James does not want to have sex in the Aston Martin.
The Aston Martin is to cramped.
....
You two have sex in the Aston Martin.
James has come to realize he can not say no to you
The first time you brought it up, James nearly choked on his drink.
You were comfortably curled up in his lap in the sitting room of your London flat, looking entirely too pleased with yourself as you wrapped your arms around his neck.
“James.”
“Hm?” he murmured, glancing down from the report he had been pretending to read.
Your smile widened. “I wanna have sex in your fancy car.”
James blinked. “Pardon?”
“The Aston.”
“The Aston Martin.”
“Yeah, that one!"
His expression immediately became one of deep concern. ".....You want to what?”
"Fuck..." You nodded enthusiastically. “In the car.”
“The vehicle?”
“That’s usually where car sex happens.”
James stared at you.
You stared back.
“Absolutely not.” James said quickly placing the report down.
Your grin somehow got bigger.
Three days later, James Bond found himself questioning every life decision that had brought him to this exact moment.
Including becoming attached to a cheerful American woman who apparently viewed common sense as an optional guideline.
Because somehow, someway....He had said yes.
The Aston Martin DB5 sat parked safely inside a private garage.
And James was currently sitting behind the wheel afterward, staring blankly through the windshield while you slept peacefully against his chest beneath his jacket.
You looked completely content.
Completely relaxed.
Like you hadn’t just talked Britain’s most dangerous spy into something he’d sworn he would never do.
James slowly rubbed a hand down his face closing his eyes for a moment. “I cannot believe this happened.”
You made a sleepy little noise against his shoulder.
“I cannot believe I just defiled this car.”
Another sleepy hum.
The DB5 had survived gunfights.
Explosions.
High-speed pursuits.
International criminals.
And yet somehow the greatest threat to its dignity had been a five-foot-three American with a devastating smile.
James looked down at you.
You were very obviously awake. Your shoulders were shaking suspiciously.
“You are not asleep.”
Silence...
“Darling.”
Silence.
“I can feel how smug you are.”
A tiny snort escaped you.
James closed his eyes. “There it is.”
You finally lifted your head, looking entirely unrepentant. “It was a good idea.”
“It was not.."
“It was.”
“It absolutely was not.”
You beamed. “You’re smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
James hated the fact that you were right. The corner of his mouth had betrayed him.
Because despite the ridiculousness of the situation, despite the fact that he was currently sitting in a garage having an existential crisis over a car he’d spent years caring for....You looked happy.
And James had discovered a dangerous truth about himself.
One that every enemy he’d ever faced would have loved to know.
He could resist torture.
He could resist interrogation.
He could resist temptation.
But apparently he could not resist you.
Not when you looked at him with those hopeful eyes.Not when you climbed into his lap.Not when you smiled and asked for something completely absurd.
You were his one weakness.
James sighed heavily. “You realize this means you’re impossible."
You immediately brightened. “So if I asked for another impossible thing—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“I don’t need to.”
“What if it is reasonable?”
“It won’t be....I know it won't be."
You giggled and snuggled closer.
James wrapped an arm around you automatically, pressing a kiss against your hair.
A moment later your voice floated up. “I love you.”
The words hit him with the same force they always did.
His expression softened instantly. “I know.”
You poked his chest. “You’re supposed to say it back.”
James looked down at you, completely trapped and entirely aware of it. “I love you too.”
Your victorious smile returned.
And that was when James realized he’d made a terrible mistake.
Because that smile meant you had already thought of another impossible request.
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.~”
James groaned.
The Aston Martin remained silent.Even it seemed to know there was absolutely no saving him now.
Imperial Sharpshooter!Dex x Jedi Knight!Reader | Star Wars AU
TW Grief, mention of death, obsession, unhealthy attachment, stalking (?), mentions of spice/drug and alcohol use, suggestive sexual content, enemies(ish)-to-lovers, weapon kink.
You were one of the few Jedi who survived Order 66.
You didn’t survive because you were better, or because you were chosen. You didn’t survive because the Force had some grand plan for you. If anything, you thought it was cruel that you survived at all.
You survived because you were a coward. You got luck, and you ran.
That day, you found your Jedi apprentice dead in her quarters. She was only a teenager, and more importantly, she was your ward. She was a child who had been entrusted to you, and the last thing you ever got to do for her was cradle her body while the Jedi Temple burned around you.
You cut off her Padawan braids with shaking hands because you couldn’t leave all of her behind.
Then you ran and hid in the refresher of a cargo ship. You burned your robes in a trash compactor. You traded your lightsaber for passage twice and stole it back both times.
So, no. You didn’t really consider yourself a Jedi anymore.
Jedi didn’t drink cheap booze from chipped metal cups on deserted towns in imperial planets. Jedi didn’t sleep in filthy hostels under fake names. Jedi didn’t take spice just to stop dreaming about the people they failed to save.
And Jedi definitely didn’t sleep with strangers because they were angry and grieving.
Enter Dex.
You met him in a bar near some run-down hostel on an Outer Rim planet you barely remembered the name of. You were there because you were hunting the clone who killed your Padawan, but so far, you had nothing. No name, no trail, nothing.
Dex was sitting beside you at the bar, trying to flirt because you smiled at him kindly when you walked in.
And oh, he flirted badly.
Like, it was painfully terrible. He was doing that thing where he clearly wanted to be noticed but was pretending he didn’t care if you looked at him.
