[yeobong]

🧵 EMS! ★ s/her ★ 27 ★ main: @dexkki (∪ ◡ ∪) 🍵

[sipofchai]

scrambled (nsft ryland grace/reader, wc 16k)

Summary: You fell head over heels for Ryland Grace when you were twelve and he was thirteen. You let him break your heart when you were eighteen and he was nineteen (and an asshole). Now you're thirty-four. Now you're single, and determined to stay that way. Now you know better than to expect anything more from him than friendship, and advice, and maybe some sperm while you're at it?

(or: the one where you are done with dating, and want to have a kid, and ask your best and oldest friend if he'd be willing to contribute. With or without a turkey baster.)

Tags: childhood friends to lovers, pining, breeding, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, piv sex, multiple rounds, multiple orgasms, breeding, reader has a vagina, bff!olesya ilyukhina, background ilyukhina/stratt, background colt seavers/ryland grace twin propaganda

A/N: 18+ only! this is part 1 of a 2-3 part series. it can be read as a standalone, but if you want a happy ending you'll have to wait. that said, it's very much romcom vibes - not at ALL like my other Ryland piece - and they WILL kiss eventually. Special s/o to @collarado for letting me holler in their dms and also suggesting moments like 'considerate ryland offering to finger you' and 'ryland eats it from the back' (everyone cheers)

Taglist: @evastrattapologist67 @shittyprofilebutfuckit @mensbestfriend @keigohawks

ao3 link

“I’m having a baby," you say without preamble, dropping your purse on the table at the same time you drop into your chair.

Olesya looks up from her menu like you’ve just announced you bought a one-way ticket to Mars.

"Not with Mark," she says. "No, no, you cannot be having a baby with Mark. I leave you alone for a week and you decide to have baby with—”

"No.” You shake your head emphatically, as though this will somehow erase the way you conducted yourself over the course of your most recent breakup (during which Olya was on the receiving end of many a late-night drunken wallowing session), and try to free yourself from the six inches of cushion you’ve sunken into. It’s at least better than the reclaimed-driftwood-hightop-stools at the last trendy brunch popup she chose. “Not Mark. Not anyone. I’m done with men."

"Thank God. You have terrible taste. Better to give up entirely." You let this slide, though it feels a bit rich coming from someone who has been going steady with her direct supervisor for the past six months (after six months of a generationally messy on-again-off-again thing). “If you schedule appointment for Tuesday or Friday, I can drive.”

“Appointment?”

“Yeah, appointment. Baby appointment. This week, next week. Unless you just want to try DIY first?” She holds up her mimosa flute, hands it to you, pours a little, takes it back, takes a sip, considers. “Mm. Not so strong.” She hands it back to you and fills it so much that a little hill of liquid rises above the lip. “Double dose. For safety."

You bring your mouth to the glass and de-meniscus the mimosa—which, for the record, is very strong—and shake your head. “I’m not pregnant right now,” you clarify. “I’ve decided I’m going to get pregnant. On purpose.”

She squints at you. “Why would you do that.”

“I want a baby.” You hate adages about biological clocks. That said, yours is currently ticking like a bomb. “And I think I’ve reached the age where all of the men available in the dating pool are…” You shudder.

You have dated and dated and dated, and at thirty-four you’re pretty certain you’ve seen all the kinds of men the Bay Area has to offer. Divorced men. Unemployed men. Silicon Valley wunderkinds who look at you and your non-STEM degree (and your very successful private law practice, thank you very much) with poorly veiled disdain. Tall, plain men with an abundance of options and a deficit of personality; short, beautiful men who compensate for the personality with a lack of empathy that borders on psychopathy. You have dated nice men and cruel men and boring men and self-interested men, and, at the end of the day, not one none of them ever had enough redeeming qualities to make you want to stay.

“I just can’t do it anymore,” you settle for saying. “There’s only so many times I can get ready for a first date, redoing my lipstick a dozen times, listening to the same Olivia Dean song on loop, trying to talk myself out of flaking last-minute because I know the sex is going to be bad. I’m too much of an adult to be acting like that.”

“No.” She shakes her head emphatically, pouring you both more booze. You have yet to even look at a menu, and somehow the pitcher is half empty. “You go about this all wrong. You go on dates from internet, from apps. App is for fling, fun, hookups. You refuse to try and date friend, date coworker, date neighbor—“

You shake your head. You have tried dating all of the above. You have weathered several rock bottoms in the aftermath. “I’m not trying to blow up my life, thanks. I like my life as is.”

“Yes, I know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You like your life, you love your life. This is why you want to add a tiny person with no sleep schedule who spends all your money.”

“I already have you for that.” She blows you a kiss, unrepentant. “But yes, a baby would be nice, too. I’ve thought about it. I’ve saved up. I bought, like, three bottles of prenatal gummies. Now I just need to, you know. Get some sperm.”

“Easy. Sperm is cheap.” She claps. “Tonight! I set you up with someone at trivia. Bang, boom, baby in nine months.”

“No, no, because we’ve been over this: trivia is a social circle I am a part of. Half the people at trivia are people I knew in high school, and the other half are people I’ve worked with—” You hold up a hand before she can protest. “—and I know, you are a beautiful anomaly, you and Eva, but most people aren’t so lucky. You know the rules.”

She tips her head back and groans. “You and your rules.” When she brings her head back up, it’s with a pout. “You ignore so many of my perfect, beautiful matches for your stupid rules.”

“My rules exist for a reason.”

“Yes, to keep you unhappy.” She shakes her head, waving a hand. “Fine, whatever—I match you with someone from my work.”

“I’ve worked with people from your work,” you remind her. The entire reason you met was because her engineering firm (because Eva specifically) hired you during a patent dispute. They ask you back from time to time.

“Someone new! Maybe he stays in town, maybe not. Low risk!”

“Too much risk.”

She scowls. “All risk is too much for you. Life is all risk. Baby is all risk. Anya is risking her life every five seconds.” She looks off in the distance—thinking about her niece, presumably, who is two years old and getting cuter by the day. She shrugs. “You know, maybe baby will be good for you.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll come to trivia. New guy will be there, I will be there—“

“Great. Want to give me some sperm?”

“Ha. Eva will be there. Grace will be there.”

Something in your head pauses. “Ryland's back?"

She points at you. “Ah!”

“What? No.” Your attempt at a casual laugh sounds unconvincing even to your ears. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just thought he wasn’t—Olya, that’s not what I meant, I thought he was still in L.A.—”

“He is back and he will be there and he will make puppy dog eyes at you like always, and you will ignore him because you are cruel.”

“I'm not—he won't—” You let out an exhale. Then you begin to tick off items on your fingers. “One, Ryland has a very nice girlfriend. And two, he does not make puppy dog eyes at me. That’s just how he looks.”

“Yes, how he looks at you.”

“Because he’s never stopped seeing me as his best friend’s annoying little sister,” you correct her. “It’s nostalgia. I told you, he took me to prom and he—I mean. You know, nothing happened.”

“Because he was stupid teenager. Now he is a stupid man, and you are a stupid woman—perfect. I’m a genius.”

“Did you miss the part where he has a girlfriend? I thought you liked Linda.”

“Eva likes Linda, and this is only because they know the same boring history facts.”

You snort in spite of yourself. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s true! And besides, you are just asking for sperm for baby, yes? Such an old friend, such a tiny favor, Linda can’t be mad about—”

“Olesya.” You give her a stern look. She looks back with the practiced innocence of a cat who’s already swallowed the canary and hasn't yet noticed the feathers stuck in its teeth. “No.”

“No trivia or no baby?”

“Yes trivia, no to whatever you're plotting.”

She sighs. “Fine, no to Grace. He can make puppy dog eyes at you across the bar while you talk to new work friend—”

“No setting me up with anyone.” You snap your menu shut, and flag a waiter. You can't continue this conversation—or, ideally, escape this conversation—without copious amounts of French toast. “It’s the twenty-first century, you know? They have websites now. Catalogs. Safe, discreet, easy. Like you said, sperm is cheap.”

-

As it turns out, sperm is really fucking expensive.

You scowl at the laptop, willing it to give you a different answer, but the calculations come out the same the fiftieth time as they did the fifth. A couple thousand dollars, minimum, and that’s if you use an anonymous donor. For someone vetted—God forbid, someone you might get to talk to—it can go up into five figures.

You put down your notebook and plant your head in your hands. 

You are, by many metrics, a successful woman. You live in a one-bedroom apartment, in San Francisco, alone. Many of your clients see you over video, so you can more or less set your day. You have no student loans, and enough savings set aside to pay for childcare, doctor’s visits, diapers, a nice stroller.

You do not have enough to cover all of that and a round of in vitro fertilization that might not even work.

You lift your head up. You’ve been buried in your laptop for so long, the sun has set, leaving the apartment almost entirely dark, save for your screen and for the kitchen clock blaring bright green above the stove. It’s seven forty-five.

Trivia starts at eight.

You sigh. You stand up and grab your keys.

-

Trivia night is the same as always, which is to say it’s at the same dingy bar, with the same sticky black floors and pockmarked dart boards and outdated drink menu as always. You’re pretty sure the bartenders have worked here since you were too young to set foot inside.

“You came!” Olya crows, slinging an arm around your neck as soon as the door shuts behind you. “Here. Two for one.”

You gently bat away the bottle she waves in your face. "I drove.”

“Fine.” She winds her arm through yours, walking you across the bar. “I’m setting up carpool home. You and Eva can be boring designated drivers together.”

“Ha, ha.” Your eyes scan the room. You tell yourself this isn’t on purpose, which is probably true, it’s normal to take stock of a room—but you’ve taken stock of this particular room almost weekly for the past year and a half, which means there really isn’t anything in it you haven’t seen, until your eyes reach a table in the back and see Eva Stratt talking to—

“See?" Olesya pinches your waist. You jump. "I told you he is back."

“Ow."

“Come talk. We’re running late, nothing to do but drink and talk, and you don’t even drink tonight.” She bumps her hip into yours. “Maybe not for nine months, if everything goes good, eh?”

You hip check her back. “Yeah. Maybe. It’s not looking too—"

You hear your name, and you look up.

The voice is familiar. The face is familiar, if slightly more tanned from a few weeks out of the San Francisco fog; the hair a little longer. The lopsided glasses, though—and the bright blue eyes behind them, and the mouth and the smile and the dimples that go with it—are the same as they were twenty years ago. 

“Ryland.” Your face is warm, which is definitely because you just walked through a crowded bar, and for no other reason. “Hi.”

“Hey.” He stands up, so quickly he almost knocks over his bottle on the table, and catches you in a warm, friendly hug that you survive mainly on autopilot.

“Hi. Hi.” The hug ends, and you wave at Eva, who waves back, and then look back up at him. “Hi. I, um, I thought you were still in L.A.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Colt got a last-minute gig this weekend, so. I came back a week early. But it was good. He’s good. Said to send you his best.”

Colt has always been sweet. Of the two, you’d have thought he’d be the one to ask you on a family-friend-pity-date to prom. Ryland was always stuck in his books, his scholarships, too convinced of his own genius to see you as anything but silly and young, and the arrogance only got worse with each subsequent visit home from college. It was almost jarring to meet him again, two years ago, when he moved back home to teach. Somehow the intervening decade had rendered him easygoing, and softer-spoken, and humble.

Mostly humble. Trivia night almost invariably makes teenage Ryland rear his ugly head.

“That’s good," you say. "I remember the accident was…you know. Good to hear he’s getting back into things.”

“Yeah.” His eyes dart from you, to Olya and Eva behind you, to the bar, then back to you. “Do you want a drink? I’m going for a refill.”

“Oh, I’m not—”

“Virgin drink for her,” Olesya shouts from where she is now seated, which is more on Eva’s lap than in the booth. You force your face to remain neutral, as opposed to the expression it wants to arrange itself into at hearing the word virgin used in reference to you around the man who notably did not take your actual virginity at your high school prom. “Real drink for me. Double vodka Redbull. And espresso for Eva.”

“Right. Just espresso, no martini,” he says, with an automaticness that suggests he’s had the same thing repeated at him ad nauseam for the better part of an hour. “Okay. You?”

You blink up at him. Then at Olya. She mouths GO at you, accompanied with some rather violent hand gestures, and just as Ryland is about to turn and see this you grab his arm and tug. “I’ll come with you!”

When you get to the bar, you glance back to furrow your brows at Olesya, who has switched to double thumbs up and a shit-eating grin.

You roll your eyes at her, then turn to Ryland, who’s somehow managed to flag down the bartender and order three drinks in the span of fifteen seconds. “I ordered for you.”

“Thanks.” You get comfortable on a barstool, and look up at him. “So. You’ve been back—”

“A few hours.”

“A few hours? And you still rallied for Saturday night dive bar trivia? We should be honored.”

“Couldn't miss it. Everyone in L.A. kept trying to talk to me about crystals and vibes and, like artisan surfboards. I need this.”

You widen your eyes. “Oh, you didn’t hear? It’s artisan surfboard night."

He plays along. "Really?" He gets an elbow up on the bar, resting his cheek on one hand.

"Wood grain patterns, wave height stats, foam density.”

“That is…even better. I’m well-versed now.”

“An expert, I’m sure.” Your eyes map out the geography of his face. You have seen dozens and dozens of versions of this face over the past thirty years or so. This version has a few new freckles, dusted across his nose. You know, from long summers spent hiking and cycling and calling first dibs on the rec center diving board, that those freckles sometimes reach down to his shoulders, his arms, his back. "Was the sun gorgeous?"

“Maybe." His eyes don't leave yours. You wonder if he's running the same mental math, the same diagrams, the same map. It's a rare thing, to know someone your whole life. "You know I’m a sucker for the fog.”

“Ugh. L.A. is wasted on you." Once you're finished scrunching up your nose in disapproval, you sigh. "I bet it was gorgeous. I should move there.”

“You shouldn't.”

“Why? Because I’m the last person in San Francisco who remembers your landline number by heart?" Drinks arrive, and he slides one over to you. It’s red, and fizzy, and has not one but two maraschino cherries. You point at it. “Is this a fucking Shirley Temple?”

“Hey," he says, sounding unbelievably sincere in his disappointment for a man who, between the ages of eight and eighteen, taught you every four-letter word you know. "Language.”

“I’m not one of your students, and did you order me a fucking Shirley Temple?”

He shrugs, and takes a sip of his beer. “It’s the most virgin drink there is.”

You squint at him. Then you reach forward and press a palm to his cheek—not slapping him, just smushing his face away from you (and probably smudging his glasses in the process). “I should throw this at you.”

“Hey, hey!” He catches your wrist. Your pulse does something funny. Your breath is not where its supposed to be. He doesn’t notice. “That's the thanks I get? You used to love those.”

“When I was twelve," you say, tugging your wrist away, "at my mom’s third wedding.” You don't remember a lot from middle school, but you remember that wedding.

He danced with you at that wedding.

The Cotton-Eye Joe, or something stupid like that—but then also a slow dance. Half of one. He’d seen you and Colt dancing and felt left out. You’d let him lead you across the floor, in your sparkly teal junior bridesmaid dress and patent leather shoes, and that might be the first time you remember having that twinkle in your chest, that glow. 

Thinking, so this is what a crush feels like.

He clinks his bottle against your glass, shaking you out of the memory. “Good news, I’m pretty sure they haven’t changed the recipe since then.” He lifts his bottle. "To things that last."

Something tugs at your chest. “To things that last.”

You put the drink down once you’re positive that your face isn’t doing anything unhinged, which is to say after you’ve downed at least a quarter of it. When you look up again, you find he’s already looking at you, with an expression you are momentarily unable to place. It's not expectant, really. Not teasing. Just warm. Watching.

If he were aiming it at anyone else, you might even label it puppy dog eyes.

But it's Ryland, and you know Ryland. You know old Ryland, and you know this Ryland, and you know that this particular look on both of them is one of the kindest possible condescension. It means I met this girl when she was seven and I was eight, and I will see her that way forever. It means friendly, and nostalgic. It means nothing at all like what you wish it did.

You clear your throat and raise your glass. "Looks like twelve-year-old me had good taste after all.”

-

Trivia night ends the same as always, which is to say that Olya gets drunk enough to start heckling the opposition, Ryland nearly knocks over several chairs in his fervor to win, and Eva quietly leads the team to a sweeping victory. By the end of the night, the chaos has settled into a quiet hum, the room buzzing and buzzed off success and adrenaline and cheap beer.

You have not had anything to drink at all, and even you feel a little bit dizzy with the night. This could plausibly be explained by the rush of winning forty consecutive weeks in a row. It could be plausibly explained by any number of things aside from the actual cause.

You are trying very hard not to name the actual cause.

You do allow yourself to name several things around it, like: a high-five that turned into a hand squeeze that you felt long after he’d let your hand go; a smile, long and lopsided and devastating, every time a category came up he knew you’d be good at; a second Shirley Temple, ordered for you and handed to you seconds before he stood up to answer a question (at Trivia Night. Where all the questions are written down on paper. He is hopeless, and you are worse for liking it).

You are mid-naming-things-around-it, and midway to the door, when Olesya calls your name. You turn with a sigh. “Yes,” you say, with no small amount of reluctance, “I can help carpool.”

“Perfect. Every other car, full, you just need to take one person.” She calls back over her shoulder. “Grace!” She regards to you with a twinkle in her eye that you are all too familiar with. 

Your eyes widen. “Olya,” you hiss. “Olya, no—”

“All the other cars are full,” she says, pouting. “And he is on the way to your house.”

“That’s fine, I have no actual objections to that, I’m just objecting to the implication.”

“What implication?” she asks, and you don’t have time to answer because he is here and he has on a yellow raincoat and a beanie, and you hate how hard you are smiling.

“Hey,” he says. His cheeks are still a little pink from the thrill of beating another team at Who Knows The Most Useless Niche Fun Facts. His hair is a disaster. He looks between you and Olesya. “Everything’s good?”

“I found you a ride!” Olesya beams.

“Oh, I can bike home.”

