.
Then you were on him, hands on his neck, face bent down and contorted into a horrific sneer, ‘You ever, fucking touch my shit again—‘ he hadn’t been able to breathe, but fuck if that hadn’t driven the point in. Dex reached up, hands digging into your wrists but didn't attempt to pry them away--just holding, if anything, keeping them in place.
‘I’ll fucking kill you.’ you were sitting on his chest, knees digging into the sides of his torso and pressing every ounce of force you had into your grip on his neck, painful, bruising and violent.
He had never been more aroused, your hands were so small in comparison to his neck. It added to the thrill, how much you wanted to hurt him, how far you were wiling to go for it.
‘You ever fucking touch me like that again?’ you used that force to lift his head and slam it violently back into the ground, ‘I’ll fucking kill you.’ You snarled, spit flying from your mouth as you did and Dex? Oh he had been right where he wanted to be—your actions were entirely unexpected, clashing violently against his idolized version of you, but he was delirious with pleasure, with adoration.
In that moment, when black dots were dancing in Dex’s vision and he was bordering on unconsciousness, he loved you and you, were perfect for him. There he was, every horrific, violent part of him parroted in your eyes.
Yet, you still managed to be good. Steadfast, a lighthouse to guide, a safe harbor to dock at. There was hope for him.
At least until you changed your passcode and didn’t give him the new one until a week later when he was crying so profusely his body was violently shuddering with his pathetic, desperate sobs as snot was dribbling down his chin after having cycled through the seven stages of grief before trying to challenge you to see if you would leave, then becoming terrified you might actually take him up on his offer before settling on desperately trying to tether you to him by insisting he would kill himself if you left him.
You had looked at him, really looked at him. Every pathetic, disgusting part of him and thought back to your own life. You had always told yourself that you would never be the angry man— it was a part of you, but not everything that you were. You would never be the person that made someone dread to come home.
There had been a deviation somewhere, a fork in the road that you had taken while Dex had remained. You could recognize the familiar patterns of his violent tendencies. Sure, he had hurt you, but his neck was still covered in vibrant bruises from when you had choked him, the ones on his face had mostly faded. In comparison, you had some sparse bruising on your ribs and torso where he had held you down but you had beat his head against the hardwood with enough rage that Dex had been laying in a pool of his own blood and a concussion.
With that, you settled on giving him your new passcode with the stipulation he would get back on his fucking antipsychotics.
Tough bargain that paid off in the end because he’s still here, with you and knows that your night hasn’t been easy, so he obediently sits and grades student papers.
Dex listens to your movement, listens to you walk in the kitchen, fiddling with the oven and then a pan. He knows what you're doing, can close his eyes and picture you with perfect clarity from the nights he had done nothing but obsessively catalogue your actions.
After ten minutes, you are behind him, leaning over his shoulder and pressing a kiss to his temple as you hold a hot chocolate in front of him.
When you move to pull away, Dex moves his head with your movement until you are pressing another kiss to his hairline. He reaches up, taking the hot chocolate from your hand resting in the space just above the ungraded papers.