You noticed.
And not just because he was intense, not just because he looked at you like he was already one bad decision away from obsession.
And you liked him. You really did.
There was something about that singular focus of his that drew you in, that almost made you admire him against your better judgment. He was charming in a way that should have been off-putting, but it worked on you anyway. Still, that was not why you noticed.
You noticed because the Force was strong with him.
He was clearly untrained and unfocused, but the potential was there.
Dex was Force-sensitive. He just had no idea.
And really, that should have been your sign to walk away.
You didn’t.
So you slept with him that night, because one thing led to another, and honestly? Fuck the Jedi Code. Fuck the no-romantic-attachment rule. Fuck serenity. Fuck letting go.
Anyway, sleeping with Dex was not an attachment. Obviously.
It was just one night. One stupid, desperate night with a stranger who made you forget, for a few hours, that your entire life had been purged before your eyes.
You ended up against the wall of his dingy rented room, breath heaving as he drove into you, nail scratching and teeth biting.
He was good. For a little while, you forgot the braid in your pocket, forgot the dead, forgot that you were supposed to be grieving, running, hunting.
And then morning came. Dex was still asleep beside you.
Last night was fun, but you hadn’t been paying attention. You had been too tired and too desperate to forget.
But you hadn't looked closely enough.
Because the morning after when you woke up, Dex was still asleep beside you. Curiosity took over. When you looked around his room, your heart dropped.
You saw the Imperial uniform. You saw the Empire-issued rifle half-hidden under his bed.
And immediately, you were like: Maker, what have I done?
Because he was not just some strange man from a bar. He was not just an awkward, intense, off-puttingly charming man who you had a one night stand with.
He was an Imperial sharpshooter.
Which meant he had probably hunted people like you. He killed people like you. Maybe even surviving Jedi. Maybe even children who had escaped the Temple just to be found later.
So you left before he woke up. No note. No goodbye. Nothing.
And the thing was, Dex didn’t know you were Jedi.
To be fair, Dex did not know what he was either.
He had no idea he was Force-sensitive. He had no word for it, and no ancient teachings to explain why he can’t seem to miss, even if he tried.
The Empire, arrogantly, thought they had just trained a very good sniper.
He was sad that he woke up without you, of course. He wanted to get to know you!
So, when he got back to base, he started digging, researching your name day and night.
Later, he found your name in classified Imperial files: a surviving Jedi Knight.
Oh.
He should have told his superiors. He should have told them where he saw you. He should have said, yes, I met her, she was here, she went this way. Blah blah blah.
He didn’t. Because, unfortunately for everyone involved, Dex was already obsessed with you.
So instead of reporting your last known whereabouts, he does the most Dex thing possible.
He starts sabotaging Imperial operations near your suspected locations to flush you out.
Insane behavior. But very Dex, right?
He started destroying supply lines and even discreetly killed officers who got too close to your trail. Then, he started causing just enough damage that innocent civilians needed help, because in his head, he knew you. He knew you wouldn’t be able to ignore the sound of a sister begging for help or a child crying because they lost their mother in the chaos.
And he was right.
You showed up.
You kept crossing paths with him, and every time, you ran before he could explain anything.
At first, you thought he was hunting you.
Which, y’know, fair.
He was Imperial. He was dangerous. You were probably his mission. You had looked into his record by then, and it was not exactly comforting.
But then you started noticing that the bodies he left behind were not rebels or civilians.
They were Imperial officers. They were always one of his own.
Huh. Strange.
And then one day, there was a knock on your door.
You opened it. And it was Dex.
He was dragging a dead clone trooper behind him.
You ignited your lightsaber and put it straight to his throat. And the sick bastard looked like he was into it.
He only said, “I just wanna talk.”
So you let him in, but you kept the lightsaber at his neck the whole time because you were traumatised, not stupid.
You said, “then talk.”
And Dex explained that the dead clone on your floor was the one who killed your Padawan. You checked, he was right— he had the designation number of CT-0212. It matched information based on the blaster you found near the body.
Because apparently, while he had been trying to find you, he had also figured out what you were really looking for. He knew you were hunting the clone responsible. He knew you hadn’t been able to find him.
So Dex found him for you, killed him, and dragged the body to your door like it was a gift.
Like: I know what you wanted, so I brought it to you. Now please love me?
And to be fair, what were you supposed to do with that? Throw him back into the street?
The Empire had probably already realised he had defected. He had nowhere to go. He had just handed you the one thing you had been chasing since the day your life at the temple ended.
So you let him stay.
And because the Maker apparently had a sick sense of humor, you eventually let Dex back into your bed, and for more than one night this time.
Which was its own kind of disaster, because one night had been easy to excuse. One night could be grief, loneliness, bad judgement, whatever.
But this that was waking up tangled in his arms and kissing him back when he kissed you.
Worse, you eventually fell in love with him, too.
Which was completely against everything you had once been taught.
The Masters would have been disappointed in you. The Jedi rules against attachment existed for a reason, didn’t they? Possessive attachment and romantic love could lead to fear, jealousy, and the dark side.
You were supposed to be detached.
But where had detachment gotten any of you?
The Temple was turned into ash. Your masters were dead. Your Padawan was dead. Every surviving person you had once called a companion was now a name on an Imperial execution list.
So what if you loved Dex?