“You biked?” you ask.

“It’s raining,” she points out.

“I have a raincoat.”

“He has a raincoat,” you say to Olya.

“I’m too drunk for this,” she says, before kissing you on the cheek and absconding with Eva.

You look at Ryland. He looks at you. “I really can bike home.”

The thunder is so sudden and so loud, you practically jump into him. When it’s passed, your shoulder is against his chest, and his arm is around your waist, and you blink and you breathe and then you, both of you, take a step back.

You clear your throat and pull your car keys out of your pocket. “Same address?”

-

You shouldn’t have been worried. Driving with Ryland is never bad, even if you haven’t done it in a few months. You amicably bicker about the music for a bit, and then talk about Colt (healed from his accident, back out on his first stunt gig since, apparently plotting to win back The One Who Got Away), and about your brother (teaching law on the East Coast), and your mother (flirting with golf caddies in Orlando), and about Los Angeles. You talk about your job, and his. Students. Books. Friends. The weather. And when the conversation fizzles out, it’s into a comfortable silence. 

The comfortable silence lasts approximately a minute and a half before he says, “I have to confess something.”

Your brows lift. “Oh?”

“This isn’t just a carpool. It’s a carpool with ulterior motives.”

“Thrilling start. Go on.”

"Olesya asked me to talk you out of having a baby?”

You slam on the break. You’re at a stop sign, but still. “Oh my God.”

He has his hand up on the ceiling, looking at you with—alarm, maybe? It’s difficult to tell, because the car is dark, and also because you’re trying very hard only to look at him through your peripheral vision. On account of the fact that you’re driving. Obviously. “She was pretty drunk, so, uh, maybe I misheard?” He pauses. You say nothing. He rushes to continue, “I said it was an overstep."

"Yeah."

"But she insisted."

"Okay."

"So if she asks, can you please tell her I tried? Before she sics her scary girlfriend on me?”

You snort out a laugh at that. “Yep,” you say. Then, quietly, through your teeth, “I will definitely tell her.”

Two more stop signs pass in silence before he speaks again. “Congratulations, by the way." You look over just long enough to make eye contact, or at least make contact with the glimmer of streetlight against his glasses. His face is unreadable behind them. "About the baby. Or condolences if it’s, uh, if it’s complicated.”

You hum. “It's complicated.”

“Ah.”

You realize how that sounds, and rush to continue, “Not complicated like that. There’s no father.” Does that sound worse? You think that sounds worse. “I’m not currently pregnant. Actually, I’ve sworn off men.”

He laughs. It’s brief. “Entirely?”

“Yes. Thank God.”

“Oh.”

“Except it turns out I do need one last thing from them in order to even do the single mom thing.” You roll to a stop in front of a red light, and lift one hand off the wheel to run back through your hair. “Who knew sperm could be so expensive?”

"Makes sense. They pay a lot."

You give him a look, half-delighted, half-inquisitive, and he sighs. "Ryland,” you say.

“I thought about it.”

“Ryland.”

In grad school. For the money."

"Ryland Grace."

"I didn't go through with it!” he protests. “I chickened out. I didn't like the idea of having a kid out there somewhere that I didn't know anything about. No way of knowing the parents, if they were any good or not."

"I get that." You purse your lips. "I also don't really love the idea of combining my DNA with a stranger's. I think if I was adopting it would be different, because that's a whole, real person who exists already. But that's expensive. And then sperm is also expensive, and IVF, and just, you know. Everything. I'm starting to think it'd be easier to just walk up to someone in real life and ask if they'd be willing to contribute."

“Contribute?” He snickers. “What, with a turkey baster?"

"At this point? Sure.” You flip the blinker, check your blind spot. “It's either that or the old fashioned way. You know, traditional."

He chokes.

You sightlessly grab your water bottle out of the cup holder, and pass it to him. He takes a long, long swig. The next time you pass by a street lamp, his face reappears redder than usual. "Right,” he says, then clears his throat. “Right, no, yeah, turkey baster's so—impersonal. Traditional's probably better. I'm a big fan of tradition."

“Would you have gone through with it, do you think? In grad school. If it was more like that."

"Maybe?” He considers it. “I don't know. I don't know if I was ready conceptually back then, for the idea of a kid. Too immature."

"Yeah," you agree. "You were kind of a dick."

"Hey." You give him just enough eye contact for him to think it over. "Yeah," he admits with a chuckle. "Yeah, I was."

"What about now? At the very mature, entirely un-dick-ish age you are now?”

A pause. “It would depend on who was asking."

Your eyebrows lift. “Really?” You keep your eyes very much on the road. “And how does Linda feel about that?"

“We broke up."

"Oh. I'm sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

You let the sound of the blinker fill the car for a few seconds before you speak again. “If you ever need to talk about it…"

"Not much to talk about,” he says. “She said she felt like I was only ever half-in the relationship. Like I was, uh, 'always looking for something better.'"

"Were you?"

"Yeah. I think so."

You whistle. “Ouch."

"It's fine. It was right before I went to L.A., so it gave me some distance. Time to process, figure out what matters to me."

“Figure out what ‘better’ you were looking for?”

He smiles at the next streetlight. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Right before he went to L.A. Two months, then, give or take—right after you ended things with Mark—which means they were together for three. You dislike that the calculation comes so easily. You dislike having to acknowledge, even to yourself, that this is something you have tracked.

"Gotcha." You try to keep your tone light. "I get it. I had a similar…I, uh, went through a breakup around then, too."

"I know.”

It’s the last thing either of you says for a bit.

Before you know it, you’re pulling in front of his house—his childhood house, the one he and Colt inherited. The one he lives in alone, now, since Colt settled in L.A.. It looks the same as it did when you were a kid. Same driveway, same bushes. Same bike out front. Same blue paint (peeling in the back, you assume, because they’d run out of sealant three-quarters of the way through and never got around to visiting Home Depot for more).

“Well,” he says, “this is me.” He turns, and you’re expecting a goodbye, maybe an awkward cross-cupholder-hug, but instead he just says, “You know, the landline number is actually the same.”

“555-7827.” You tip your head forward, resting it on the wheel. “God, there’s so much important shit I could be using that brain space for.”

“You can always call. If you ever need.” He gestures vaguely. “Anything."

"Anything?” You tilt your head. “Dangerous offer."

"Yeah, well. It's you.” With that, he unbuckles, and opens the door. “Goodnight.”

“I—goodnight,” you say, a little flummoxed, and a little flummoxed as to why you feel flummoxed.

He shuts the door. You watch him walk, to be polite, because you watch all of your friends to make sure they get into the door safely—but then he pauses halfway up and shouts something. Your name. You lower the window.

“Anything at all,” he calls. “You just. You just have to ask."

“Great!” You give him a thumbs up. “Thanks! Goodnight!”

He waves, and reaches the door, and he’s gone. You sit and look at the house. Then you sit and look at your hands. Then you shake your head at yourself, and you put the car back into drive, and you pull away.

-

It isn’t until several minutes into the drive home that you understand the implication.

This inspires a thorough self-inventory that probably would be better off done in the quiet of your home, rather than half-assed while driving; but alas, you are single-minded. And impatient.

There's the part of you that thinks this man is tall, and brilliant, and funny, and sweet, and has a great head of hair, and all of those sound like pretty good odds to gamble with on your future child.

There's the part of you that has wanted him, for years, for reasons that have nothing to do with wanting a kid.

Finally—and, though you hate to admit it to yourself, maybe most importantly—there's the part of you that hopes that maybe, if you were to sleep with him, just once, the wanting would leave and burn up and be gone, and you'd finally, finally be able to get Ryland Grace out of your system once and for all, the way you've been able to get every other man out of your system. Also, the excuse of the pregnancy might make it so that you could do this without entirely blowing up your friendship, the way you've done so many times before.

You go through this cycle of thoughts several times. You go through it on the drive; as you park; up the stairs, up the elevator, through fumbling with your keys and shutting the door behind you.

Ultimately, you decide to sleep on it. This isn’t the kind of thing you rush into. You could be misreading his offer. You could be misreading your own emotional capacity for doing this. You could wake up tomorrow and stumble upon the one sperm donation catalog in the history of humankind that would cost you less than two thousand dollars. You are very sensible and very logical about all of these possibilities, and several others, as you cross your apartment and sit down on the couch and pull your phone out of your bag and dial. 

He picks up after two rings.

"It's me,” you say, before he even greets you. “I'm asking.”

"You're asking me to—"

"Help me have a baby. With or without a turkey baster.”

He pauses for five seconds.

Your brain stretches this out to five years, give or take. Long enough that you barrel forward with the rest of the points you’ve come up with in response to any questions he might have.

“I know it's a big ask. You can totally say no. But you should know that I would never ask for money or anything, I can draw up a contract, it really is just a question of sperm. I mean, you wouldn't have to be involved at all post, um, post-conception. Unless you wanted to be an uncle, or a godparent—if you wanted to be a godparent, I guess you could duke it out with Olya—or, well, you can have multiple godparents, right? But also you wouldn't even have to see the baby if you didn't want to, and we wouldn't have to tell anyone, and—”

"I'll do it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah." He says it so casually. Like it's easy. No big deal, just a little sperm between friends. "Just letting you know, though, I have a very strict BYOB policy."

You puzzle over that for a half-second before your face splits in a grin. “Bring your own baster.”

"Bring your own baster,” he repeats, sounding like he’s smiling just as wide.

"Okay. I'll add it to my records.”

“Records?”

"Yeah, I have all kinds of lists and—less for you. More for me. You don't really have to do anything, except. Um. Donate.”

“Donate.”

“That. Oh, and get tested. I did last week, it’s easy—”

“Okay."

"It's not that I don't trust you, or anything, it's just, like, protocol—"

"That makes sense. I can do that tomorrow.”

“I can pay for it.”

“Don’t worry about it. I was due for a test, anyway. Good to go regularly, it’s been—um. Anyway. It’ll come back clean.”

“Great. Well. If you go tomorrow, that should be back in a few days, and then. Are you free Friday?”

“Friday…” There’s a pause, and some frantic shuffling. Pages being flipped through. “Friday I'm on detention duty, so I get off around four. Three forty five.” Another rustle of paper. “And then parent teacher conferences at eight. But I have to stop home in between anyway, so. I’ll be around.”

"Could I come meet you at four? Four thirty? At your house? I'll be s—”

"Yes,” he says, quickly. “Yes, I can do four thirty. Yes."

You pause. “Great. Okay, uh, pencil me in for four thirty to four forty-five.”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“I mean, really, it doesn't even have to be that long,” you joke. “If you get yourself close enough, by the time I get there, you can basically come in me and then I'll just be on my way."

There’s a long, long silence. Finally, he says, “If that's how you want to do it, yeah. Great."

"Great."

"Great."

“Great.” You swallow. “So. I’ll see you Friday. At four thirty.”

“Four thirty,” he says. “I’ll be ready.”

-

You pull up on his street at four twenty.

You park down the block. You sit there for exactly five minutes, in spite of the fact that you see a light in the windows, his bike sitting out front. You feel like a stalker.

At four twenty-five, you pull down the sun visor and stare at yourself. You put on a fresh coat of lipstick, which then immediately makes you feel very silly, so you wipe it all off. Then you dab it back on. You pinch at your cheeks. You look down at the dress you decided to wear. It was an entirely work-from-home day, mostly paperwork, so you wore a blazer over a dress and now you’re just wearing the dress, and it’s really the kind of dress you’d wear to, like, a date, which means it is lower cut up top and shorter at the hem than most dresses you’d be wearing on a work day. It’s more of a sun dress, really. So a picnic date dress. You feel both over and underdressed. 

And also you’re wet. On purpose. As much as anyone can be wet on purpose—you’d gotten a package from Olya yesterday, with the note attached, in lieu of sperm, and opened it to find some kind of fertility-promoting lube. Which, sure, it was a joke. And yeah, sure, you used some before you left home. 

You think about what you’d said on the phone. If you get yourself close enough, by the time I get there, you can basically come in me and then I'll just be on my way. You’d meant it only half as a joke. You’ve dated enough men to keep your expectations low. You’re not going to assume he’d waste a ton of time on foreplay. He’s doing you a favor, and he has work tonight, and if he’s in a rush then at least you’ll be more ready than with just a little spit and some half-hearted fingering.

You’re wearing stockings, too, nude pantyhose which seems…you don’t, know, silly? Try-hard? One layer too many? You glance at the clock—four twenty-seven—and look out both windows, reach under your skirt, and begin pulling them off, kicking off your shoes with a muffled curse under your breath. Your underwear starts coming off with them, which you fight and then go along with and then decide to commit to. Your skirt is long enough. You’d promised him this would be quick and easy, right?

You regret it immediately. But it’s four twenty-eight on the dot, and you are allergic to being late, so you shove tights and underwear alike into your glove compartment and drive the twenty feet to his house and pull over and get out.

Up the sidewalk. Up to the porch. You knock.

You wait.

It's colder than it was when you left work. You're really feeling the absence of your stockings right about now, not to mention your underwear, and you're approximately two seconds away from going back to the car to get both when the door swings open. 

"Hey.” 

"Hi," you say.

"Hi."

He's still in his work clothes. You’ve never seen him in his work clothes, actually, and it’s doing wild things to the this man is gainfully employed and good with kids, must procreate part of your brain. It doesn’t help that he looks significantly more disheveled than you would expect after a day of teaching sound waves. He’s breathing faster than usual, chest rising and falling against the blue linen shirt, which is only half-tucked at the bottom, at which point your gaze reaches his pants and you suddenly understand all of the above.

“Hi.” You nod in his general direction. "You, um. You got ready."

“I.” His face is flushed behind his glasses, which are maybe the most properly horizontal you’ve ever seen them. You expect that to last all of five minutes. “You…sorry.” He shakes his head suddenly, as if trying to shake something loose, and the things he shakes loose are his glasses. Five seconds, then. “Come in.” You follow him through the door, shutting it quietly behind you, your focus split fifty-fifty between trying not to imagine him getting himself ready and trying to keep yourself from leaking. You are failing miserably at both.

He’s ahead of you, back turned to you, re-rolling up his sleeves. They were already unbuttoned, but shoved up rather than rolled, messy, like he’d gotten home later than planned and immediately got to work doing—whatever it is he did that you are strictly forbidding yourself from imagining.

“Chinese,” he says, nodding at a bag on the kitchen counter. His hands move over his sleeves, four neat folds on each side, and his forearms are flexing and he’s still visibly straining against the zipper of his pants. “I ordered extra. In case you didn't get a chance to eat. And then the contract you sent over, and the test results, too. I printed them out, in case you want a copy. For your records. I went to the library, though, so it switches from colored ink to black and white halfway through. Didn’t seem like the kind of thing I should be printing out at school, ha.”

Two things hit you at once: the first, that you are not going to get him out of your system with one fuck. If anything, one fuck might make things worse. The second is that you absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, kiss him, because if you kiss him you’ll almost certainly fall in love with him and if you fall in love with him your life will be ruined.

"Right. Thank you. Right.” You are looking all around the living room—there’s the couch you used to build pillow forts next to, there’s the carpet the two of you melted crayons into, there’s the dining room, opening into the kitchen, where you helped his mom bake cookies, inevitably ending up with more flour on your head than in the bowl—in a bid to avoid looking at him, because you have a hunch that if you look at him and/or stop talking he is going to try to kiss you (because that would be the normal way to start this interaction, versus the objectively insane way you've decided to go about it) and if he doesn't kiss you you suspect one look at the bemused brows-above-the-glasses expression on his face will make you kiss him, which you are not allowed to do.

“So how was—”

“I left my underwear in the car. Long story.” The story being that you decided on a whim to leave your underwear in the car and now are regretting it immensely. “And I already got myself ready, and I don't want anything to—so we should probably just, um, take care of business first, if you're all good to go—is here okay?”

Here being his dining room table, which you approach and then smooth your hands across and then bend over, pressing your cheek to the wood in order to have a more concrete reason not to be able to look at him.

He laughs. “You don’t want the bed?”

“Nope, this works.”

“Oh.” He pauses a second, like he’s waiting for you to move. When you keep your face resolutely smushed against the table, he seems to get the memo. “I—alright.”

You feel, more than hear, his footsteps, soft across the floor.

“You said you’re—that you got yourself ready,” he finally says. He sounds close enough to touch. You don’t move a muscle. “How ready?”

“Ready enough.” You twitch a finger, gesturing. “I, um, I used this thing Olya gave me, this pre-seed thing.”

“Pre-seed.”

“It’s just fancy lube, I think.” You bite your bottom lip to try and stop rambling. You cannot stop rambling. “But it's supposed to be good for, like, sperm motility, or something, and I figured if I inserted it ahead of time then you wouldn’t be late for your next thing. Four thirty to four forty-five, remember.”

It’s a weak attempt at a joke. You’re not sure it lands. “I’m not in a rush," he says.

“Your Chinese food will get cold.”

He pauses. “I might be in a little bit of a rush.” You laugh, surprised. His voice is warm when he continues, “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m not worrying about you. I’m worrying about your food.”

“You don’t have to worry about me or the food. I can worry enough for the both of us. Okay?”

You inhale, you count to four, you exhale. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He claps. It’s not a very loud clap, but it still takes you by surprise. “So, um, on that note—not that it’s a worry, it’s not a worry, not worried at all, just noting—if that’s all you. If you just used the lube and didn’t.” The pause that follows lasts about twelve seconds, which you know because you’re still box breathing in order to not hyperventilate. “You might need to, um, warm up. A little. For it to be comfortable.”

"Oh. Cool.” You think about ring fingers, and shoes, and height, and all kinds of things that don’t actually have any proven causative correlation with dick size, and then you think about the tent in his pants when he was half-hard just inside the door, and you conclude that of course, of course this is the way this is shaking out, because you have the worst good luck of anyone on the planet. “Cool, cool, cool. That’s fine. I can warm myself up more. Let me just.”

“I could. I could do that for you.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it. You open it again. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he says. “Can I anyway?”