What were the Jedi Council going to do about it?
Oh, right.
They were all dead.
Eventually, you told him the truth: that he was Force-sensitive.
And suddenly, his whole life made sense.
How he was able to make impossible shots and ridiculous ricochets. The way he always knew where a target would move before they moved. The way the galaxy seemed to bend to his will whenever he aimed.
And you, who were absolutely not a proper Jedi anymore, taught him what little you could.
Not the Temple teachings. Not the holy religious bullshit.
You taught him practical things. You taught how to listen to his surroundings, how to focus, how to feel the Force on purpose instead of reaching for it blindly.
And after that, the two of you became an absolute nightmare.
Because after that, you started killing Imperial soldiers and officers out of pure spite. Out of revenge.
And Dex didn’t stop you. In fact, he encouraged it. He helped you cover your blind spots. He put blaster bolts through anyone who looked at you wrong. He ran a tub for you after a long day and scrubbed the sweat off your skin and kissed the blood off your face. He would say you’re so proud of you for putting those scum down, as if he hadn’t been one of them, once, too.
The other Masters would have hated it.
They would have said you were slipping, crawling toward the dark side one body at a time. They would’ve said you were careless for letting your grief turn into rage, rage into violence, violence into a line you would never come back from.
And maybe they would have been right.
But you had lost too much to care.
And now the man you loved was enabling you to take out your emotions however you liked.
So, really. How were you supposed to stop?
Also, Dex with a blaster? Horrifying. Beautiful. Give me that please.
Give that man a custom ricochet blaster and it is over. He’d be bouncing shots off cantina walls, pipes, doorframes, helmets, beskar armor, whatever. He wouldn't even need a clean line of sight. He’d just tilt his head, listen to the Force like you told him to, and suddenly three bounty hunters are down before anyone could process where the shot came from.
So yeah, the Empire accidentally created a Force-sensitive trick-shot assassin and then lost him forever because one traumatised Jedi smiled at him at a bar once.
Pathetic of them, honestly.
—
Prompted by this ask.
—
Note : starting a dex taglist, but I won’t be tagging people in small blurbs like this, just full length fics! Also, The Matt Murdock and Buck Cashman Star Wars AU blurbs are gonna be posted tomorrow. Gotta sleep now, it’s 3AM and I just finished marvel rivals placement matches lol.
Summary: The first time you sleep over at the manor, and the first time Bruce steps foot in your tiny one bed room apartment.
Asks/requests are open!! Masterlist
The first night you stayed at Wayne Manor felt strangely intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not because of the mansion itself. If anything, the manor should’ve felt impersonal. Too large. Too polished. The kind of place where you were afraid to touch things because they probably cost more than your rent. Instead, it felt… lived in.
Warm.
There were books left open on side tables. Half-finished mugs of tea abandoned in sitting rooms. A sweater tossed over the back of a chair that was very obviously Dick’s because no human being besides Dick owned that many neon hoodies. And Bruce—
Bruce somehow made the entire massive place feel smaller just by existing in it. You were standing in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea when he walked in wearing the robe. You physically had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
Bruce paused immediately. “What?”
“Oh my god,” you breathed. His brow furrowed slightly. “That robe is pink.”
“It is not pink.”
“It’s satin.”
“It’s silk.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
Bruce looked down at himself with a tiny frown like he was reconsidering the robe for the first time in his life. The robe was absolutely pink. Not bright pink. But definitely some rich wine-colored silk situation that looked unbelievably soft and expensive and absurdly domestic on a man built like Bruce Wayne.
Your laughter finally slipped out. Bruce sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who’d apparently dealt with this before. “Damian bought it.”
You gasped dramatically. “Damian picked this out?”
“He said it looked distinguished.”
“That child thinks you’re a divorced millionaire in a Nancy Meyers movie.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched. And there it was. That tiny almost-smile he tried so hard to suppress sometimes. You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t you do that.”
“Do what?”
“That little smile thing where you pretend you’re not smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally are right now.”
Bruce took another sip of tea to hide it. Coward. You wandered closer, unable to help yourself, fingers brushing lightly against the silk sleeve of his robe.
Your eyes widened instantly. “Wait, this is actually insane.”
Bruce looked down at you quietly. “What?”
“It’s so soft.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I thought rich people fabric was all for aesthetics. This feels illegal.”
A quiet laugh escaped him then. Actual laughter. Low and warm and rough with sleep. It startled you enough that you looked up immediately. Bruce rarely laughed fully. Not like that. Usually it was restrained amusement. A quiet exhale through his nose. Tiny smiles hidden behind coffee mugs. But this?
This was softer. Sleepier. Real. And maybe because it was late, maybe because the kitchen lights were dim, maybe because Bruce looked so comfortable standing there in his ridiculous robe with messy hair and reading glasses halfway down his nose, you suddenly felt unbearably fond of him.
Your hand stayed resting lightly on his sleeve. Bruce glanced down at it before looking back at you. Neither of you moved for a second. Then Bruce quietly asked, “You tired?”
“A little.”
“You’ve been trying not to yawn for twenty minutes.”
“I was being polite.”
“You fell asleep during the documentary earlier.”
“In my defense, it was about architecture.”
“It was about sustainable city planning.”
You stared at him flatly. “Bruce, that’s worse.”
Another tiny smile. God, you loved making him smile. Bruce set his mug down before reaching out gently, fingers catching your wrist. Not forceful. Just guiding. He pulled you closer until your hip bumped lightly against his. And then, because apparently this terrifying man was secretly affectionate beyond belief in private, he simply wrapped both arms around you and tucked you against his chest.
Your brain short-circuited immediately. “…Oh.”
Bruce hummed softly above your head. “What?”
“You’re clingy.”
“I am not clingy.”
“You literally just bear-trapped me in a kitchen.”
“You walked into range.”
You laughed against his chest, and Bruce’s arms tightened slightly in response like the sound itself relaxed something in him. That was another thing you were learning. Bruce touched constantly when he loved someone. Not publicly. Never publicly.
But in private? A hand at your waist while passing behind you. Fingers brushing your knee during conversations. Pulling you absentmindedly against his side while reading. Small things. Quiet things. Like he was always reassuring himself you were still there.
You tilted your head back slightly to look at him. “You’re really different at home.”
Bruce’s expression softened almost immediately. “Is that bad?”
“No,” you said quietly. “I think it’s my favorite version of you.”
Something vulnerable flickered across his face so quickly most people probably would’ve missed it. But you didn’t. Bruce leaned down slightly, pressing a slow kiss against your forehead. Not rushed. Not heated. Just tender. The kind of kiss that felt like being cared for. “You should sleep,” he murmured softly.
“Mmm. Don’t wanna.”
“You said you were tired.”
“I am.”
“Then come to bed.”
The words were simple. Casual, even. But warmth still flooded your chest embarrassingly fast. Bruce must’ve noticed because the corner of his mouth lifted slightly before he brushed his thumb along your cheek. “C’mon.”
He took your hand then. And despite the size of Wayne Manor, despite the endless halls and towering ceilings and all the wealth surrounding you, walking through the quiet manor half-asleep with Bruce’s hand wrapped around yours somehow felt more like home than anything else.
The first time Bruce came to your apartment, you nearly canceled three separate times. Not because you didn’t want him there. That was the problem. You wanted him there too much. Which meant suddenly you were painfully aware of everything. The old radiator that hissed like it was possessed. The tiny kitchen with exactly three feet of counter space. The fact that your couch cushions sank weirdly in the middle.
You spent an embarrassing amount of time cleaning despite the apartment already being clean. Fluffing pillows. Lighting candles. Hiding the one chair that had become The Laundry Chair. And still, by the time Bruce knocked on the door, your stomach was in knots. Because Bruce lived in Wayne Manor.
Wayne fucking Manor.
Meanwhile your apartment building had a flickering hallway light and a neighbor who blasted music every Thursday night. You opened the door still wearing one sock because you’d lost the other one halfway through panic-cleaning. Bruce immediately noticed. “…You’re missing a sock.”
You stared at him. “Hello to you too.”
His mouth twitched slightly. And just like that, some of the tension eased. Bruce stood there dressed down in dark jeans and a black henley, one hand holding takeout bags from your favorite little noodle place across town. Not chauffeured-driver Bruce Wayne. Not billionaire gala Bruce Wayne. Just Bruce.
Your Bruce.
“You brought food?”
“You forgot dinner yesterday.”
“You remember my meals now?”
“You forget them often enough for it to qualify as a pattern.”
“Wow. Judgmental.”
Bruce leaned down slightly as he stepped inside, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead as he passed. “You’re nervous,” he murmured quietly.
Your eye twitched. “No I’m not.”
“You reorganized your bookshelf alphabetically.”
You froze. “…How did you know it wasn’t already like that?”
Bruce slowly looked at the stack of books beside the couch. “…Because those are still piled by color.”
You stared at him in horror. Bruce kissed the side of your head to hide his amusement. “You missed one,” he informed you gently.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately, he sounded very sure about that. Bruce moved deeper into the apartment while you shut the door behind him, and you couldn’t stop watching him. Not because he looked out of place. But because he didn’t. That was somehow worse. Bruce Wayne should’ve looked ridiculous standing in your tiny kitchen setting takeout containers on the counter. Instead, he looked… comfortable. Like he’d already decided this place mattered because it mattered to you.
His gaze wandered quietly around the apartment, not critical, not assessing financially, just observing. The string lights around the windows. The tiny framed movie posters. The books overflowing from shelves because you’d run out of room months ago. The blanket draped over the couch. He noticed everything. Of course he did. “You have more mugs than dishes,” Bruce observed after a moment.
“That’s because mugs are important.”
“Hm.”
“That was judgment in rich person.”
“That was observation.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Same thing.”
Bruce’s smile deepened slightly. God. That smile was unfair in normal lighting, but in your apartment with the warm lamps on and rain tapping softly against the windows? Lethal. You turned away before he noticed the effect he was having on you. Too late. Bruce’s hand slid lightly against your waist as you passed him. Effortless. Automatic. Like touching you had already become instinct for him.
“What?” you muttered suspiciously.
“You’re pacing.”
“I am not.”
“You’ve walked in a circle around the kitchen three times.”
“…This kitchen is like four feet wide.”
Bruce hummed thoughtfully. “Still counts.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I’m being perceived.”
“You invited me over.”
“I regret allowing you to have observational skills.”