“Sure.” Your brain is producing approximately three thousand thoughts per second, none of them cohesive. “If that’s okay with you. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. Here?”

You nod. The table is cool and smooth beneath your cheek.

There is stillness and stillness and stillness and then, there—his fingers, gentle, just the tips on the back of your thigh. He starts halfway up, just kissing the hem of your dress, and then his fingers travel up and under, and they trace over where your underwear would be, and you know when he reaches the slickness that’s reached your inner thighs because he pauses.

One agonizing moment passes before his fingers continue their upward path, dipping slightly in at your entrance. You make a concentrated effort to exhale silently. You’d estimate that you succeed about sixty percent.

“You’re so…” He takes a deep breath. When he speaks again, it’s very carefully casual. “You’re wet already. That’s good. That’s great.”

You blink. “Did you just.”

“What?”

“You just used the encouraging-middle-school-teacher voice. To tell me good job for being wet. During a sexual encounter."

“Sexual encounter? I thought this was strictly business.” That gets a laugh out of you. A quiet one. You can hear him smiling, not unkindly, when he continues, “You seemed like you could use the encouragement. You’re a little nervous."

"I'm very nervous."

"I know. That’s okay.” He finds your clit. You lose the battle to keep silent. Your face flushes immediately, which he can't see, but maybe he can sense it somehow, because he murmurs, “I’ve got you." 

That just makes things worse, actually, because you feel his voice, low and sincere, run down your spine like a hand. And then he actually does stroke a hand down your back, and you wonder if maybe this is some great cosmic punishment for a past life. He’s not even doing it to turn you on, you don’t think, just to comfort you—but when his hand brushes your neck it does something to you that isn't comfort, and you clench down and whimper for lack of anything to clench down onto. “Sorry,” you mumble into the table.

“Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know. This is just—I’m being so embarrassing.”

 “It’s just me,” he says (which is, of course, part of the problem). “I’ve seen you embarrass yourself plenty of times.”

You snicker. “Hey.”

“Besides. Uh.” He swallows. “Trust me. If you could see yourself from here, you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

Before you have a chance to process that, his hand slides back to where you’re wettest.

“I’m going to—” He runs one finger over your entrance, then pauses. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” 

It’s more breath than sound. But he hears it, and, sure enough, he slips one finger into you. It’s an easy slide, wet as you are, but he’s still careful about it. Slow. 

“You’re—” His voice is different. Strained. “I think you can take two. If that’s—”

“Yes. Yeah, that’s—ah.” Two fingers fit, but it’s—a lot. Snug. 

“Relax for me?” He angles his wrist to get a thumb back on your clit, and you flutter around him before relaxing enough for him to let him work the two fingers in and out of you. “There you go. Good job.”

“You’re—”

“That wasn’t the teacher voice, that was the I-have-two-fingers-inside-you-and-you-feel—you feel—” He breathes out, and it sounds unsteady as you feel. “That was, that’s what that voice was. Can I—” He curls his fingers inside you, and you let out a broken moan. “God. Can I. Can I use my mouth.”

You’ve never wanted anything more in your life. “You don’t have to.”

“You keep saying that. Can I please, can I please use my mouth.”

“Yes,” you say, and he gets on his knees so quickly you’re shocked he doesn’t bruise them in the process.

The hand on your lower back runs down, crossing the border from skirt to skin, smoothing up the fabric to reveal you more fully. He keeps his fingers in you for a few seconds more, slow, lazy, dragging them in and out, in and out. Like he’s watching them. He curls them again, deliberately, and when he pulls them back out fully you barely hold back a sob.

There’s a long moment of stillness.

His one hand is still on your ass. His other hand is nowhere at all, and he’s gone silent, which is terrifying.

You use a finger to brush a strand of hair out of your eyes. “Everything good back there?”

“Mmph.” It sounds like his mouth is full, and then, with a quiet pop, not, and your brain shorts out because you realize that’s the sound of him sucking you off his fingers. “Yeah. Yeah. I just.” He presses a kiss to the back of your leg, to the crease where your ass meets your thigh, then pulls back again, and he’s gotten both hands on you, now, and he does what you can only describe as spreading you. 

Another silence. If it were anyone else, you would feel more exposed than you’ve ever been in your life. It’s him, though, which simultaneously makes it better and much, much worse. 

“You,” he finally says, which sounds like the beginning of a sentence until it becomes clear there’s nothing to follow. He kisses your other thigh, open-mouthed, slow, then rests his forehead against it, and breathes. “Fuck.” He says it quietly. Soft. Like it’s just for him.

“Language,” you say.

You mean it as a joke. You mean it as a reference. You mean it in a way that’s meant to break some of the tension and elicit a snarky response, so you are definitely not expecting the next thing he does with his mouth to be pressing his tongue flat against you.

He licks you from your clit to your entrance. The unexpectedness of it, the warmth and wetness and the intensity of it, has your knees buckling so much that you grab the table. You make some kind of sound that you cannot allow yourself to reflect too much upon without feeling intense embarrassment. You make an even more embarrassing sound when he does it again. 

He pulls back, and you put a lot of effort into not protesting. The effort is in vain.

“What was that?” You can hear the unbearably smug grin. “I thought you were telling me to watch my tongue.”

“I wasn’t. I.” You breathe slowly, trying to collect your thoughts.

You get about fifteen percent of the way there before he tightens his grip on your hips, pulling you back to meet his mouth so that he can rub his tongue back and forth against you. You let him press you up onto your toes. Your hips tilt further, allowing him closer, and you can feel the tip of his nose nudge against your entrance at the same time his mouth properly closes around your clit.

You have multiple degrees. You pay taxes, you run a business, you live alone in a one-bedroom in San Fran-fucking-cisco, and you have enough in savings that you can decide to get pregnant, on purpose, without considering yourself financially irresponsible. You are a very respectable person. None of that is reflected in the wail you let out as he sucks harder.

His hands are tight around your legs. His face is so firmly pressed into you, you would wonder if he needs to breathe, if you had any fireable neurons left to spend wondering things like that. You are beginning to have trouble breathing. The air keeps catching in your chest, in a building rhythm, and your knuckles are beginning to go white from how tightly you are gripping the table. 

“Ry—” You can’t even get out his full name.

He doesn’t stop. He doubles down.

You don’t know how long you spend there, bent over, unable to do anything but tremble as he sucks at your clit. Just as you’re close, he pulls away—but before you can say anything about it, his tongue is inside you, and he’s reached a hand around your thighs to get at your clit from the other side, and you think you might be making sounds in tandem with the thrust of his tongue, but your blood is rushing in your ears a bit, and your toes are curling against the floor, and everything narrows and narrows and narrows until—

He says something, you think. Tries to, but you can’t understand it, because his tongue is inside you and also because you’re coming so hard that you’re probably going to get a cramp in your right foot.

He doesn’t give you any relief. He lets you clench around his tongue, for a while, then pulls out while you’re still going to get his mouth on your clit again, relentless, arms wrapping around you tight to keep you from squirming away, as though you have anywhere to go, as though you aren’t trapped, totally and entirely, between the table and him. 

You come back to yourself in pieces.

You’re aware of your breath, audible, ragged; your hands, tingling; your right foot, uncurling just in time to avoid a cramp. You’re aware of his arms, steady; his mouth, gentling on you, pulling away entirely. You make a broken sound into the table. 

Something nudges at your entrance, and it’s his fingers, three of them, and they slide into you like its nothing, setting off another wave of aftershocks, and he’s slower than ever as he fucks you open on them. “Look at that,” he says, satisfied. 

Your face is warm. The mahogany is cool against it as you press your forehead back into the table. “You’re evil.”

“You’re perfect,” he replies, and you have absolutely nothing to say to that.

He pulls his fingers out as the aftershocks ebb. You don’t have any time to respond in any direction before he replaces them again with his tongue. 

Your hips buck against the table. Your knees genuinely threaten to give out; you’re not entirely sure they don’t, you can’t tell, because his hands are back on your legs more firmly than ever.

“Ryland,” you choke out.

“Mmph.”

“Ryland,” you repeat, more desperately, reaching back with one hand to push against the top of his head. “I’m good. I’m—I’m ready, I’m ready.”

He shakes his head, pulling back only to kiss your leg again. “Just a little longer.” He’s scattering kisses up and down your thighs, now, across the crease, fingers coming back to press against your clit. “Just a little longer, you taste so good, a little more—I bet I could make you come again like this—”

“Are you going to put a baby in me or not?” You’re still a little breathless, but you get enough of a challenge into it that he pauses. “I thought this was strictly business.”

He huffs out a laugh against you. “Right.” Because he’s the worst, he licks you again, circles at your clit, laughs at the way your hips jerk from the overstimulation, before grabbing the edge of the table and pulling himself up to standing.

You hear a buckle, a belt, a zipper. A pause.

You think about how long it’s been since you met him at the door. How everything that’s happened so far has been pretty much exclusively for you. “Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask, lowering your voice.

You know what his answer will be. You’ve never once had a man turn down a blowjob, which is fine, because you don’t really mind blowjobs, most of the time, and for some reason there is a part of you that’s actually incredibly eager to get this specific man’s cock in your mouth, all of which is why you are entirely unprepared to hear him say, “No.”

You pause. “Oh?”

“I’m good.” He steps forward, the length of him brushing against your ass, and you understand just how good.

“Just from—”

“Yeah.” He uses his hand to line himself up, and you feel him at your entrance, the promise of him. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” You press your face more firmly into the table, arch your back slightly. You breathe. “Ready.”

He presses in.

You are not ready.

You are ready in that you are wet; in that it fits; in that it feels good, properly good, good enough that you let out a long, quiet moan at the same time he does. But it’s still a lot. It’s still a slight stretch, even after three fingers, even after coming on his tongue. 

It’s still him.

There’s no helping it. All of the preparation in the world could not have kept you from feeling slightly overwhelmed by the heat and the weight and the understanding that Ryland Grace is inside you. It’s making you do stupid things, like get a little choked up. You bite back a sound that you fear might come out less sexy than emotional, but you don’t bite it back entirely, and he stops, still inside you. “Too much?”

Yes. “No,” you say, and swallow, because what do you possibly have to cry about? “I’m good. It’s good, you feel—good.”

“Good.” He pulls out, then pushes back in, slowly, and the sound he makes is—God. This was the worst idea you’ve ever had. This was the best idea you’ve ever had. “You too. I’m going to—” His hands press into your waist through the fabric of your dress. “Is this okay?”

“Mmhm.” You're both still basically fully clothed, which means you're barely touching, which just narrows your focus to the one specific place where you are touching, and its making the whole thing feel dirtier than if you'd just been naked. 

You clench around him, and he makes another sound and begins fucking you in earnest.

He’s still slow. He’s being careful, you suspect, which you appreciate because he is thick and he is long and your legs are barely functional as is. But the rhythm is steady. He drives into you with slow, deep thrusts, and already you are struggling not to make a whole host of embarrassing noises. You suspect he is also struggling with this because he is losing, badly—maybe he’s stifling them from his normal volume (whatever that may be), but he is close enough that you feel his breath on the back of your neck, and every single choked-off moan and whimper and grunt might as well be piped directly into your brainstem. When you give up on trying to mute yourself, and let out a quiet, “You can—harder,” he groans, long and low, and obliges, picking up the pace enough that you can hear the slap of his hips against yours.

You reach back, at one point. You’re not exactly sure why. To grab at him, maybe—to pull at his hips, urge him deeper, faster—but he catches your hand in his, threading his fingers through yours.

“You’re so.” He manages to get his other hand under your waist, arm across, lifting, helping you stand up a little so that his chest is pressed against your back, his voice in your ear. “I knew you’d feel good, but I didn’t—you’re so—”

“I know,” you say, without really knowing what you’re saying. “Me too.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, where the neckline of your dress ends, and then further in, further up. You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back, thumb running back and forth across the edge of yours. When he kisses the top of your neck, wet and hot and open-mouthed just below your ear, you let out a desperate sound, not quiet at all, and you clench around him and you feel him smile and you want to strangle him almost as much as you want to kiss him. You want so badly to kiss him. You almost try to crane your head around to allow for it, except you remember dimly that you’re not supposed to, and you can’t for the life of you remember why.

When he slows down, you whine. It’s entirely undignified. You don’t really have it in you to care. “What are you doing?”

“I just. I just.” He rests his forehead against the back of your head, and through the fog you swear you feel him press his lips to your hair. “I need a second.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He swallows, and turns his head to press his cheek to your hair instead. “I don’t want to finish too fast,” he admits. You know what that voice looks like on him—it looks like beet red and mortified. “And I will. If we keep going. Right now.”

You burst out laughing. You can’t help it. “What?” You let your head hang, still shaking with laughter you don’t really have the breath to afford. “Ryland. That’s, like. The opposite of a problem. That’s the whole point.”

“That’s not the whole point.” He sounds insulted, which for some reason is even funnier, and makes you laugh even harder. He makes a vaguely pained sound, and you realize retroactively that laughing makes you squeeze which makes you squeeze around him. “You—stop doing that.”

“Then stop being funny!” You wipe a tear away, and turn just enough to make a sliver of eye contact. “You know, I would have planned a lot differently if I knew I had to factor in time to explain how babies are made.”

“I—” He goes through amused and annoyed and endeared in a comically short amount of time (and you manage to contain your reaction to light smirking, this time, because you are nothing if not good at taking feedback), and lands on an expression that is a combination of all of those things and leaves you convinced, in an even shorter amount of time, that you are in danger. “Did you really think you’d be out of here in fifteen minutes?”

“No.” You look at his lips again, and then face forward to cut yourself off. “Maybe.” You squeeze your eyes shut. “It would have been fine if you ohfuck—”

This last because he presses back into you, all the way, at the same time his hand finds your clit. “Do you still think that?”

“No.” Your voice is quiet, shaky.

“No?”

Louder now, “No, nope, not even a little—”

“Glad to hear it.” He starts moving again. It’s slow, and his voice is strained, but he’s moving and his fingers are on you at the same time he’s inside you, and he’s taking advantage of the pace to really focus on what spots he’s angling himself against. “Otherwise I might have gotten offended.”

“Didn’t mean to—okay.” Your elbows are beginning to go the way of your knees, which is to say you lower yourself back down to the table while you are still capable of doing so in a safe and controlled manner. His hand is still wrapped around yours. “Oh God. You can—faster. Faster, please.”

“I will. I just want to get you a little closer.”

“I already—”

“No, that didn’t count.” He is going faster, whether he realizes it or not; and it is getting you closer, which was maybe part of the point. “That didn’t count. I want you to come for me.”

“I did come for you.”

“On me. Around me. That’s what—that’s all I’m waiting for, you just have to—”

It’s working. What he did with his tongue, what he started and finished and started again—you feel it, feel the threads of it, lengthening, growing, sparking again each time he thrusts inside you. 

“Yeah,” you say, because what else can you say. “Yeah. Can you just—” You bite your lip. 

“What?” He’s breathing faster, again, almost panting.

“Your hand,” you manage. “On—on my neck.”

“Your neck?”

You nod against the table.

“Okay.” He doesn’t stop. “Okay. Can you—with your hand—can you keep rubbing yourself? Can you do that for me?”

You are flat against the table. The hand around yours doesn’t loosen at all. With some effort, you move your other hand down, under you, and it brushes his for a moment before he makes way for you, and uses his newly freed hand to reach up and wrap around the back of your neck.

“Like this?’’ he asks. He sounds almost hoarse, though nothing compared to the sound you let out as you nod, clenching around him even tighter than before. “Okay. And don’t stop—your clit—good, that’s good, just—”

His hand tightens around your neck slightly, just on the sides, as he starts fucking you hard, harder than before, hard and fast in a way that is forcing sounds out of you that you cannot control. You try to rub your clit in some approximation of what he was doing, and it’s more slippery than you could have anticipated and your fingers keep grazing his cock as he thrusts into you, and you’re close, you’re close again.

“I—” You make a sound into the table. “I’m.”

“I know.” He doesn’t stop. “I know, I know, I’m here—” 

He squeezes your hand again, and for some reason this is the thing that undoes you.

This orgasm is a different kind of good from the first. That was a sharp, hot, precise flash of pleasure; this time is broader, gentler, warmer. True to his word, he follows almost immediately after, shooting hot inside you, and you are full as you squeeze around him and pant into the table.

You can hear his breathing, too, behind you. You listen to it slow in time with yours.

He squeezes your hand again, this time as a precursor to letting go, and it almost hurts as much as the loss of him pulling out of you. He runs the other hand, the neck one, down your back, smoothing your skirt back down as he goes. There are shuffling sounds—boxers, zipper, belt. You don’t move.

“Hey.” His hand is on your hip again—lighter. Tentative, like he wasn’t just digging into it ninety seconds ago. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You are still face planted into the table for the same reason as before: if you stand up, you will have to look at him, and why you ever thought that would be easier after he fucked you than before is one of the great mysteries of the universe. “Yeah. That was—I’m just—.” You stand up very abruptly. “Oh my god.”

“What?” He sounds alarmed. 

“I need to lie down.”

“Are you dizzy?” He sounds even more alarmed. “Are you—the couch, is the couch okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, the couch is fine but, do you have a towel, it’s just—I need to lie down for twenty minutes,” you say, apologetically as you can muster. He crosses a step to the kitchen, and grabs a towel, and tosses it to you. You catch it without looking at him, and you waddle over to the couch in the unsexiest manner possible, where you proceed to put the towel on top of a pillow and lie down with the pillow under your hips. Your skirt flips back up. You cross your legs as though it will help. It really doesn’t. “I completely forgot. Just so it doesn’t—you know.”

A pause. “So it doesn’t what?”

You look at him. In very short order he has gone from sounding alarmed to wearing a poorly-hidden smirk.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You know.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I do. I think. But I kind of want to hear you say it.”

You purse your lips. You stare at the ceiling, then look back at him, then back at the ceiling, then at the insides of your hands. “So it doesn’t leak out,” you say, muffled against your palms. “There. I said it.”

“You did,” he says, sounding annoyingly pleased.

“Are you happy now?”

“Very.” His voice is getting closer.

When you open your eyes again, he’s standing over you. You frown, and push his face away with both hands. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe I left my underwear in the car.”

“Why did you do that?” he says, sounding equal parts delighted and bewildered.

“I don’t know,” you wail, except you can’t help but laugh with him. “It just seemed like something people do!”

“What people?” His voice is further away now, like he’s leaving the room, and there’s a vague sound of drawers being open and shut. “Internet people? Is this a porn thing I don’t know about? Because porn is not supposed to be a good representation of real life, you know, that’s a specific thing I have to say in the sex ed unit. I have to say that. To a room full of eighth graders.” A drawer shuts. “Is porn where you got the table idea from?”

“No,” you say miserably, back into your hands. You aren’t sure if he can hear you, and you don’t care. “That was all me.”

A piece of fabric hits the back of your hands. You pick it up, to look at it. Boxers. White. Black text on the band. 

“For you,” he says. “They’re clean.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You look at them a moment more, then pull them on. “You know, I really wasn’t expecting this from you.”

“Okay,” he says, leaving to the kitchen. “So what I’m hearing is that first, you thought I’d be the guy who would finish having sex and kick you out within fifteen minutes—still not over that, by the way—and then you also thought I’d let you leak in misery on the couch? For another twenty minutes? And I was still your first choice of sperm donor? Because if that’s the case, we need to have a serious chat about your taste in sexual partners.”

“You can connect with Olya about that. I think she already had an intervention planned.” You pull the waistband of the underwear out, then release, letting it snap against your waist. “But I was talking about the Calvins. I kind of assumed there’d be, like, little Bunsen burners around the band. Or some kind of day-of-the-week situation.”

“The Bunsen burners are my Thursday pair,” he says, emerging from the kitchen with a glass of water. He passes it to you before plopping down on the floor next to the couch.

You take a sip. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting. Next to you.”

“It looks like you’re lying down.”

He is, in fact, flat on the carpet without so much as a pillow. “Yeah. Next to you. Is that allowed?”

“Of course it’s allowed, it’s your house. I just don’t want to stop you from doing the things you need to do.”

“What do I need to do?”

“I don’t know. Put your cold Chinese food in the fridge?”

“I did that already.”

“Oh.” You take another sip. “Prepare for parent teacher conferences?”

“I did that already. At school. It’s mostly the same every time. Parents agree. Parents disagree.”

“Parents hit on you,” you continue for him.

His face turns a little pink. “Sometimes, yeah.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they do.”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“I literally said of course they do. Because of course they do.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re. You know.” You look at him—messy hair, messy glasses, messy smile—and then determinedly back at the ceiling. “You’re not completely horrible to look at.”

“Wow. And this is you after two orgasms.”

“That was a nice thing! I said a nice thing!”

“You’re in my house, wearing my boxers—”

“Yes, your Bunsen-burner-less boxers. I’ll have to plan around Thursdays, going forward.”

“Going forward?” he says.

You freeze. You do not look at him. “If it’s not too much of an imposition,” you say carefully—and then you are immediately cut off by his hand smushing your face.

“It’s not an imposition,” he says. “It is absolutely not an imposition. We can do this as much as you want.”

“Mmph,” you say.

He pulls his hand back. You look at him. “I just didn’t want to assume,” he says.

You stare. Messy glasses, hair, smile—you look back at the glass. “Like you said, this is me after two orgasms.” You are very interested in the glass and, furthermore, the water inside it. “Which was, for the record, not the point.”

“Of course it’s the point.”

“But like, okay, if we were doing this with a turkey baster, that wouldn’t even be a concern—”

“Well, we aren’t doing this with a turkey baster. I made it very clear that it was on you to provide the turkey baster, and you didn’t, so—”

You shove the water at him, if only to shut him up, but you’re grinning. He’s also grinning. You take the water back, and struggle to take a sip, because it is significantly emptier and you are still flat on your back.

He stands up. “C’mere,” he says. He helps you sit up, and then sits down where your head was, letting you lay back in his lap. “Is this okay? If I sit here?”

“It’s your house, Ryland, you can sit wherever you want—” He pinches your nose. You glare up at him. He smiles pleasantly down at you. “Yes. Idds fide,” you say. “Awesobe. Really.”

He releases your nose, and runs a hand back through your hair. Your eyes shut automatically.

“But seriously,” he says. “Was that—was there anything bad? Anything you didn’t like? I’m very open to notes. For next time. Since there’s going to be a next time.”

“It was all good,” you say. You think it might be the first time you’ve said that to a guy and honestly meant it. “The whole thing.”

“That can’t be true.”

You open one eye. “Are you calling me a liar?” The other eye opens. “Or, wait, was it bad for you?”

“What? No.”

“I mean it. I am also open to feedback, and I know I was being super weird at the beginning, I was just, like you said, I was nervous, but I can be so much more normal next time—”

“You were perfect,” he says, at the same time he runs a hand back over your head. “And, sure, I’d prefer if you weren’t that nervous all the time, but that’s because I don’t want to be doing things that make you nervous. So if I am—”

“You weren’t. It’s just you.”

As in, there’s nothing you could have done better. As in, you make me nervous just existing. As in, I’ve thought you were perfect since we were in elementary school, and I know you don’t mean it back the same way but if you were going to say it at all I wish it had been sooner than this.

He smiles. “Yeah,” he says softly. “It’s just me. And it’s just you. So there’s nothing to be nervous about, yeah?”

“Mm.” You let your eyes close back shut as you turn your head, snuggling more firmly into his lap. He makes a noise that sounds like a wince, and shifts beneath you, and you look back up at him. “Sorry. Did I—”

“Nope,” he says. His voice is definitely strained. “No. You’re fine. I just. Has it been twenty minutes yet?”

You look at him. Then you look at his lap. Then you look back at him. “Already?”

“Yeah, I think. I think it’s been about twenty minutes.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s been less.”

“Has it been an amount of time that would qualify as going forward?” he asks. Then: “We don’t have to, if you’re not up to it.”

You make a show of genuinely considering. “I am a little sore.”

“Right. That, that makes sense.”

“But not that sore.” You meet his gaze. “And probably going again is good. Statistically.”

He nods as you sit up and put the water down on the coffee table. He keeps nodding as you begin to shimmy off his underwear, his own hands going back to deal with his belt and his zipper and all. “Yeah. Better odds, definitely better. The numbers alone. If you’re sore, do you want to be on top this time? So you can have more control over how—”

"Right. I just feel like, is that counterproductive? Like, I spent all that time on my back, just to let gravity..."

“I’ll—” His mouth clamps shut. “Nope.”

You stare at him. In years and years, in decades, you’ve never known any version of Ryland Grace to do anything but say exactly what he thinks, exactly at the speed he thinks it. “What was that.”

“I was just about to say the worst thing I've ever thought."

"What."

"You'll leave if I tell you."

"What?"

"I was going to say, I'll plug you up."

You’re not smiling. Really, you’re not. It’s just that the corners of your mouth are pulling so far up and out that it’s hurting your cheeks. “Oh my god."

"I know."

"That's terrible.”

"I told you!"

“Like I’m, what, a sink? A power socket?” His face is too buried in his hands to allow anything but a muffled groan in response. You grin. He is somehow, in spite of all of this, still hard. “If you wanted me to leave you could have just said so."

“I don’t—”

"Hey, signal received, loud and clear. I’ll just—” You stand, and turn to the door. You mean it as a joke. It doesn’t matter, though, because you don’t get that far before he catches your wrist and tugs you back.

It only takes two or three movements for you to straddle him.

All at once your field of vision is very full of nothing but messy hair, and eyes bright behind his glasses, and his stupid perfect nose, and his mouth—

"We can't kiss," you blurt out.

He blinks. His face stays still otherwise. “Okay.”

"It's a rule I have. For hookups. No kissing on the mouth.” At the word mouth, his eyes drop to yours, which is fine, that’s normal, you can’t just tell someone not to think of an elephant. But the thought of him thinking about kissing you makes you dizzy enough that you rush to continue, “Everywhere else is fine, though."

You are not a good liar. He is an even worse liar, which might be the only way you get away with this. He also might be justifiably distracted by the fact that the entire naked length of him is pressed up against the entire naked length of you, and you are wetter than before from his mouth and from two orgasms and from him leaking out of you.

"Everywhere else?" he asks.

You nod. 

“Here?” His hand is warm against the back of your neck as he drags his thumb back and forth across your neck, just below your ear. 

When you nod, he follows with his mouth.

He continues lower, fingers and then lips, to your shoulder—“Here?”—your sternum—“Here?”—and then his hand is cupping your breast over your dress—“Here?”—at which point your nodding becomes frantic. You dip your shoulder, helping him push down the strap and the neckline until he’s able to dip into your bra and free you and drag a tongue across the curve, closing his mouth around your nipple as you wrap an arm around his head and press him to you and wind your fingers into his hair. 

He sucks harder, harder, until the pleasure has a sting to it. You tug at his hair. He relents, pulling away only to replace his mouth with his hand, his thumb, back and forth as he laughs into your neck.

“You’re so,” he starts, then pauses to press his hips more firmly into you, then huffs out another laugh, low and disbelieving. “The sounds you make.”

Your face heats up. “Sorry,” you mumble into the side of his head.

“No. Don’t you dare. They’re great sounds. Excellent sounds. Very helpful.” You throb against him at that, and he must feel it, because his next laugh chokes off. “Can I—are you—inside?”

“Inside,” you agree, a little breathlessly. You lift your hips just enough to line him up to you, and there’s a genuine pang in your chest from how badly you want to kiss him—

—but then he’s inside you, and inside you and inside you and inside you, taking up so much space that you don’t have any left for silly things like regret.

His mouth is back on your chest, your collar, pushing down your dress on the other side. You’re struck with—something. Jealousy, maybe. Your hands loosen from their death grip on his shoulders to grab at his shirt, the buttons, greedy, frantic. “Can I—”

You’re clumsy with the buttons, so he comes to your rescue. He’s somehow even worse. Between the two of you, you manage to fumble a few open, and having those few inches of chest-to-chest contact when you bury your head back in his neck feels nothing short of religious. 

Aside from minute adjustments of the hips, and a twitch inside you, he’s trying very hard to be still. You can tell its an effort because, when you finally move, lifting up slowly on shaky legs, his fingers tighten on your hips. You sink back onto him with a slow, intentional breath.

“Good?” he asks into your jugular. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“No.”

It does. But it’s a low, quiet ache, a base note of soreness that only intensifies the pleasure, until your thighs give out and you lower yourself back down more quickly than planned, and the hit of him against your cervix makes you yelp. “A little,” you amend.

“Sorry!” He sounds panicked, which is so endearing it almost makes you forget about the pain. His hands visit lower on your hips, cupping your ass, helping you lift up a little as he presses his hips down and away from you, and a sound escapes you that has nothing to do with pain or soreness and everything to do with the drag of him inside you. “Sorry, sorry. Is that—we should stop. Let’s stop.”

Now it’s your turn to panic. “No. No stopping.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. It’s all right if you do.”

“It is absolutely not all right, that’s—”

“I like it,” you admit, and when he looks up you force yourself not to close your eyes or look away. Whatever sentence he was in the middle of dies on his lips. You need to stop looking at his lips.

“Oh,” he says.

“It feels good.” You watch him watching you. “I want to be a little sore. I want to be able to remember you were inside me.”

That last part slips out on accident, and you have a front row seat to watch it land.

His eyes are bright behind the glasses (crooked, smudged, a little foggy), but there’s a stillness to his expression overall, like he’s trying very carefully not to scare off an endangered animal, except for a tiny little twitch at the corner of his mouth, and you want to kiss the corner of his mouth so now you do have to close your eyes.

The next two seconds feel like they last about an hour.

“Okay,” he says, like he’s still thinking it over as he says it, and then, more resolutely: “Okay.”

Something unties in your chest. You open your eyes, and see him looking at you like—like—you can’t examine that expression too closely, actually. If you think about that expression too much you are going to start having all kinds of other thoughts you aren’t allowed to have. “Okay?”

“But we go slow.”

“Slow is good.”

“And if it starts to—if it hurts in a way that doesn’t feel good, we stop. Tell me right away, and we’ll stop.”

“I will,” you agree, already shifting your hips a bit in his hands to press back against him. You don’t take him all the way down to the hilt. Almost, but not quite. You feel him press against the back of you, and you let yourself sink down just a millimeter more, earning that bit of pain, the sweet ache, before nodding. “There.” Your eyes flutter shut, your head tipping down. “Until there is good.”

He nods. His forehead is pressed to yours—not on purpose, you think, that’s just how your head fell, that’s out of your control—and you’re breathing the same air, and you honestly deserve a Nobel for not closing those last few centimeters.

“Good.” His voice has dropped about an octave.

You clench around him, and you feel his thighs flex, under yours, through his pants, as he presumably fights the urge to thrust up into you.

“Sorry,” he says, which confirms it. You feel the tip of his nose travel up across your forehead, followed by his lips, ending at your hairline. “We’re going slow. I want to go slow. It’s good that we’re going slow. I can kiss you here?”

“Yes.” He presses his mouth more firmly against your head, and you angle your face into his neck. “We don’t actually have to go that slow.”

“It’s good,” he repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself, “that we’re going slow.”

“But your food. It’ll get cold. It’s probably already cold.”

“I have a microwave. A great one.”

“Mmhm.”

“Actually it’s just okay, you remember, it’s the same one, I think it’s probably been here since the Cold War—” You laugh again, which makes you pulse around him again, and he lets out a shaky exhale. “Have I mentioned how glad I am that we’re going slow.”

“Once or twice.”

“Great, great. Good. Just wanted to make sure you got that. On the record. In your records. One of them. Both. Either. And it doesn’t hurt.”

“Not in any way I don’t like.”

He makes a sound into your hair that could best be described as tortured. His fingers are tight on your hips, digging. You know that it’s just practical, that he’s mostly doing it to help support your weight so that you don’t move too fast, don’t hurt yourself again. You are still hopeful of bruises tomorrow. You are also hopeful that he’ll fuck you properly sometime in the next ten seconds, because if he doesn’t you might die.

“You don’t have to hold back” you say. “I mean it. As fast as you need. As hard as you need.”

A pause. Then he guides your hips forward—not deeper, but closer, flush against him, and the pressure takes you by surprise, and you whimper.

“You get to feel good too,” he says. “You said whatever I need, right? Anything I want?”

“Mmhm.” He moves you, and you let him. “Mmhm.”

“Right. Not too deep,” His mouth finds its way back to your neck, just below your ear, and you keep rocking against him in that heavy, unrushed rhythm, your clit pressed back and forth against his stomach where his shirt has ridden up. “Not running anywhere, just this, just—” You pulse around him, and his voice breaks. “— just like that. Need to hear you make those pretty noises while you squeeze down on me.”

“Ry—”

“You want me to fill you up, right, you want me to put a baby in you, that’s the whole point, and I want to, I’m going to, I just—then I need to feel you—need you to feel good. Need you to come again.”

“Ryland.”

“You can do that for me, right, you can, you can, it’s only fair.”

You don’t know how long you stay like this. It’s slower than you wanted, but exactly as fast as you need, and he is patient, steady, even as the monologue runs away from him and he begins babbling nonsense into your ear. Or maybe he’s making perfect sense. You think you hear your name a few times, but who even knows anymore. You’re pretty sure you’ve lost the ability to process language.

He lets go of your hips on one side to get a hand back on your chest, gentle, rolling your nipple between forefinger and thumb. You bury your face in his neck, and then make some effort to lift it back up, until you are practically cheek to cheek.

“It’s only fair, you have your rule, I have mine,” he says. You don’t even know what he’s talking about. You’re not sure he does, either. His mouth is next to your mouth, level, along the same plane, and it would be so easy, nothing at all, to turn your head and—

And then his mouth moves higher, to your eyes, next to your eyes, and he’s saying, “Here, is here okay, can I kiss you here, can I please kiss you here.”

You make some sort of noise of agreement, so far past words you don’t know if you could produce a full sentence if you tried.

The moment he has your permission, he turns his head just the slightest bit to properly press his mouth against your temple, and he keeps it there while he crushes you to his chest with one arm around your waist, keeping the pressure of his pelvis against your clit,  and every sound he makes vibrates through your skull as he finishes inside you.

Neither of you moves for a long, long time. Your chest is pressed to his. You could almost swear you feel his heart beat through it, a little faster than yours, a little out of rhythm. 

“Your food is definitely cold,” is the first thing you manage.

“It is,” he agrees. “Because I put it in the fridge.”

“Oh.” The freckles do go down to his shoulders, you see now. You run your finger between them, tracing constellations, up until the place where they disappear under his shirt where you pushed it back. “Wow. When did you do that?”

“Before. After. Between. I told you that. I said it out loud.”

“I forgot.” The comfortable silence returns. You feel his hand, slow up and down your back, and the other in your hair, still, his thumb against your temple. “I probably need to lay down again,” you finally say. “For twenty minutes. I think that’s the rule.”

“Sure. Just one more second.”

“Okay.”

You let several minutes pass.

“I don’t even know why twenty minutes. It seems like an arbitrary amount of time”

“Yeah?” He kisses your temple again—slow, like he’s committing it to memory—and then your jaw, and then your collarbone, and then your neck again, and it tickles and you giggle and while you giggle he finally turns, careful, and lowers you back down to the couch. He pulls out of you, soft, and you’d protest but you are honestly too satisfied down to your bones to do anything but let him. “I thought you did all that research.”

“I did. Nobody on Reddit could agree on a number.”

“You did not just use research and Reddit in the same sentence,” he says, walking back to the kitchen. The sink goes, and then stops. The fridge opens. A bag crinkles on the counter. The chiming of silverware in a drawer, the one to the right of the sink, next to the junk drawer. Your heart feels so full it could burst. Here’s to the things that last.

“Cool it, doc. We can’t all have a fancy degree.”