Bruce laughed quietly then. Actually laughed. Low and warm and fond. And suddenly your tiny apartment felt warmer for it. Bruce leaned back against your counter afterward, watching you plate noodles while soft jazz played faintly from your speaker. There was something deeply surreal about the image.
Bruce Wayne.
In your apartment.
Looking absurdly handsome while holding chopsticks.
You pointed at him suddenly. “You’re too relaxed.”
One brow lifted slightly. “Meaning?”
“You’re acting like you do this all the time.”
“I spend time at your apartment often.”
“You have been here for six minutes.”
“And yet.” You narrowed your eyes harder. Bruce only looked amused. Then, because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating you, the shitty apartment radiator suddenly let out a loud metallic BANG. You flinched. Bruce didn’t even blink. “…Did it just do that naturally?” he asked calmly.
“Yes.”
“And you live like this willingly?”
“It builds character.”
“I think it builds tetanus.”
You laughed so suddenly you almost dropped your bowl. Bruce looked disproportionately pleased with himself for causing it. A little later, after dinner, you found Bruce sprawled across your couch like he belonged there. Which was insane. Truly insane. Because this was Bruce Wayne.
Billionaire CEO.
And he was currently wearing one of your fuzzy gray blankets over his lap with a green face mask spread across his face. You stood frozen in the hallway staring at him. Bruce glanced up from his phone. “…What?”
“You look ridiculous.”
“You put this on me.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually wear it!”
“You said it helps with dry skin.”
“You’re Bruce Wayne.”
“And?”
“And you look like a sleepy TikTok boyfriend.” Bruce looked entirely unashamed. Worse, he looked comfortable. Feet propped on your coffee table. One arm stretched along the back of the couch. The face mask somehow failing to make him look any less intimidating. You collapsed beside him laughing into your hands. “This is the weirdest moment of my life.”
Bruce looked over at you quietly then. Really looked at you. His expression softened in that private way he reserved only for the people he loved most. “I like it here,” he said softly.
Your laughter faded a little. “You do?”
Bruce nodded once. “It’s yours.”
The simplicity of it hit embarrassingly hard. Because he meant it. The apartment wasn’t impressive. It wasn’t glamorous. But Bruce looked around at your tiny living room like it was something precious because it belonged to you.
You shifted closer without thinking. Bruce immediately opened one arm for you on instinct alone. You curled against his side while rain tapped softly outside and the face mask on his stupidly handsome face cracked slightly when he smiled down at you. “You know,” you murmured, “if Gotham could see you right now, your reputation would be destroyed.”
Bruce kissed the top of your head lazily. “They’d survive.
dex whose north star disappeared during the blip. maybe this is me needing to rewatch season three and born again season one but idk when the blip happens during the daredevil timeline nor do i remember how long dex was in prison for. i want to say six years but who knows and for the sake of this post i am not looking it up.
because i don't really know the timeline, i cannot stop thinking which would be worse for dex in the long run; his north star being blipped when he's in prison or while he's free
if she's gone while he's in prison, lets say a year or less into his sentence and all communication from his north star just stops. no letters, no phone calls, no weekly visits, the one think keeping him sane and preventing him from breaking out of that hellish place. because if we want to be really honest, if dex had a north star/girlfriend he would NOT have served his time, even if she told him to for whatever reason, he'd struggle with wrapping his head around the fact his north star willingly wants them to be apart for so long
but thats another conversation.
i can imagine dex just sitting there, waiting at the table for his visit or in his cell for guards to come escort him to the visiting area. either way, like a good loyal dog, he sits there patiently waiting for his north star's return, trying not to let the time passing later and later get to him. gods help the poor guards who oversaw visiting hours that day. when time was up, and she still didn't show, they were shaking in their boots, doing round for round of rock paper sissors to see who the unlucky bastard was that would have to tell benjamin poindexter, bullseye, time was up and he'd have to wait a week for a chance to see her.
dex didn't want to wait a week. its been days since he's last heard from her. i think we can all agree prisons weren't safe from thanos so sure some inmates and a couple guards turned to dust but dex could never think in a million years it could happen to her. his north star. shes above all that, above all the scum who turned to nothing but specks in the air and more work for the cleaning crew.
and heres when it turns to ‘you/your’ pronouns causes its more natural for me to write i blame wattpad being the platform i learned to write
dex would crash the fuck out because he can't break himself out of his spiral. there was nothing, no one telling him you didn't leave him, because why wouldn't you show? if he gets in his head maybe you did get blipped and it wasn't your fault, that wouldn't be any better because that means something—someone took you from him and he wasn't there to protect you. long story short, dex gets thrown in solitary but not without taking out a handful or so of guards
maybe he'd ride out the years in prison because it was your last wish before you disappeared. that maybe the help he'd get in there would help him get better. you loved him the way he is, but if people still saw him as a scary, disgusting threat then the chance of him being taken away from you were too high. but now you weren't around for him to be taken from and that realization may cause him to snap and break out
on the other hand. if you were to have disappeared while you were together, it'd be much harsher on dex almost immediately. i'm picturing you two in your apartment, dex had to leave the room for one thing or another. he was gone for six seconds, he knows because he's counted and tracked the time he wasted took from you to his destination for an object he couldn't be bother to remember. nothing was more important than you. he looked away for six seconds
six seconds, it would have been 4 but he was distracted by a car that crashed into the sidewalk. saw dust evaporating and when he turned back to you, where you were supposed to be sprawled out on the couch like the angel you are. except, you weren't. and the couch is covered in dust slowly floating out the window you keep open for the stray that frequents for food.