“You want fried rice, or white?”

“Both.”

“On it. And you literally have a J.D. Juris doctor.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make me a researcher, it just means I get paid twice as much to do half the work of one.”

“Mean,” he says. You stick a tongue out at him, even though you know he can’t see it. “But fair.”

The microwave goes. You lie back, having pulled his boxers back on, and you update your mental profile of him, this man you’ve known for the better part of thirty-four years.

Ryland Grace is not the kind of guy who has sex and then kicks you out within fifteen minutes.

Ryland Grace is also not the kind of guy who lets you leak in misery on the couch.

Ryland Grace is smart but not obnoxious about it.

“You want something other than water? I guess it’s late for coffee. Or is that one of those things you can’t have? Like alcohol? I did—I haven’t done, like, research, that’s a completely different thing, but I was reading about…”

Ryland Grace is smart but mostly not obnoxious about it.

Ryland Grace prints things out at the library if he’s afraid they’re inappropriate for the school printer

Ryland Grace is the kind of guy who agrees to donate sperm to an old friend without question.

He is tall, and brilliant, and sweet, and funny, and has a great head of hair, and is also built to a crazy degree for someone whose primary form of exercise seems to be biking places.

He’s farsighted, but that means he keeps the glasses on during sex and that honestly has to count as a pro.

He is good in bed, and you get to keep on sleeping with him for as long as it takes for you to get pregnant.

That last part makes you pause.

The as long as it takes part. The part where there’s a guaranteed end date.

Which is your fault, of course, and also entirely by design. Help me have a baby is a very different context than help me have a baby and also we should date. It’s completely different than help me have a baby and also remember that time sixteen years ago when I poured my heart out to you and you—

“There.” He places a coaster on the coffee table, and a steaming plate on top of it. “You don’t have to sit up yet, it’s pretty hot. I just put a little of everything. And it’s definitely a no on the coffee, unless you want decaf, but then I remembered you hate coffee so I just brought more water.”

You take the fork he offers you. “Thanks, Ryland,” you say.

It comes out softer than you meant for it to. He doesn’t notice. He just smiles, and goes back to the kitchen to make himself a plate. You watch him go, and you think:

Ryland Grace is the perfect person for you to have fun with, have a baby with, and then forget about completely.

You can do that. You can totally do that. You just don’t know how you’re going to do that.

But then he comes back with a steaming plate of food of his own, and jokes about burning his tongue, and then immediately burns his tongue, and you laugh at it like a friend would. And, once you’re satisfied that you’ve been on your back enough to be relatively leak-proof, you sit up and race him to see who can finish their noodles the fastest (he lets you win, like he used to when you were kids), and every time you offer to leave he finds some excuse or some question that requires you to stay, until he actually has to leave to avoid being late for work, and you drive home and you shower and you go to sleep in your own bed. And you wake up only thinking about him a little.

And that feels like a good place to start.

[clawxmoon]

⏾˚ shane maguire!bf headcanons

shane who's an asshole to everyone but has a soft spot for you. he's the type of boyfriend to have a cold stare 24/7 but as soon as he sees you, his face softens. everyone always asks how you made a man like that to fall in love with you but you don't know. he just felt a spark with you the first time you met and pursued you ever since.

shane tries, really tries so hard to act tough with you but his facade comes apart the second he looks at your pretty eyes. part of him is just used to being mean and sarcastic with people but he just can't bring himself to give you a cold shoulder, especially for no reason.

shane who's amazing at holding eye contact. he enjoys staring at you and your features a bit too much for his liking. he starts scanning your eyes, nose, cheeks, lips whenever you're talking to somebody else. the thing is, he gets distracted without noticing. he could be in a group conversation inspecting you who's at the opposite side of the room - people around him notice and tease him.

shane loves any type of physical contact and does not give a shit about what other people think. he especially enjoys playing with your hair, curling it between his fingers. you get mad at him for messing up your hard work but it's an instinct - he can't stop. if his hands aren't on your hair then they're either resting on your lower back or on your shoulder.

shane doesn't like to admit that he loves nuzzling his face in your neck. especially late at night right before he's about to fall asleep. you just smell so good and your skin is so soft and he can't help it. if you ever mention it, he will either ignore you or bite back with some sarcastic comeback.

shane who's voice softens when he speaks with you. you don't even notice until your friends mention it - they were caught off guard when they heard him talking with you. he certainly didn't sound like that usually. after that you start noticing it too. for example, his voice is deep and raspy when he's talking to a waiter and as soon as you're in the picture, his voice just changes to a softer, gentler tone. you figured out he does it unintentionally because he didn't know what you meant.

shane does a lot of things that make your heart skip a beat. however, when he leans down on your level, tilts his head and teasingly asks "oh, yeah?" it makes your whole being go wild. your cheeks are flushed, your stomach's feeling butterflies. your whole body has a reaction whenever he's flirty. and another thing - whenever you're in the way - he always moves you aside with a hand on your waist and it makes you feel things.

shane is a type of boyfriend who ties your shoelaces and zips up your jacket. he just does it instinctively and you can't even complain. he also lets you fidget with his hands and lay your head on his shoulder whenever you feel stressed. shane never says no to you ever if you ask to borrow his jacket when you're cold outside.

shane may not seem like a husband material to everyone else but he's a fixer at home. if something is broken at home, best to know he'll fix it. you could be breaking down, not knowing how to solve the problem and as soon as you tell him about it, he's locked in. "I'll take care of it" he calms you.

shane who hates when people bother you. if someone is making you uncomfortable, he doesn’t care who they are. friends, strangers, people twice his size - they’re all getting the exact same cold stare. he won’t always say something right away. sometimes just standing beside you is enough. there’s something about the way he looks at people that makes them suddenly remember somewhere else they need to be.

shane who can never stay annoyed at you for long. maybe you’re teasing him, maybe you stole something of his again, maybe you’re trying not to laugh while he’s pretending to be serious. he’ll cross his arms and tell you to knock it off, but the moment you smile at him, whatever point he was trying to make completely disappears.

shane who secretly keeps things that remind him of you. little notes, random pictures, a hair tie you forgot about months ago. if anyone found out, he’d deny it until his last breath. but every single one of those things ends up tucked away somewhere safe because throwing them out never feels right.

shane who looks at you differently than he looks at anyone else. it’s subtle enough that he thinks nobody notices, but they do. there’s a softness there that only appears when you’re around, like all the sharp edges of his personality smooth out for a second. he could spend the entire day acting like the world annoys him, but the second his eyes find you, it’s obvious you’ve always been his favorite person.

[whosjunglejim4322]

18+

You work for Mr. Charles assisting Dex’s assigned tasks. Things get tricky when he realizes he feels things for his second in command handler after months of working together, and your apartment is too tempting not to break into

Warnings: stalking like y’all know who this fic is about! He’s kind of a creep wow, Raw sex, A little dark!Dex, he breaks in and jerks off in your room, teeny Voyeurism kink, handjob and choking and dirty talk and sweetness, he fucks you in his lap, this should be the poster child for Dex switch agenda omg

Dex couldn’t help it. His hands had worked faster than his mind, and it started off as such an ordinary thought. This is where you sleep, I wonder what it feels like to have your heat so close. Mundane and domestic and the sick fantasy of all that would never be true just became too much for him.

And maybe that’s what ruined him, what made his manhood swell and leak in his briefs because it felt so unreachable until he came here. Until he knew what type of soap you used and where you keep your cutlery and how many pajama sets you have.

You’re at work, likely going through paperwork that makes you look like you’d do something illegal for a full eight hours of sleep. It’s also most likely affiliated with him, recent assignments closed and there are plenty of deposits to be made.

His included.

You’re good at your job. It was one of the many first things he noticed about you, and it made his ears perk up whenever you spoke and the hair on the back of his neck stand to attention.

Like whatever words rolled off your tongue was something he’d want to know, something he needed to know because missing it felt detrimental.

Whatever world you were brought into, clearly far too young, has shaped you into a person who completely understood objective. The cold hard truth of it in the unconventional, and more importantly how necessary it is.

And yet somehow, after he’d come back from something terrible and wretched in nature yet as easy as breathing, disgustingly normal for him with blood still splattered on his suit - you’d have a soft smile. Gentle, like reality held no meaning and the diner is going to close in an hour and you still have to be up for three hours so come with me Dex!

You’d drag him by his jacket like he’s a puppy who can’t be let off the leash too long or he’ll do something you don’t have enough money to pay for.

And he’d follow like he didn’t just end someone’s life hours before, and yet somehow he still deserved to have your hand on him and your late night grin beaming towards him in the midnight streets of New York.

Your energy is like a vortex of something that wants to peel away at him, pick at his brain and settle yourself between matter. He doesn’t get it. In a lot of ways it frustrates him, makes his skin itch a little because people aren’t just like that.

They don’t ask you how you’re feeling when you’ve still got fresh blood on your hands, or steal sips of your coffee and pretend they don’t see you subtly lick the edge of the cup where their mouth just was.

And yet, he felt the buzz in his brain start.

It started as a hum in the back of his skull, and yeah of course it was nice to go out for for breakfast at three A.M with a beautiful woman and chat business that always turned into talking about what movie you’d watched recently and how it changed your life.

And then he’d start talking about a mixtape that meant everything to him when he was nine and had no one but the boys in the orphanage who thought he was a fucking freak to talk about it with.

All because you asked what his favorite song is since he’s always wearing those ancient headphones, and maybe it was the faux compartmentalized safety box that he’d put you in that made it so easy.

Second arm to his boss, to a job he needs because structure had become wonky and he couldn’t have that. Not now, not after everything.

The hum quickly became a horrible, gluttonous, deafening roar.

He had, and still has no rational explanation. He knows the basics, he’s a man, and you’re you and you’re in close proximities and it is literally your job to make sure he is alive and well and every cog in the machine is well oiled.

So at his big age he should be able to differentiate between your professional and personal relationship. You meant something to Charles that wasn’t quite like a daughter, but something close and too parental in nature for Dex to understand anyways. He didn’t know what that even meant.

But Dex has never had a crush.

The word feels so fucking juvenile in his head, something from a life he’s never had and never will have. He has never felt love. Real, true, honest to god love.

He only knows the intensity of something under his skin, something that festers and writhes and aches inside of him. It crawls through veins and tendons and muscle and the framework in his spine and it beckons him.

So it did not take long for you to fester within him. To spread to every thought that wasn’t about his next hit or organizing his weaponry. Even doing the dishes, he wondered what you were doing in that exact moment.

Brushing your hair, your teeth? Were you still asleep and wrapped in your covers that he envied because they get to be bunched between your arms and legs and against your stomach?

You even seeped into the mundane everyday parts of life like something divine and real. When he did his laundry he thought of what you wore to bed and what soap you used and how you smell.

When he made his bed he thought about what your weight would feel like against his mattress, how your frame would ruffle the duvet and he’d be okay with it. And how the springs might creak when he crawls on top of you and kisses your sternum and makes a mess out of the softness between your legs.

Fuck.

He could lie and say he tried to fight it, but he’s more than grown now. He can take accountability. He’s just exercising a little free will, and he’s not hurting anyone, really.

No, this is the most devotional, wholehearted and earnest thing that he’s done in a very long time.

Your room is filled with your scent and he’s bathed in the glow of it like a wash of fresh air. His hands started shaking as soon as he walked in and felt surrounded by you, his belly hot and he really didn’t know what to do with himself with such an opportune moment.

His head went fuzzy, and his thoughts didn’t make sense anymore.

He scoped everything like forgetting would mean death. Your shaggy rug at the foot of your bed, your desk and the half open books and messy papers scattered everywhere. Your laptop still open and your chair rolled away like you got up and never sat back down.

Your bed is softer than his, and fluffy blankets surround your bedposts and there is no creaking of the springs when he sits himself down. You don’t make it in the morning like he does because the covers are still thrown from your spot and crumpled, pillow still indented with the shape of your head.

His fingertips graze the pink fabric and it lights something dangerous and hot inside of him very very quickly.

First it’s his palm on the sheets cause he wants to know if he can feel even the ghost of your heat when you lied here, and then his knees are on the mattress and god you really do smell so sweet, and then his face is in your pillow and he’s inhaling like a mad man.

He lets out a guttural groan, the blood rushing to his head as fast as it is to his dick and in the haze of it all he feels his hips buck unconsciously. Like his subconscious felt your insides too just then.

He doesn’t think about it. He can’t, or he’ll dwell and convince himself that he’s better than this. And he doesn’t want to be.

He just flips himself around, thick fingers fumbling with his belt buckle with all the trembling, and when he’s unbuckled he doesn’t even pull his pants down all the way to his knees before reaching for his weeping cock from the fold in his briefs.

He lets out a sigh of relief when the cool air from your overhead fan hits it, propping himself up on one elbow and letting his thick thighs part a little further. His feet are touching the ground, heavy boots scrunching your rug underneath their rubber soles.

He’s so hard it hurts, the tip is pink and leaking dribbles of iridescent precum down the thick of his veiny shaft.

His hand is as hot as his manhood when he wraps his thick fingers around himself and tugs with a dirty smirk and a half chuckle of disbelief that he’s so pent up. He hasn’t cum in months, and now this is happening.

“Fuck.”

He breathes out, hamstrings tightening along with his abdomen when the callouses tucked inside his fingers graze his sensitive mushroom head.

It’s dirty, and he feels like a teenager all over again because he’s staring at all of your stuff and is envious of everything that’s ever gotten to see you in your most human version.

He’s blushing at the thought of laying on the same bed you do.

He writhes his hips into his hand, pants like a dog in heat. He’s started getting a bit too messy, precum soaking into his underwear at this base. He’s still in a lustful haze when he’s looking off to his right and sees a haphazard piece of clothing that’s barely hanging off of your bed.

He twists his torso and grabs it like it owes him money. It’s inside out but he sees flashes of the white lettering on the front of the green fabric and he moans out loud. It’s one of your favorite tee shirts, you wear it to work at least three times a week and you’ve worn it on your after hours restaurant runs too.

He shoves it to his face, and if he’d done it any harder he’d break his nose but he doesn’t care. The smell of you after a shower and a night of sleep fills his senses, clouds him like a rainstorm and he’s so lost, so deep in it now so quickly.

He whimpers into the fabric, rocks his hips and the sound of his own arousal leaking out of him and being used as lube while he touches himself fills the room. He’s dragging his hand from his tip all the way down, and his head is just images of what you might feel like pulsing around him.

What it would be like if you were here right now on top of him, spread open on his thick lap and taking him to the hilt. Insides all battered and soft and sensitive. Crying his name over and over again. Getting him wet and messy and sticky.

“Fuuuuuck, baby fuck.”

It’s incoherent with your shirt pressed to his nose and mouth, at least that’s what Dex would be thinking if he had any thoughts other than your cunt and the shape of your mouth and the feeling of your cervix.

You’re honestly astonished he hasn’t heard you yet. He’s one of the best you guys have, so perceptive it’s almost superhuman and his reflexes are some of the best you’ve ever seen.

You, however, are quieter. Clearly. And it’s endearing, to see him through the crack in the door and understand almost immediately that he is the human embodiment of starvation and desperation.

It makes you gasp, because he’s so big and dressed in all black in your frilly room and the juxtaposition makes your insides throb. Of course it’s also the sounds he’s making, they’re whiny and loud your his whole hand is wrapped across his mouth with your shirt directly underneath.

It’s seeing a version of him that you never even fathomed would come to life. You didn’t even know it was this serious for him despite the fact that you knew his gaze lingered on you longer than normal during interactions.

Your heart feels like it’s going to leap out of your chest and onto the floor with a loud, squelchy thump.

You’re not disturbed, and that’s the most concerning part. But you’ve read up on his file over a hundred times now, of course. You know he’s not…conventional in his proclivities. You know he’s suffered, that it’s altered him permanently.

And you’ve spent time with him in the outside world, away from the murder and secrecy of your work life. You know what a real smile looks like when it spreads across his broad mouth, what a genuine satisfied hum sounds like when he takes a sip of his drink and it’s the right balance of milk and sugar.

And maybe you’ve always had a soft spot for the fucked up ones. For the ones that need to latch onto someone so badly they’d hang on until their fingers bleed. Because all you know how to do is help.

However, you can’t think too much about it right now when you’re distracted by how pretty his dick looks in his big hand and how neatly shaven he is or how his greying hair is getting long and you want to run your hands through it and tuck it behind his ears.

You just know you have to open your bedroom door all the way, so your hands find the cold knob and you’re pushing it open with a tepid step.

Dex stills, everything locking into place all at once. A series of thoughts run through his head very quickly, almost too fast for him to decide on one.

Ultimately, you didn’t break the door down. Or barge in with a gun aimed at his forehead although he’d kind of like that. In fact, you’re looking at him in a way that makes his balls tighten and his manhood twitch in his hold unconsciously. His body is just responding.

It’s not so much shock, or surprise or disgust. It’s like you’re curious, utterly transfixed by what’s taking place despite the fact that he’s staring dead at you and is slowly lowering your shirt to his lap over his erection and his cheeks and neck couldn’t be more beet red under any other circumstances.

“I have cameras, you know.”

Your voice hits him like a punch to the gut, he has to stop himself from doubling over a little because the taboo nature of the scenario is really fucking doing it for him and where someone normal would feel humiliation, Dex feels thrilled.

He’s been caught, and more so, he’s been surveilled while he thought he was being incognito and expertly smart about breaking and entering.

He looks like something scary and hungry right now, you can see his cock bobbing under your shirt where it’s covering him. He’s still panting, hair a little slick with sweat and you wanna lick the bead that trickles over his forehead and down the sharp bridge of his nose.

He looks like a person. Not a case file, not a weapon, not Bullseye. Just a man. And it makes you squeeze your thighs together when his eyes rake over you like he’s not ashamed of what he’s doing right now.

“You saw me come in?”

He asks, and his voice is rough like it has the permission to be when he’s pleasuring himself in your room. Completely wired and completely fucked. He licks his lips without thinking.

And now you’re advancing towards him, and you gently kick the door shut with the heel of your boot and he thinks he might spontaneously combust when it closes with a thud. He watches you like every step means something prophetic.

“I wanna know something,” You ignore his question, and he swallows so hard you hear it. He lets out a soft grunt of surprise when you’re finally so close he can map out details in your expression and feel your body heat in rivelets.

Your eyes are innocent and sparkling, head cocked a little.

You’re enjoying this.

Dex controls the cocky smirk threatening to spread on his face. He adjusts himself because he’s so sensitive and so unbelievably pent up and of course you’d have to be, well, like this.

Looking at him with saucers for eyes, breathing heavy.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

He asks, and now his heart is in his throat because you’re kneeling beside him on the bed, situating one foot under your bum and your weight dips him towards you a little and fuck. He’s ruining your shirt.

“You didn’t even go for my underwear drawer,”

You reach out and touch his face with your middle finger, grazing the scar on his cheek before tracing his jaw and chin. Then you’re pushing his hair back from his eyes and everything in his body starts vibrating.

He’s done something good. He must have, to earn this.

“you just saw a shirt I wear almost everyday and started touching yourself.”

Your hand doesn’t leave his face. It lingers and sears him, if he could see himself it’d be a sore sight. He’s molding himself to the curve of your palm and makes no effort to deny anything you’re saying.

“Thats kind of pathetic, Dex. Keep going.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t cum from that alone. Nothing in his fantasies, nothing he’s fisted his cock to in the shower or humped his fucking mattress to could ever have conjured a sweeter vision than what’s in front of him.

He stutters when he speaks, trembling all over again with excitement and desire. Somewhere tucked away far and deep, he’s also nervous.

But you asked him nicely, and he can see your pulse thudding and feel how you’re starting to lean into him. He jumps a little when you reach out and pull your shirt off of the protrusion underneath it because it drags against him.

“You know I have cameras, Dex.”

Your breath is against the side of his face and he closes his eyes to savor it as he wraps his hand around the base of his shaft again. The goosebumps on his skin are tingling, and his blood is starting to swoosh inside his ears.

“You wanted me to watch. So move your hand, hmm?”

He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He gives himself a long stroke because doing anything else seems futile and useless and everything that could matter is happening right now.

His forearm is thick and strong and you watch how everything flexes and relaxes with each drag.

“Yes ma’am.” It’s said sarcastically, teasing at the end and yet his voice cracks a little when he says it.

He’s been caught, and you’re here beside him encouraging him with your voice and hands. What more could he reduce himself to?

He’s so beautiful it hurts. You’ll be angry at him later, maybe say some stuff that would humiliate and degrade a regular person and mean nothing to him. You just can’t get over how palpable your presence is to him, how intensely it’s influencing him.

All that strength, and brute and broadness and he’s nothing but this blushing, stuttering mess who’s jerking off with you whispering in his ear.

You grip his jaw with little to no force, and predictably he offers you his neck with his head lolling to the left a bit. The sound that leaves him is guttural and nasty and honest. His whole body jerks at the contact too, but you’re distracted by the taste of his skin.

You get caught up sooner than you expected yourself to. You’re mouthing at his throat, his jaw, his ear lobes. And you can hear the sounds coming from between his legs, sloppy and wet and it’s all him. Not to mention he is practically a lit wire under your touch.

You catch his thick wrist in your hand and the tendons flex harshly in your light grip. He looks over at you and now you’re low lidded gaze to barely restrained lust, noses brushing. You let the air between your mouths burn with the need to vanish.

You swat his hand away and he listens silently, fists your bedsheets instead and god, his pupils completely blow out when your grip replaces his.

“Fuck.”

You let him whimper it into your mouth, swallowing it with your lips against his and there are too many pleasurable sensations at once. His brain is completely empty, not capable of any other thoughts. He tries to use his free hand to touch you, but you shove it to the side and he knows he needs to behave.

He pouts and it’s earnest disappointment, but it doesn’t linger for long.

His tongue is explorative, finding yours immediately like he’s thought about kissing you over a thousand times.

Cause he has.

And he’s so reactive in your palm, you feel his pulse through the veins and he’s twitching with each pass of your teeth over his bottom lip and your nose brushing against his.

“Thought about this for so long.”

He confesses it like it hurts, and you finally move your hand and his pretty hazel eyes roll back. You already miss it, his overawe gaze, and so you grip his thick throat just enough to grab his attention and fuck it does.

“Did you? You’re unbelievable, look at you Dex.”

You’re toying with him now. With his emotions. It seems that anything you say will dial him up to ten and it’s riveting. Your grip on his throat tightens just a little, Adam’s apple bobbing underneath your palm and his pulse fluttering like a moth underneath his flesh.

He looks at you with watery eyes, like everything is burning hot where embarrassment should be. Where shame should be. You lick his open mouth, taunting him despite the slickness between your thighs and the blossoming heat in your gut.

“When did you think about doing this? Tell me the truth, I know you can do it.”

He scrunches his eyebrows together when you start palming the tip of his velvety cock, focusing on the sensitive underside while trying to draw out a response. You tangle your free hand in his hair now, tugging. He makes a pathetic sound through his nose.

“A w-week after I met you, fuck slow down.”

He’s genuinely overwhelmed. You can’t believe it. He’s more capable of submission than you thought, more attuned to your movements and your voice than what seems possible for not having an intimate connection until now.

His scar twists everytime his mouth quirks from your hand stroking him, crows feet crinkling by his eyes.

You tug his head back by his scalp, kiss his throat again and this time you let your teeth graze the surface. Just testing the waters, and his stomach convulses.

You remove your hand and he could really cry. But you can feel that perhaps that was going to do him in, and he’d spill all over his lap and make a mess of your sheets and you just don’t want it to be over yet and neither does he and you both know that.

Shouldn’t he know how much you’ve thought of this too? How many nights you’ve touched yourself to the thought of him? How you came home the moment you saw him on your cameras?

“Please, goddamit.”

He curses, clenches his jaw and he’s only confused for a second whenever you bring your cupped hand up to his mouth. He meets your eye and you nod, he spits at once, and then your palm is back over him with the hot saliva coating his length.

He smirks again because you let out a small gasp you didn’t think he’d notice, his lovesick eyes wondering how your lips could be so kiss bitten and swollen already, how you’re doing so good at trying not to act like this isn’t working you up so bad you’re leaking and aching just like he is.

“You’re so big, I always knew you were.”

His head starts throbbing, you’re getting dangerously sweet on him. Now you’re focused on his cock, switching to the sight between his legs and then his face because you don’t know which one you’d rather admire.

And your body has gotten so close you might as well be on his lap now, your tits against his bicep and your knees knocking his hips. He wants to lift your skirt and bury himself between your thighs, to know what your face looks like when you’re getting fucked by him.

“You’ve thought about it too.”

You just smile at his musing, and it’s sweet and familiar and it’s the version of you that he knows so well and he surges forward to kiss you again. You’re receptive, suckling the bottom and using your grip on the hair at his nape as leverage.

It’s sloppy, wet and loud and he groans down your throat. Your stroking has picked up its pace, focused on the tip where that hot stickiness leaks and lavishing his shaft ever so often. You’ve now thrown a leg over his thigh, pulling it towards you and effectively spreading them apart further.

“Of course I have, look at you. You might never know how much I’ve really thought about you.”

You breathe it out, and his heart feels like it’s grown three sizes, like it’s being mutated in real time. It might be at risk for swelling so badly it bursts from behind his ribs.

He’d chuckle in disbelief if he weren’t ruined, gutted from the inside out.

And now you’re kissing all over his face, his sharp nose, the creases in his forehead and neck. You’re hot to the touch, almost as hot as he is and your movements are full of tremble like you’re forgetting you initially started in a position of control.

He wants you to get lost like he is. He wants you to not be able to control yourself, to have no lingering thoughts about anything other than him and his body and his mouth and how heavy he is in your grasp.

He wants you to consume him, wholly and completely.

His eyes are closed so all he feels is you crawling on top of him and he bucks his hips instinctually, the heat between your legs just above his left knee as you straddle it firmly.

It’s thick, meaty and the rough material of these black cargos he’s wearing bumps right against your clit through the fabric of your panties.

He wants to feel your naked hips underneath where your skirt has risen up around your soft waist, and your breasts in his palm and how your nipples would feel rubbing against his skin.

He feels you right here on his thigh and yet he knows that he wouldn’t risk moving a muscle without your permission as to not end what’s happening.

When you start rutting yourself on the fabric, though, dragging yourself all the way up and then down over his knee, he has to grab your hand and stop you from pumping him for a second

“Just a second…please.” He asks, and you oblige him only because he looks so pretty. God.

“Using your manners, good job Dex.”

You say it like you’re genuinely proud and his eyes flutter shut as you fight his hand and start stroking him again. He grits his teeth, jaw clenched so tight it could shatter but he is surrendering in a way he’s never surrendered before.

And you’re not lost on it. No, you’re good at reading people too. You can see how the praise colors him in a blanket of warmth and lust and lightheadedness.

But now your clit is throbbing and you feel yourself leaking into your panties, the fabric is sticking to you and drags wet heat against your slit whenever you grind against his thigh.

The sight is just too much for you. Everything is clinging to him, every muscle and ridge and scar. And he is so pliable, so heavy on your fingertips that you don’t know what to do with the reality of it all.

Your hips surge forward again, and a sigh so soft leaves your mouth that he hopes he can hear that sound forever. It’s an immediate realization, a blinding sensation. He sees you with so much clarity.

“You’re so fucking pretty.”

It comes out dazed and it takes you by surprise because you didn’t expect to ever hear the word pretty come out of his mouth. And for everything he is, all the horror and all the hurt and all the misunderstanding, honesty slips out of him like loose teeth when he’s around you.

He’s pliant when you pull him to your mouth, and the kiss is raw now because you let him grab your face and his hands feel better against you than your thoughts previously cojurned in half asleep daydreams. They’re big and rough and his fingers are eager just to feel your soft cheeks, the curve of your nose.

His mouth is vicious and his tongue is greedy, and he’s making little plaintive cries in the back of his throat like your lips might be his immediate demise and he’s thankful for it, grateful for it.

“More, give me more.”

You say it like a demand but your voice is thin and weak and he just bucks his strong hips to readjust before using two hands under your ass to slide you over the shaft of his cock.

You’re planted with his length directly against your covered slit and it’s heavy and hot and twitches against you when your body recognizes what’s touching you. Who it belongs to. What situation you’ve gotten yourself into and you know you won’t refuse him. That he can’t refuse you.

Your thighs squeeze together, trapped by his broad waist in between them. You feel him everywhere already, the push and pull. Not to mention you’re sticky where he’s bobbing against you, and his chest couldn’t be more prominent through his shirt when he’s heaving like he is.

“Whatever you want. Take it from me. I’m yours, fuuuuuck f-fuck are you-“

He’s never felt anything like it, the softness of your slit and how you could be so syrupy and wet already, seeping and covering his pink tip in your essence. You’re so hot between your legs it’s making him lightheaded.

And he really is stunned in place. His body reacts for him, stomach tensing and torso attempting to grind up into you and the worst part is that you let him. That you’re allowing any of this.

Because now it’s made a home in him, not just the scrunch of your nose when something makes you laugh, genuinely laugh, or the skin by your fingers that you’ve chewed off, or your cunt rutting against him.

He’s already not the same, whatever infatuation he had is now dangerous and heady and sifting through his head like it’s trying to find ways to make it stop because he really needs this job.

Unfortunately, he needs you more.

Because now he’s gripping your hips and prying his arm underneath your ass to pull your panties to the side and you’re caged against him with the air knocked out of your lungs. He’s solid and strong and you’re clumsy when you reach between your bodies to grab his cock and shove it past your silken slit.

You lift yourself by the knees, and then lower yourself and he’s completely seated inside of you with one exhale and maybe if it were anyone else you’d be embarrassed about the noise that leaves you.

“Oh god, fuck.” You whimper it out, and he trembles. The stretch is severe.

You cling onto his shoulders and he’s so hyper aware of the pouting of your lips and the scrunch between your brows, your eyes closing like you’re savoring him. He’s should feel guilty for his thoughts, for how insatiable and miserable he’ll make you if you ever try to leave because you’re fluttering around his cock and he’s kissing your cervix.

“Take your time, not going anywhere.”

He encourages, and you don’t really know what to do with yourself because minutes ago you thought you had your head on straight, that you knew how to navigate all of this and all of, well, him.

But he’s big and throbbing against your gummy walls and you didn’t think you could ever feel so full of someone. It’s incredible how he can become Dex so quickly, not the new hire or the assassin or the anti hero or the mercenary.

He’s greying hair and scarred skin and rushing blood beneath you. And when your arms fasten themselves tighter around his freckled neck, he drags himself out slowly, savoring the syrupy glide before pushing himself back in to the hilt.

You melt against him further, body weakening with the intensity and he smiles to himself, satisfied and sanguine at your disarming. At how your hips couldn’t be more loose on top of him, with all that tension and tightness right where he’s disappearing inside of and your voice all gooey and soft now in his ear.

God, he couldn’t have dreamed it would go like this.

“You’re p-perverted for breaking in.”

You taunt him while he begins pistoning himself inside of you, hiccuping each syllable. The sound of your wetness is as loud as his jerking off was, a terribly gut wrenching sound that makes his possessiveness that much worse.

And your words, they shouldn’t make him shudder and convulse the way they do but you’re saying it while he’s fucking you and you just can’t really blame him.

Your fingers are holding onto the back of shirt so tight, your cheek planted against the nook of his jaw and shoulder. You’re putty in his arms, and they’re tighter by the minute in their hold on your middle.

His hips are so powerful, and you wish you could think about how bad of an idea this is. You wish you could break yourself out of your fucked out stupor, but you didn’t know he’d fuck you this good. You didn’t know that he’d be so deep inside you’re sure you’ll be able to feel him tomorrow.

“I know shhh, I know,”

he grunts it against your hair, starts searching for the skin of your neck. He just hovers there with parted lips and a red face and that hot wetness hugging him with each thrust.

“but l-look at us, you feel so goooood fuck, look how it turned out, yeah?”

He sounds dirty, menacingly nasty in what he’s saying and how he’s saying it and most of all how true it is. You love it, it’s terrible that you love it and yet you were buzzing with excitement when you checked your cameras and saw his big frame sauntering in.

The wet squelching sounds between your legs intensify, and somewhere between the grind of your hips and your teeth against his neck you’re crying his name.

“Dexxxx, ohhhh my g-god, baby.”

His hips genuinely stutter and his stomach starts fluttering, you feel him tense and relax three times over and his torso grinds into you a bit harsher than before.

He never thought he’d hear you call him that, and he’s glad you can’t see his face because his expression is so fucked.

That word is reserved for people who care about each other. For people in love. For people who can say soft things and not feel ridiculous and out of place or like they don’t deserve to hear it at all.

“Don’t stop, j-just don’t stop please.” You beg petulantly, hands rubbing his broad back, ignoring the way his pace has faltered and he’s softly panting in your ear.

He laughs, and it’s short lived and airy but you feel it in his chest. He grinds himself deep and unfairly into you, pushing you down on him while he’s fucking up into you. He feels the blunt ends of your nails leaving crescent moons in his skin.

“W-why would I stop? I can’t, I can’t.”

It’s true, he can’t fathom it. The thought doesn’t even seem feasible right now. You’re so tight, squeezing around him and he can feel your heartbeat inside of you. Rocks you against him sturdy and hard.

It feels like forever, with him pounding himself into you and your insides being bullied. In reality it’s only about five minutes, and you’ve been sucking on the side of his neck and his earlobe and he’s balls deep - writhing his hips.

Your clit is being rubbed by his pubic mound and you feel so much intensely deep pressure from his thick cock inside you that you’re sure you’re gonna burst. You’ve started pulsing too, milking him for everything he’s got.

He really didn’t know that he could feel things this intensely that aren’t anger or despair.

It starts unraveling when you take yourself out of the crook of his neck and meet his face. He swears he sees a little drool seeping from the corner of your mouth, and you’re looking at him like he’s a completely new person.

Or maybe he’d just never noticed it before, because he was too wrapped up in noticing you. And the idea of you noticing him too felt unrealistic.

But no, no it’s real and happening and you’ve got both hands on his cheeks and your nose is against his, your hips swiveling on top of him and your pussy making a mess on his lap that he’d frame if it were practical to do so.

“It’s all mine now, right?”

You kiss his mouth when you say it, and then your hand is splayed against the broadness of his flexing chest and you’re shoving him back until he’s lying down on your mattress, staring at you with so much devotion it’s scary.

You readjust while he’s still inside of you, leaning over to kiss him again and he knows he’s going to finish in this position. He’s already hiked his feet up on the bed to fuck you good and hard and he hates that his boots are on your pretty covers but he’ll wash them for you.

“I’m yours. My dick is yours. Everything. Take it, just like tha-a-at.”

He’s whining and blotchy, and the strain in his throat makes you double over because you feel the white hot tension move in your stomach when his cock curves into the deepest parts of you.

You want it to be true, all of it, and the physical reality is too much for you to handle.

You shove your face in his neck because you don’t want him to see how completely ruined you look when you cum. No, everything is shaking and you’re trying to close your legs and the tingling and throbbing is working its way through you like a virus that’s got to fever you first.

“O-ohhh god, Dex m’cumming.”

You slur it and he thinks he might pass out because he can feel it happening. He squeezes you harder than he has the whole night, holds your wriggling body firm against his frame when he starts delivering his last round of thrusts into your cunt.

It’s trying to push him out, it’s contracting around his cock and kissing it and weeping for it. He’s never been so high off of anything he’s done to another human being. Not even the most rectified kills have felt like this.

“Oh f-fuck, gonna fill you all the way up, mmfuck, you’ll take all of it honey, yeah yeah yeah.”

He sounds delusional and dizzy, he’s past the point of trying to sound nice or sweet because his balls are tightening where they’re still tucked in his briefs and he has to practice restraint like he’s never known so that he doesn’t crush you in his arms accidentally.