dex wouldn't panic at first. he's too used to the pranks you pull, always pushing his buttons for your amusement. so dex calls your name and waits, then searches for you, calls your name and waits. then his searching gets more frantic, now he's calling your name with every step that turned into uncontrolled stomps. dex is checking closets, the pantry, the shower, cupboards you couldn't possibly fit into, the roof because you like to traces constellations on the back of his palm while complaining about not being able to see them.
he'd look for you for about a year, more maybe if no one confronts him. if matt for some reason comes to dex, pre-foggy i can see matt peeping how destroyed dex is as he's following bullseye's trail of bodies and trying to talk some sense into him. or dex could come to the conclusion on his own, though that would happen a lot more slowly and he just wouldn't be as convinced opposed to it coming from matt.
flash forward to when everyone comes back from the blip. your shared apartment has turned into a shrine. nothing has been touched since the day you left aside from a few guns on the table and holes in the wall. pictures of you and dex, of your friends and family have turned into rows of framed photos of just you.
dex comes home at the right time, you're mind had just stopped reeling from the sudden change, because well... nothing has changed at least not on your end. sure it was daylight outside just a few seconds ago but.... maybe you fell asleep. sure, but then, when did dex leave? and since when did he have on his bullseye suit.
the two of you would stare at each other for a while. dex frozen in the door way, you a little disoriented wondering why your ben was acting so strange, when he went from the bedroom to your front door. then he walks past you as if he didn't notice your presence in the first place.
he doesn't flinch when you call his name, he pauses when you grab his hand, looks at you and with all the cold malice you thought you'd never receive from him, dex spits at you, "go away" heads to the bedroom and slams the door.
your left standing there, hurt, confused and scared. not because of dex, kinda because of him, but because now there were shouting and loud noises coming from outside. so you turn on the tv because maybe at least someone in there will tell you what the hell was happening.
dex, our poor death row husband. went a little crazy in your absence. we see how he took julie's body with him to kill fisk. i can imagine he would start hearing you in his head, maybe not full on hallucinations, but he fully could not function without you to the point where his brain had to make up a fictious you just to keep going. while it worked, he hated it.
he didn’t want something fake his mind made up, even if at times when he gets really bad, it nearly convinces him. he wants you. he wants the real thing. he wants your hands on his skin. your real warm lips kissing away his tears. your soft words chasing away the noise until all he knows is your breath, your name and you heart beat
so when you appeared in the living room after a night of gruesome work, in the same pajamas you left him in, looking like an angel in the neon glow, he didn’t believe you were real. your voice echoes when you call him name and you look so confused, so loving when you look at him not disappointed or scared or disgusted like he knew he deserved for whats become of him in your absence
he retreats into the bedroom to escape you, fully expecting you to appear in the room behind him. but you don’t and there’s a commotion outside. dex let himself look, if only to distract himself from the daunting fact he’s finally gone insane. it doesn’t really hit him, how he’s seeing people being reformed from dust until a tv turns on in the distance
and suddenly he’s in the hallway, staggering towards the source of the sudden chatter. when he sees you lit up all in up and silver, he chokes and he doesn’t really have time to think much else other than your name when you come running up to him with tears in your eyes.
your hands on his biceps as you look into his eyes, pressing into his skin as you drag them up his shoulders, neck, raking your fingers through his hair with enough pressure to ground him. dex is stiff when you tuck his head under your chin. a moment later, his hands are holding your waist, hips, clawing gloved nails and down your back.
he’d be whispering, “are you real?” and not even notice until you shush him, because he’s too focused on your scent, which had been nothing but a dying memory for years, how it shuts everything off but sets his skin and every one of his senses on fire.
you’re muttering back, “i’m sorry” which dex has to shut down immediately with a harsh, salty kiss. he was the one who treated you so harshly when you just came back to him. he should have trusted that you could never leave him on your own.
then fade to black…. i might add more of this later if i come up with something thing else
you mean in tlou2 how ellie is actively putting her body through the worst imaginable situations and dying of exhaustion, and pure grief and hatred being the only things (because she doesn't eat) making her power through seattle?
oh, and abby mostly just chilling because, well, burritos and gym
Me, tears streaming down my face, sobbing, as I stare at the stars: it’s just so beautiful
The medieval peasant I went back in time to give a bag of Doritos to, concerned: what terrible and powerful sorcerers they must have in your age, to be able to veil the vault of heaven itself from view, as you say
Me, sniffling: I didn’t realize, I can’t, it’s so much, I, I… are the chips good, at least?
Medieval peasant, trying to make me feel better: they’re… magical, strange traveler
you are an amazing writer! will you pls write 5 times aerion tries and fails to court reader and 1 time he succeeds? <3
💌 five times aerion tried (and failed) to court you ⸺ and one time he succeeded.
⋆ a/n : i see all your requests, i'll get to them one by one if i like it & have a time. thank you anon !! ࿔ gif is for the aesthetic purposes only, there is no physical description of reader
The first time ⸺ when he saw you.
It was neither in the hall nor among the nobles, but in the garden.
Your house had arrived on their lands only a few hours before, and the feast had yet to begin. The castle already hummed with life: servants carried chests, lords exchanged polite smiles, and the air was heavy with the smell of wine and roasting meat.