You put your tongue in his mouth when you feel the staccato thrusts, the immediate heat that swells in the space between your walls as he pumps his seed into you. And he’s moaning like he’s hurt, mmm’s and ooohhhhh’s and his teeth on full display like a wild animal from the curling of his lip.

You let your mouth linger on his while he’s twitching and you’re still pulsing.

His hands find your face, and he sloppily makes out with you, almost casually if it weren’t for the tremors in his wrists or the scrunch of his brows or the way he’s keeping himself inside of you while his cock softens.

He’s happy. He realizes that’s the emotion he’s feeling when you look him in the eyes again, and your face still hasn’t changed from that soft and frowny pleasure contorted look quite yet.

You don’t want it to end either.

You’re sobering up, and the ache still isn’t going away. You’ve completely crossed a line that has sent you into a realm you won’t come back from - because now he won’t ever be the same to you.

You know what he tastes like, what he sounds in your ear when he feels good, what he’s truly capable of when he’s got your body in his hands.

“Stay.” You don’t ask, just state it plainly like it’s already decided.

It crushes him from the inside out. It’s too much of a good thing that he’s never gotten and if he didn’t work with you everyday he’d think you were being cruel, offering him such a sweet thing.

Don’t you know it’ll make it worse? That now he’ll be in here every waking moment he’s not working? That he will memorize every part of your life that you think others will never notice?

“Really?”

He asks, and you don’t expect him to sound so small after all of that. To look so pitiful and blushed crimson and spent now, with blonde hair sticking to his forehead.

You nod, kissing his nose and his hands are smoothing over your shoulders, down your arms and over your back. Explorative and greedy and you arch into them.

“You can help me put my window lock back in place, creep.”

His smile is completely and utterly Benjamin Poindexter this time.

[sweetjellytea]

blood-stained blond

benjamin poindexter x fem!reader

synopsis dex is bleeding half to death and becomes obsessed with how you look when you sleep. meanwhile you're trying to make him understand why you won't let him turn your apartment into a hospital room.

notes this is the end of 'part 1' so to speak :) thank you to everyone following this series so far!

tags hurt/comfort, romance, some humor, patching up, gendered nickname used, canon typical violence, descriptions of wounds, suggestive photographs, dex's spinal scar and chronic pain hcs, some suggestive content, discussions of suicidal ideation, mentions of religious beliefs

wc 6.7k

series masterlist • previous part • next part

There was a loud thump outside on your fire escape.

Hearing it should have frightened you out of your skin. It could have been a burglar and the unlucky apartment chosen happened to be yours. It could have been the sound of your upstairs neighbor’s ashtray falling off their railing and onto yours (which you already had to talk to them about twice before).

But you knew it wasn’t either of those things when you heard a second thump. This one louder, heavier. And then a stretch of silence that made you hold your breath. 

Nausea turned in your stomach and an unwelcome thought forced its way into your mind. 

You couldn’t explain it, but you knew what–or who–it was before you were even outside. The blanket over your lap was thrown off and forgotten as you shot up from the couch and ran for the balcony door.

All your fears were confirmed when you slid it open. 

What Dex told you about his job hadn’t made you blink twice since you last spoke. You told yourself that the man who could turn any item into a bullet just by wielding it had no reason to fear death. The man who had escaped prison not once, but twice and got away with murdering the matriarch of the Fisk underground crime ring had no choice but to believe he had nine lives. 

But that lost all meaning to you the moment you saw him sitting on your fire escape, slumped over and holding his side. There was a trail of dark crimson blood on the metal stairs that ended at his shadow visible in the pale moonlight. 

Cold fear tightened your lungs. 

Dex was hurt. Badly bleeding still, his breathing shallow and barely there. He must have dragged himself up the fire escape steps and gave up, falling against the railing once he saw the light coming from your door.

“Oh my god,” your voice broke as you dropped beside him. “Dex?”

He lifted his head when he registered you were speaking to him, and leaned back against the railing with a grunt of effort.

“I’m fine.” he said through gritted blood stained teeth, lips quivering into a pleased smile. “You had to live on the second-highest floor?”

Without wasting a second to respond to his smug statement, you reached for his arm and pulled it around your shoulders. 

“You’re bleeding, so I’ll move slow.” 

You were trying to stay calm at the sight of his blood seeping through his compression shirt, darkening the blue fabric. But your voice was shaking and giving you away.

“I can handle a little pain. Nothing I’m not–” he groaned when you helped him lift off the ground. “Fuck–not used to…”

“Stop talking.” you pleaded, dragging him into the threshold of your apartment. 

“Yes ma’am,” he dropped onto your couch like dead weight and you don’t even think about the blood he’s soaking into it. 

Anger bubbled up in your chest. How could he be so casual about this when you were about to lose it on him? He’s bleeding out, still shivering despite being in the warmth of the apartment now. 

“How long have you been like this?” 

You grabbed one of your dining chairs and sat across from him. He gave you a barely registered nod of consent when your trembling hands hovered over the harness on his chest. 

“Don’t know,” he winced when you unlatched his chest harness and dropped it onto the floor. “Saw you through the window. Your light was still on. Followed it without thinking.”

You gasped at the sight of the wound when you lifted his tight shirt. A long gash spread across his skin, definitely needing stitches and you were far from equipped to mend him. Tears brimmed in your eyes. 

“Not sure why I even came,” he mumbled, eyes glassy and unfocused, and panic gripped you harder at the sight. “Maybe I’m selfish. Wanted to…be with you. Even if it meant seeing me die.”

The tears came all at once, rolling down your face and clinging to your lashes. His gloved hand raised to your cheek, catching a salty tear and smearing your skin with his blood in the process. 

You shoved his hand away, rejecting his touch. He wasn’t doing it for your comfort, anyway. 

The crying never stopped even as you began cleaning the wound. You would wipe your tears on your sleeve when your vision became too blurry to continue. Then you’d check his eyes, gaze on you sometimes piercing, sometimes vacant as he was slipping in and out of consciousness. But always on you.

You knew he could tell you were checking for signs of life when you did it because he still had half a mind to twitch his lips into an exhausted smile. As if it was satisfying to him that you were fretting over him. Sobbing over him. Mourning him even though he was right in front of you.

His eyes shut again, listening to every sharp breath you took from crying, every sob you tried to hush, and imagined the salty taste of your tears on his lips.

Dex woke before sunrise. The only light in the room was the living room lamp, painting you both in soft dusky yellows. 

He was lying on your couch with an uncomfortable sting in his side and foggy memories of you stitching him back together. Pleading for him to stay awake, keeping him warm when he started to twitch and quiver from the blood loss.

You had paused with every few agonizing tugs of the needle to wipe your tears away. Or at least the ones that he hadn’t felt drop onto his skin while you worked. His shirt and gloves had been removed by you at some point but he must have been passed out during that part.

And there you still were beside him, with your chair pulled a little closer to the couch than he remembers. Your cheek rested on his thigh, head turned away from him so he couldn’t see the red streaks on your face from the crying or how you looked when you slept.

Dex didn’t stress over the inevitable crick in your neck you’ll get from your position. He just thought about how much he wanted you there, worried sick to tears over him and staying the night by his side in case his body went cold for good.

If you had the means, you’d give your own blood to keep him breathing. He heard it in the uneven rhythm of your breaths as you slept and the occasional frantic whisper that fell from your lips. 

You talked in your sleep. He’d remember that. If only you had elected to sleep with your head turned in his direction. Whatever image he was forming in his head, he knew you looked so much sweeter in reality. 

Another sharp pain shot through his side and he involuntarily twitched his leg that you were sleeping on. 

He held his breath. Prayed. Don’t move. Not yet. 

But your head shot up quickly when you woke, having never managed to make it to a deep sleep when you were so sick over him. 

“Dex,” you called his name before you even processed you were awake, and that made his chest tighten. 

“I’m good,” his voice rasped when he spoke. “I’m alive. Somehow.”

That was the wrong thing to say, apparently. He saw how your face scrunched up angrily at him. 

“Somehow?” you rubbed your eyes and leaned closer to his stomach, examining the bandages. “I spent a good hour trying to keep you from meeting God. That’s how you’re alive, you asshole.”

In his delirium he found your slip-up amusing, a smirk painting his lips. 

Meeting God after the life he’s lived. Dex didn’t believe in that stuff anyway. He wasn’t even sure if you did. If there was a God, he sure wasn’t looking out for Dex. 

You were, though. And his smirk melted into something softer.

“You are, by the way–selfish for coming here,” your voice trembled with indignation. “Making me drag you to my couch and soaking it with blood. And what would I have done if you died?”

“Could tell the police you caught me for them,” he suppresses another pained groan.

He paused when he saw the resulting anguish in your eyes.

“That’s not what I meant.” Your voice was small. Hurt. 

You couldn’t believe that after everything, he thought you were asking what you’d do with his body. Not what you’d do without him. Not if he had died on your watch, with you being the last to have touched him, the last voice he heard.

Maybe that’s why he came–so you’d be haunted by him forever. It both sickened you and sent a rippling ache through your heart.

Dex let his head fall back onto the couch in resignation. His fingers twitched, tapped the couch a few times. Your words must have gotten through to him.

You reached out, gripping his fidgeting hand in both of yours. 

“You need more rest.” you whispered. “We’ll talk in the morning.” 

A beat of silence between you.

Then, to your surprise, you watched him push himself further against the back of the couch. Just enough, like he'd admired your body from afar enough times to know exactly how much space to leave for you. 

He wasn’t looking at you, though. Like he was trying to save himself the trouble if you didn’t catch the meaning of his gesture.

A plethora of excuses came to your mind. I shouldn’t irritate the wound or it won’t be comfortable with us both. 

They were all abandoned when you rose from your stiff dining chair and pressed your knee onto the couch, the weight sinking beneath you. You lowered your body beside him and his arm had slid beneath you as you did, lying on your side with your head rested on his arm. It was much easier on your neck than your earlier position.

It terrified you how icy his skin still was. So lifeless and frail. Nothing like the usual heat you felt whenever he was near. 

You stared at him in the dim living room light. He was already staring at you. Not willing to let you escape his wish to see what you looked like as you slept. 

It was silent, but not uncomfortably so. Even with your heart pounding rhythmically, and your chest rising and falling a little faster from the proximity. It was the kind of quiet that spoke louder than any words you could say to one another right now. 

With your eyes scanning his face, you lifted your weight onto your elbow. It was easier to see him this way since he was confined to lying on his back. He watched you look down at him, gaze flickering over your face. Cataloguing every flaw and feature to memory even though by now he could place your lips alone out of hundreds of pairs.

You were doing the same. Remembering when you first saw him, the glance you stole when he was unaware. You hand lifted to his cheek. His chest stuttered when you dragged your thumb over the jagged scar he had there. Back and forth, slowly, your lips parted ever so slightly. 

He watched you for as long as he could. His slow blinking became occasional squints as he tried to keep his eyes open, but once you heard his shallow, even breaths you knew you had lulled him to sleep. 

You stayed right where you were. The sight of his face, relaxed for once instead of tense from his mind running faster than he could catch up to it made you tender. But then, that awful, harrowing thought made you hollow again. 

That you almost lost him.

The sight of him gasping and bleeding was all too sobering. It reminded you of a fact you had spent too long ignoring, too caught up in uncovering what he hid beneath the surface to acknowledge. That Dex wasn’t invincible.

Eventually, his nine lives would run out.

So you stayed bent over him, listening to him breathe until the cusp of blue hour broke through the window. Afraid the room might become silent of his breaths if you didn’t watch over him, or that his body would go cold if you weren’t there to keep him warm.

The restlessness in your bones made your joints tingly and numb. Exhaustion crept into your body and with a gentle push off the couch, you sat up. Looked about the room.

The gear you had haphazardly stripped from him was strewn on the floor at your feet. You reached for the leather chest harness he kept his gun in. 

The dull sound of the metal latch involuntarily put the memory of removing it from him into your mind. Your fingertips ran over the cool leather, caressing it the way you did his skin moments before.

Your fingers stopped when you reached the small pocket meant for a smaller throwing knife. When your fingers tucked into the pocket, you felt the worn texture of old paper.

As if this night couldn't get anymore complicated, you pulled it out. This moment was so familiar to you and even pulled a soft laugh out of you.

Remembering the first time you found this folded up square in a CD case in his apartment. Dex hiding it from your eyes before you came over so you wouldn't think he was a creep.

But now, to find it in the harness he wore to his very dangerous job, in the very pocket that rested just over his heart...

It was so unfair of him. The way that he cared for you was tender and punishing at the same time. Loving you from a distance. Loving you as an observer and never sharing himself with you. Loving you, whether that love be platonic or not, and not caring if you loved him too by walking into danger every single night.

You wished he knew how it felt for you. To be cared about in a manner that's self-serving. To do things for yourself and not considering how it might affect him.

But on the contrary, that was the only love he knew. At least, before you.

That thought softened your resolve.

Fine. You could cut him a break—but you wouldn't let him get away with it completely.

Dex’s mind was quiet when he slept for once. Whether to credit the blood loss making him delirious or your body heat keeping him grounded during the night, he didn’t know. But he was certainly partial to one of those in particular. 

It was the sensation of his phone vibrating in his pocket that woke him. Anticipating the call to action had become a constant he relied on, but lately it felt like he was only getting sent away when he was with you. But it’s not like he had many career options left. 

Speaking of, you seemed to have left him during the night. Slipped away, likely into your bedroom. He was watching your closed door unwaveringly the entire time he was getting ready. The pain still echoing in his side from the still fresh wound was nothing compared to the wanting thoughts coating his mind.

He wanted into your bedroom. Badly. 

Dex never got to see your sleeping face like he wanted to because he fell asleep first the night before. He was almost pissed off at you for taking his chance away like that after he let you sleep beside him. 

Even while he was on his mission, stalking his target with the deadly stillness of deep water, his mind was on that closed bedroom door. Taunting him with the morning light that shone from under the crack. Beckoning him closer. 

The urge to turn the knob and take a peek at you sunk its claws into him. He knew most people kept their most intimate items where they slept, too. Old family photos, poorly written poetry, keepsake boxes kicked under the bed. Dex wanted to know if you had any of them. 

But he had resisted for one reason alone: you hadn’t invited him in.

It was a strange feeling to be stuck outside your door with some invisible force keeping his boots rooted to the ground. Like he was a vampire who needed permission to enter a home. Like he was above sneaking into your room while you slept. 

You hadn’t invited him in. 

Did he ever ask you permission for anything before? No. So why now was he suddenly unable to act? 

That question plagued his mind as he stepped out of hiding to take out his target. By now, completing a mission like this was second-nature to him; but he went a little overboard on securing his kill so he could feel his stitches tug and sting. 

When it was over, Dex slipped his mask off to breathe the cold night air into his lungs, catching his breath. He reached into the pocket of his gun harness as he always did afterwards and pulled the folded square he knew would be in his pocket.

This was his ritual after a mission. It kept his thoughts at bay, kept his mind quiet.

But when he pulled it out in his gloved hand, he immediately noticed something off with it. The paper wasn’t worn and flexible from being folded and unfolded time and time again. The red ink that had become splotched and runny wasn’t visible on the back anymore.

He quickly unfolded it.

Oh.

That’s not right.

When you had found the photo in his harness, you didn’t just find it touching. You saw it as an opportunity. If he wanted to play around with his life and show up scaring the soul out of you, then you could have your own fun too.

You had taken the stolen photo back and replaced it. With your beach photo. He’d seen it before, your figure lying on the sand with a silk veil draped over you. The outline of your body was barely visible through it, every curve or straight line appearing like carved stone. You looked like art, in short.

It wasn't like you gave him a nude—your pose and some help from the natural shadows covered enough to make it barely not x-rated.

Dex didn't find any of this as amusing as you did. It sent blood rushing away from his head and he was supposed to be calming himself down. Not working himself up. He was caught between irritation and arousal, both combining into a frustrating cocktail of inconvenient emotions he wasn't expecting to feel when he reached into his pocket initially.

And after he was so nice about not coming into your room earlier, too. He took some comfort in the fact that the correct photo was at least safe with you, but still. Not cool. 

That photo was his. 

He took another look at you posed on the sand. Ignored the burning heat on his skin. Folded it up into a square. And shoved it back into the holster.

He'd deal with you once he got home to New York.

The dull pattering of rain outside the window was a welcome start to your Saturday evening. It was thundering, the grey sky flashing with lightning and the air outside muggy and uncomfortably warm. 

You were safe and sound in your apartment with a hot cup of tea, because no one in their right mind would step out into weather that bleak and unfavorable. 

None except Dex apparently. 

You were standing in your kitchen when you heard a drop onto your fire escape. This time, not producing a sound that sent you into cardiac arrest. 

The mug in your hand was set down in favor of stepping out into the living room and looking at your fogged up screen door. You could see his shadow outside the door and your lips curved into a smile.

Dex,—still clad in his full Bullseye suit and gear—pointed to the door handle, signaling for you to open up for him. You shrugged your shoulders in a mock question, as if you couldn’t understand what he was asking.

You watched him raise a gloved hand to the foggy glass. He dragged his finger across it, drawing a target symbol into the window. Then, he pointed at you through the center of the target. That got a giggle out of you.

When you slid the door open, he came in dripping wet. He must have just returned from his mission. One you wanted to punch him for going on considering he had just been gravely injured the night before.

You almost flipped out when you left your room in the morning and saw that he and all his things were gone. Leaving behind only the blood stained into your sofa and memories that made you short of breath.

“Where is it?” he asked, not even bothering to greet you first.

“What, you don’t use the front door anymore?” you crossed your arms over your chest and looked into his eyes. “Is this some kind of villain protocol I wasn’t aware of?”

“The photo,” he emphasized through tightened lips, which he only did when he was wound up. Your joke on him must have really hit a nerve.

“Who’s asking? Bullseye?” you gestured to the mask he was wearing. “Because I believed it was Dex who that photo belonged to.”