He found you by chance.
Or almost by chance.
You stood among rare blooms — spider lilies — watching the delicate flowers sway. A gentle breeze stirred, and your hair, still loose and not yet tied by the maids, fell across your shoulders, glinting softly in the sunlight.
Aerion saw you from the shadow of a stone arch. He lingered there for a moment, just watching, then stepped forward.
“Have you lost your way?” he asked, his voice calm and even.
You turned, a surprised smile on your lips. “No, my prince. I am rather trying to escape the insistence of certain visitors.”
Then you looked back at the garden, a soft smile playing on your face. “It seems not to help.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I am no visitor of yours.”
“But yet you are here.”
He looked around the garden slowly. “Do not flatter yourself. I just passed by.”
“Then why did you hide in the arch’s shadow for a good while, my prince?” you asked, amused by his weak excuse.
Aerion opened his mouth, but no words came. He looked at you for a moment, then shook his head and turned away. “Careful.”
The second time — when he had asked for your blessing.
The tournament field was full of life: horses neighed, armor clanged, and the stands were bright with colorful gowns. The air was thick with dust and the smell of roasting meat.
You sat a row below, wearing a deep blue silk dress, embroidered with silver. Your hair was tied back, the front strands falling softly over your shoulders. You looked calm and untouchable — so different from the other ladies, waving their handkerchiefs in nervous excitement.
Aerion saw you at once. Clad in armor that shone brighter than the sun, he rode his horse straight toward you. Beside him was your cousin — a young knight on his first big outing. The boy looked pale and nervous next to the prince.
The prince said nothing. He gave only a slight nod — a brief gesture that said more than words ever could. He held out his hand, waiting for you to tie your ribbon to his lance, as if it were understood without question.
The whole court watched, holding their breath.
You looked at his hand, then at your cousin. And, without hurry, you tied the silk to your cousin’s lance. “May the gods aid you,” you said softly.
Aerion froze. His hand hung in empty air.
On the field, he was terrifying. He unseated your cousin with such force that the lance splintered, and the young man fell hard — dead or near enough.
After the victory, Aerion rode to you and threw a piece of your dirty, torn ribbon at your feet. He lifted his helmet and raised an eyebrow, hoping you would see the determination in his eyes.
You did not even glance at the shard. You rose, shook the dust from your blue silk, and walked away, leaving him with a taste of defeat.
The third time — when he wanted to apologize.
Your cousin’s name still echoed through the halls. Not loudly, but enough that each time you passed by, someone lowered their voice for a moment.
The door to your chambers swung open without a knock.
Aerion entered, carrying the same pride as always, but his movements were oddly awkward. He clearly wanted to speak, yet the words stuck in his throat, turning into a low, jumbled murmur.
“The ribbon. It was too slippery and fell… not very gracefully. I did not mean to throw it at you in front of all the common folk.”
He fell silent, looking as if he had just swallowed poison.
You watched him, barely holding back a smile at the ridiculous sight.
“Are you trying to apologize, my prince?” you asked softly.
Aerion straightened at once. “No,” he snorted, trying to regain his proud air. “I am trying to clear a misunderstanding. Dragons do not ask for forgiveness.”
“And dragons do not kill innocent young men.”
“He had no business on the field if he could not stay in the saddle,” he shrugged, showing no pity. “He… the one you chose?”
You blinked. “He is my cousin, my prince.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No,” you said firmly.
He froze. All his anger suddenly faded, replaced by a strange relief. He nodded shortly, almost unusually pleased. “Very well.”
He started back toward the door, then stopped and swallowed loudly. “You should come to my training in the small yard today.”
You smiled and stepped closer. “Is that an invitation?”
“It is an order.”
You only shook your head, bitterly, and closed the door in his face, hearing him curse on the other side.
The fourth time — when you were returning home.
Your house left at dawn, which made your fathers decide that the farewell feast should be a grand display of respect.
You sat at the high table, feeling the silk of your dress cling to your skin in the stifling heat and the light of hundreds of candles burning in heavy chandeliers.
From the start of the feast, Aerion had not taken his eyes off you. His chair was pulled so close that his elbow brushed yours constantly, and the smell of metal and leather overpowered everything else. Every time you reached for your cup, he was faster, filling it himself with golden Arbor wine.
“Drink,” he said, and there was no question in his voice. “Who knows when you’ll taste wine like this again.”
You only raised an eyebrow slightly, looking at the ruby liquid.
“Price does not make it sweeter, my prince. Sometimes plain water pleases the heart more than the finest gold.”
Aerion squinted, his fingers whitening on the stem of the cup. But what made him truly fearsome was when some young lord tried to approach you. The moment a boy from a neighboring house stepped too close, Aerion turned his head. His violet eyes blazed with a cold, punishing fire that made the poor lad pale, bow awkwardly, and vanish into the crowd.
Unable to bear the suffocating crowd, you excused yourself and slipped out of the tent. You needed the night air, far from lutes and drunken shouts.
You walked to the edge of the arch, where cicadas drowned out the music, and lifted your face to the wind, staring at the distant campfires. The silence lasted only a moment. Heavy steps on the grass and the familiar scent of fine musk told you the prince was near before he spoke.
Aerion came up behind you, his chest almost touching your shoulders. You froze, not turning, feeling heat radiate from him. His hands — hot and dry — rested on your shoulders, making you flinch. He moved your hair aside, exposing your neck, and you felt the brief, light touch of his fingers on your skin.
Then cold, heavy metal pressed against your chest. Aerion fastened a clasp, and a massive Valyrian gold necklace rested on your collarbones, a great ruby at its center, like a drop of frozen blood.
“Now you belong to the dragon,” he whispered in your ear, pride in his voice.
Slowly, with calm dignity that always annoyed him more than open defiance, you lifted your hand to touch the edges of the ruby. You did not flinch or look away as you turned to face him, trapped between the stone arch and his broad chest.
Your eyes met his — violet, burning with a wild flame of possession. You tilted your head slightly, a soft smile on your lips.
“You confuse gold with the soul, my prince,” your voice was calm in the night. “To belong is to give yourself willingly, and you take me by force. Is that what you desire?”
Aerion narrowed his eyes, fingers still pressing your shoulders. His face twisted with displeasure, and he leaned so close that your lips nearly touched. “Dragonfire asks no permission. It takes whom it wills.”
“Then you will have only ashes, my prince.”
You freed yourself from his hands, careful but firm. The heavy necklace tugged at your neck, reminding you of every word he said.
He watched you go, clenching his fists, unable to understand why his fire could not bend you to his will.
The fifth time — when he had written to you.
Aerion had been nowhere to be seen. Not at the gates, not in the courtyard, not in the last moments before departure. You did not search for him among the servants, nor did you slow your pace.
You rode down to the yard, lifted the reins, and swung into the saddle. Your cloak settled on your shoulders, the wind tangled your hair, and the dust of the road barely touched your cheeks. You took the first step with the horse, then the second, and the gates opened to meet the road. You did not look back. Not once.
The ride home took two weeks. It met you with quiet stillness. Familiar walls, the smell of earth and old wood, the faces of the servants — everything was in its place.
The heavy ruby necklace was still on you.
A week passed. Seven days exactly.
You had almost forgotten the heat of the dragon prince’s presence when the letter arrived.
You recognized the seal at once: red wax with a dragon stamp — familiar and sharp, like him. You held the letter longer than usual, feeling the weight of each word, as if it might jump out at you.
You broke the seal and opened the letter slowly, almost as a ritual, afraid the words might escape with it.
My lady, You left our home without a word, and I did not stop you. It was not forgetfulness or carelessness, but because I thought it right. You are free in your rooms and under your father’s roof. I do not intend to limit you, nor to demand a reply before the time is right. But do not think my silence is refusal. The dragon does not turn from decisions once made. It chooses — and it holds to the end. So do I. I do not let go of what I have chosen. You will have time — enough to get used to what is inevitable. Do not waste it. Wear the necklace. ⸺ Aerion of House Targaryen.
You read the letter slowly at first, then again, pausing on every line. The words, sharp and precise, left no doubt. No request, no apology.
In each line, his strong confidence and need for control shone, but between the lines, you felt something else — a desperate need to own what would not yield.
You folded the letter carefully, held it to the flame for a moment, and then let it go. The paper caught fire, the edges curled, and the writing melted away into ash.
You did not reply.
Because, for the first time in all this, the choice was yours alone.
The sixth time — when he succeeded.
Aerion sat in his chambers. The stone walls were cold and hard, but the soft candlelight glimmered on the armor in the corners. The room was quiet — broken only by the fire crackling and the faint scrape as he moved in his chair.
His fingers held the parchment, the letter he had sent to you a week ago.
The letter that hadn't been answered.
The room smelled of wax, iron, and the faint bitterness of the candle oil.
Had he been too eager? Aerion had poured all his will into not riding to your lands, into not locking you in his rooms.
A soft knock broke the silence. Aerion stood, the chains on his sword clinking lightly.
“My prince,” said a servant, looking down, “Prince Maekar asks for you.”
Aerion nodded and stepped to the door. The stone floor groaned under his weight. He waited as Maekar entered, calm and careful, not wanting to disturb the quiet tension of the room.
“The lord of the lands nearby, your lady’s father, asks for a marriage of respect,” Maekar said, his voice steady, respectful. “He invites our house to discuss the match.”
Aerion straightened, shoulders back, chin high. His eyes, sharp and cold, looked at his father with clear determination. Around his neck glimmered the same necklace he had once given you, the gems shining in the candlelight.
The next time you met, you sat at the great feast table. Your father, proud and pleased, kept signaling servants to refill the wine.
Aerion sat almost next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. He kept his back straight, his gaze calm, like a dragon watching its prey.
When the conversation turned to the affairs of common folk, you leaned slightly toward him and smiled. “So, you really are my visitor.”
He smirked. “And you said you hid from them. Yet, look where we are.”
You give a quiet smile, sensing his attempt at casual ease, though the small curve of his lips and the fire in his eyes betray him. You glance at the necklace he once gave you — the cold sparkle of Valyrian gems in the candlelight. He speaks no words of feeling, no pleading, no asking. Yet every line of his face, every look, makes it clear — he is more determined than ever.
“And now?” you asked.
He looked straight at you, calm and warm. “Now, you will be the wife of a dragon.”
Slowly, he touched your hand under the table, weaving his fingers with yours.
The voices at the table rose again. Prince Baelor laughed at some joke of your father’s, but Aerion’s eyes remain fixed only on you.