You were trying to get on his case, yes. And you did think he was hot with the mask on, yes. But you liked his face a whole lot more. You knew he’d oblige if you asked, too.

He huffed out a breath and slipped the mask off his face. The way his blond hair stuck up for a moment made your smirk widen. Cute. Like a vicious golden puppy.

“What, you didn’t like the new one?” you teased.

“I–” you watched his throat twitch as he swallowed hard. “I like it. But.”

The other one is special. 

Your heart leaped at the unspoken words. Even with your (artistically) revealing photo in his possession, he was still missing the original. 

“Okay, fine. You can keep both.” you sighed out mockingly, like this was all a big inconvenience for you.

His shoulders relaxed.

“Follow me, I’ll get it for you,” you said over your shoulder, starting down the hall. “It’s in my bedroom.”

Then his body went taught.

Permission. Explicit, intentional permission for him to enter your bedroom. To think he had been driving himself mad the past 24 hours, trying to find a reason for his reluctance to sneak inside, and now here you were with an open invitation. 

It was like you could read his mind. Anticipate just what he wanted from you without having to ask. But you were still always asking him anyway, just to rile him up. And he would entertain your questions because he was always rewarded for it.

Such as now, as he stood in the door frame of your bedroom. Different than he envisioned when he was outside of it yesterday morning, but still so you that it almost suffocated him.

His eyes went straight to your bed (which you forgot to make this morning). Not because he was curious about the colors and patterns of your sheets. But because he had a suspicion to confirm. 

The shark plush was, in fact, there on your bed. Dex just knew you slept beside it nightly based on how it was partly concealed by your quilt.

He had the urge to hide it from you. It came over him so quickly he didn’t know what to do with it. So, he let it keep reeling. 

He had finally gotten a taste of what it was like to be that plush in the photo. Taking up a space at your side, being pressed to you until his scent was indistinguishable from yours. And now he wanted more.

Without it, you'd still need something to hold at night.

He stepped into your room finally, watching your back. You were digging through your dresser drawer, searching for the photograph you owed him.

No one ever gave him their back. Not anymore. It was too big a risk. But there you were, knowing anything in your bedroom could be weaponized against you by him, and still–you trusted him.

When you turned back around, folded photo in hand, he didn’t have the chance to fix his face into something more pleasant for you. 

His hand brushed yours when he took the photo from you and he tucked it away into his pocket. 

Your gaze dropped from his face down to his side. He had half a mind to think you may have been checking him out before his erratic brain remembered your fingers had been digging in his wound just two days ago.

“How’re your stitches doing?” you asked, concern veiling your voice.

Dex thought back to the feeling of them pulling apart during his mission last night. “Could use a touch-up.”

While he was eager to get you fussing over him again, he also knew you’d have to leave the room to get the first-aid supplies.

And you did, not before giving him a gentle scolding that he was reckless and needed to take it easy. “I’ve still got blood stains on my couch, by the way."

“Comes out easy with hydrogen peroxide.” he called after you.

“I’ll ignore how fast you answered that.” 

Once your voice was far enough away, Dex walked to your still open dresser drawer and peered inside. As he thought, it was an underwear drawer so he diverted his attention quickly beside it and spotted your laundry hamper.

Resting on top was a crumpled pajama set with a blur of navy blue mixed into the pile.

His hoodie. On your pajamas. You wore it to bed. It wasn't a question in his mind. There's no other reason for it to be there, tangled up in your sleep clothes. Dex tore his eyes away from the sight when he felt a tug at his heart.

He stepped away from the hamper and moved to your bedside table.

Slow and stealthy, he pulled the top drawer open and catalogued what you kept inside. Supplements. Meds. Sleeping pills. An expensive chocolate bar you were saving for later. Half-stamped rewards card for a local book store. Wired earbuds. 

He shut it and opened the bottom drawer. Raspberry gum. Receipt for the overpriced chocolate bar. And pressed to the very back of the drawer—a worn journal.

That urge, much like before, rushed through his veins without warning. Take it. It wasn’t so much a thought as it was a need to be met. An itch he couldn’t ignore.

With a quick glance at the door to make sure you weren’t coming, he pulled the journal from the drawer. It was closed securely with an elastic cord he pushed aside. 

Dex flipped to the last page. It was dated back a week ago. He didn’t even read what was on the page. Just skimmed to see if his name was written. Eyes darting to every capital D on the page until...

“Sorry it took so long,” your voice called from the hall. 

It startled him from his snooping and he tore the page out, shut the journal closed, and shoved it back in the drawer.

You appeared in the doorway holding the kit. 

He was sitting at the edge of your bed, resting weight on his hands behind him. You sat beside him and opened the kit up on your quilt, grabbing tweezers and a cotton ball.

“Let’s see the damage,” you requested, “probably just needs to be cleaned since you don’t seem to be bleeding through your clothes this time.”

“Sure thing doc.” he murmured sarcastically at your jab. 

You watched him unlatch the chest harness and remove his gloves. Unblinking, eyes half-lidded following his hands. Not to watch for the off-chance he might use them against you, though. He realized when he saw how your chest rose and fell a little faster. Your lips parted. This time, you were definitely checking him out.

He lifted his shirt haphazardly with no regard for his injury, tossing it over his head. 

You winced at the sight. “You can afford to be more careful, Dex.”

But all he could focus on was the cadence in which you said his name. There was some dried blood underneath the bandages, indicating he had bled a little from the pulled stitches during his mission.

You tutted and shook your head. The sight pleased him and he didn’t bother hiding that on his face, leaning back on his hands again.

With the cotton ball squeezed between the tweezers prongs, you began cleaning up the wound.

“Have I mentioned I hate your job?” you mumbled.

“Didn’t need to.” 

He watched your face. How your eyebrows scrunched together in concentration. How your tongue peaked out when you were focusing. Both more than reason enough to crawl to you every time he got hurt from now on. 

"Well, I do," you spat. "And I hate how much you don't seem to care what happens to you."

Oh, he realized. So that's what had you so pissed at him.

“How’d you deal with this before me?” you asked, reaching back into the kit for another cotton ball. “Better question, how have you never succumbed to your injuries by now?”

“A lot of luck. And some help,” he hissed when you pulled at his stitches. Maybe on purpose. For some reason his mind went back to that racy photo of yours when you did.

“Yeah, well.” you pulled away and closed the kit. “Good thing you’re so popular.”

A breathy laugh escaped him at that. Then, he leaned down to reach for his shirt and heard you gasp. A horrified, sharp intake of air.

When he turned back to you, brow furrowed, you had your hand over your mouth. It reminded him of your expression when you found him bleeding out on your fire escape.

You motioned with your hand for him to turn his back to you again. 

Oh. Right. That.

He assumed you had just wanted to see his scar again out of morbid curiosity. It was pretty gnarly, a crooked red centipede-like line down his back that never healed right. 

But then he felt your hand on his back. A warm contrast to the cold that always crept onto his skin there from the cogmium replacing what was once bone and rushing blood. 

He let out an involuntary groan when your nails inadvertently met the indent in his skin. 

You pulled your hand back quickly. “I-I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

He shook his head. God no. It was the exact opposite.

“No,” he rasped. “First time in a while it’s stopped hurting, if you can believe it."

His eyes fell shut as he anticipated the next touch of your hand now that he had eased your worries. When it came, he let out a deep, pleasured sigh. 

Your fingertip traced his scar from between his shoulder blades all the way down to his lower back, stopping just at the waistband of his pants. 

“How did this happen?” 

Your voice was so small. You weren’t asking about the cause. You wanted to know who did this to him. Who would hurt him like this.

“Same thing that always happens to me.”

His words were intentional. Void of any responsibility. Unwilling to acknowledge his part in any of it. As if nothing was consequence to him. As if things were just done to him with no rhyme or reason.

“I wouldn’t have let that happen to you.”

He had to laugh at your words even though they were far removed from humor. It was an automatic reaction caused by a sudden breathlessness in his chest. A sound akin to a cough, trying to get air back into his lungs while he tried to derive meaning from your simple phrase. 

But maybe there was some truth to it. You weren’t just a presence to aspire to, or just a constant he could guarantee in his otherwise out of control life like he thought you’d be to him.

You were more. More than his pain. More than his self-loathing. More than his anger.

He thought this was about getting to know you. Dissecting you. Taking your photos and ripping out diary pages and ordering the same food as you at breakfast to know what you were tasting.

But you were dissecting him, too, and he was too distracted to notice. Taking his knife and leaving it hung on your wall, soaking your hands in his blood, wearing his hoodie to bed so you’d smell his presence beside you. 

You craved him just as much as he did you. 

And it wasn’t clarity that hit him in that moment. It was a gripping terror that seized him, sinking its claws in deep around his heart. Because everyone who’s ever been close to him has wound up dead, by his own hands or otherwise.

That swarmed in his head mercilessly. His body trembled. He couldn't quiet the onslaught of fear that settled in his mind and blocked him from hearing anything but shrill, unrelenting noise.

Then, soft pressure on his back. Warm and inviting between his shoulder blades. He’d traced the shape of your lips with his gaze enough times to know you had them on his skin. Kissing the ugly scar he had just revealed to you.

A violent shiver ran down his back. But pleasant. Then cold again when you pulled away. 

“Again.” he knew it sounded demanding. But really he was begging. “…Please.”

It was unfair how easily you remedied his pain. And now that he had proof that it was you who made all of it better, tangible in the way your lips calmed the chronic ache in his body, and the one in his mind telling him he was broken--he wasn't going to give you another chance to slip away from him.

In a motion so swift it nearly startled you, Dex turned towards you and slid his hand through your hair to grip the nape of your neck. Using the leverage to pull you closer to him as he leaned down to your level, his fingers pressing against your skin where he held you.

You gasped sharply when his nose brushed yours, and he felt your breath on your lips. Quick, uneven. But not afraid. Never afraid.

He swallowed hard, his grip on your nape tightening as if he was trying to hold back. The only thing preventing him from having you was that annoying voice in his head again. Permission.

“Dex…” your lips trembled out his name. 

And then he was done for.

His fingers pressed into your nape, guiding your lips to crush against his. You let out a surprised wince at the feeling of your teeth clashing, hands flying to his face so you could fix you both into a softer angle.

But he thought you were trying to pull away, and he let go of you swiftly. If he didn't release you from his grip entirely right then, he wasn't going to have the strength to.

You, on the other hand, weren't done just yet. You weren't going to let him sink into dejection when you so clearly wanted him. Needed him.

So you took his face into your hands, turning his head back towards you and pressing your lips against his in one smooth motion. Only relaxing into it when you felt him kissing you back again with just as much desperation.

With your eyes half-lidded, you caught him watching you. You had only been trying to check for his expression, and it tore you up inside to realize he already had his eyes on you. Wanting to see your face for himself as you both kissed, every micro-expression as you melted between want, fondness, and most prominent in the way your eyebrows scrunched as you bit his lip—greed.

It was a good thing you were both sitting, because your knees weakened when you felt his tongue brush yours. A soft grunt into your mouth from his throat that made your other hand fly to his hair. Pulling on dirty blond strands, tugging roughly just to hear him crumble from how much you needed him. Because you were falling apart at his proof of how much he needed you, too.

His hands reached out to guide you when you shifted onto your knees on the mattress, crawling into his lap without breaking the kiss. Your lungs burned and you could tell his did too when your hands fell to his chest and found it motionless from his lack of air intake.

But you wouldn't part just yet. You were too busy devouring him, tasting the lies he fed you on his tongue and how they unraveled into sweeter truths over time.

And he was just as gone as you were, soft groans leaving his mouth. Possessive, but also frustrated that he couldn't consume you completely. That he couldn't read your thoughts just by kissing you. Something this intimate should let him peer into your mind, he thought. His hands gripped your hips tighter, squeezing over your hipbones and then groping the flesh of your stomach above it in a way that made you shiver and finally break from his lips.

His hand lifted back up to the back of your neck, keeping you there against him. Not letting you stray too far. He wanted you to breathe against him just like that, with his forehead pressed to yours so only he could have the air from your lungs.

Dex's hands then dropped back to your middle, pulling you against him until no space remained. He dropped his head against your chest, no longer panting for air but still trying to get a grip on himself. Your lips pressing a kiss to his head in that same instance both soothed and tortured him more.

He retaliated by gripping your hips again and flipping you both, letting you fall back against your unmade bed with a gentle bounce. He leaned over you, watching your coy smile melt into timidness the longer he stared.

“Have you blinked in the past ten minutes?” you teased, lips stretching into a grin.

Dex, unimpressed by your comment, leaned down to swallow your laugh with another kiss. His teeth sank into your bottom lip as punishment and he delighted in the pained whine from your throat that followed when he bit you harder.

He pulled back to look at you again.

“I let you get away with a lot.” he said. “Not anymore.”

“We’ll see about that,” you hummed gently, your hands around the back of his neck. “And just so you know—if you show up at my door on the brink of death again, I’m making you sleep outside.”

“What, like a dog?” he huffed, leaning down to catch your lips again. But you turned your head, making him press against your cheek instead. “I think a bullet in the side is punishment enough.”

“Dex.”

Your voice came out so stern it made his blood run cold. He pulled back to look down at you.

“I used to have my coffee by myself every morning. Then I’d work all day and come home to my empty apartment, and all I’d think about was how the next day would be the same lonely routine. I'd stay up late just to put it off,” your voice wavered. “But I don't lose sleep anymore. Because you’re always around."

His chest tightened.

“Don’t make me go back to being alone," you pleaded.

Don't go where I can't reach you.

You weren’t mad at him for being away. You were terrified of the very same thing he was—that every goodbye would be the last.

He had people who wanted him dead, and you had…well, him. The man who was cursed to be alone, death tainting every person who ever got close enough to touch him.

If that curse took you next...

“I could say the same to you.”

You gave him a watery smile. “I told you before. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dex believed you, because he wasn’t going to let you out of his sight ever again. He wouldn’t give anyone the chance to take you away from him.

Instead of going to the diner, you both had tea in your apartment. You let the rain be a backdrop as he helped you clean his blood off your sofa that afternoon, music playing from your speaker as you did.

You asked Dex to stay the night. You didn't want to part from him just yet. He didn't tell you that he planned to stay anyway as he accepted your invitation.

And as you lied beside him in your messy sheets, curling yourself into his chest to listen to his steady heartbeat, he made sure not to fall asleep first this time. Observing your face in the moonlight creeping through the curtains as you dreamed away. Stealing a kiss from your sleeping lips before letting you rest.

The page he ripped from your diary was still in his pocket, too. He couldn't wait to read what you'd written about him.

a/n i had this absolutely amazing art in mind when writing part of the kiss. i def believe dex would have his eyes wide open while kissing someone especially for the first time.

feedback always welcomed and appreciated! tysm to everyone in my taglist for following the story so far. and to everyone reading regardless of course!

taglist @bakameeee @not-the-teen-witch @snowwythegloww @altgojo @ficcharsimpsblog @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @thecityofspareparts @that1weirdweebgirl @mariayjws5 @doesanyonereadthis @nghtwngs @angel113431 @star-yawnznn @ethereal-athalia @babybat161 @bubbletae7 @lettucel0ver @americanadolls @starlitflora @castawaybarnes @kakuchosbff @sadest-bookshelf @purpledummmy @eriberry2000 @avidreader73 @yujyujj @mossmydarling @clowninavan @coolvoidfire

[geminiwritten]

friends don't ; joaquín torres

summary: it was only ever supposed to be casual. convenient. roommates with benefits—two rules: no kissing, no falling in love. but when joaquín returns from a week-long mission and his mother comes to stay, tensions rise, jealousy snaps, boundaries blur, and breaking those rules becomes inevitable.

notes: surprise joaquín fic?! my goodness, i've been working on this for months (so i'm sorry if it feels disjointed). i abandoned it back in july and have been slowly adding to it but just recently got the urge to fully finish it, so here ya go! i hope it's good? i hope it's enjoyable? it was really fun, more angsty than i originally planned, and a little more lyrical than i ever intended? i also did a lot of random research for this fic... so please (as always) let me know what you think!!! (and i made a playlist)

warnings: so many metaphors and similies (like seriously, i'm sorry), nevada slander (i'm sorry, again! i just chose a desert state, i promise there's no meaning behind it), jealousy, tension, a bit of angst, italics, likely incorrect spanish, denial (duh), and SMUT (dirty talk-ish, f oral receiving, making out, unprotected p in v, and sorry if it sucks i feel like i struggled with the last spicy scene) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 18779

It started on a random Tuesday night.

You’d been living with Joaquín for almost six months at that point—after years of friendship forged through comms static and high-stakes calls working for the United States Air Force.

You were his handler back in the day. You worked for a joint taskforce—half independent intelligence, half Air Force—coordinating tactical comms and field support. Joaquín was one of your primary field assets, and you were the voice in his ear. You watched his vitals, fed him real-time intel, and talked him out of some seriously bad situations.

After a while, he stopped feeling like an asset and more like a friend—a good friend. You trusted each other more than anyone else in the field. And even after he got pulled into Captain America's world and rotated out of your roster, you stayed close.

You left the handler life not long after—burned out from too many ops gone wrong, long hours, and the creeping sense that your whole life was passing you by. Now you’re a threat analyst contractor—still intelligence, just less intense. More sane. You pick your own hours, turn down jobs that feel like lost causes, and best of all, you get to do most of it from home.

When Joaquín officially inherited the Falcon wings, he started looping you in again—running contracts through Sam’s office, bringing you back into the fold, piece by piece. The work felt familiar. So did he. And when he brought up the idea of sharing an apartment in D.C., it made perfect sense.

Rent was brutal. Joaquín was gone on missions half the time anyway. And you already knew each other well enough to live in sync—how to read each other’s moods, how to exist in tight spaces without getting on each other’s nerves.

You trust him—always have—and the first six months were easier than you imagined.

Then… that Tuesday night happened.

You were sitting on the couch sharing a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some action movie Joaquín had put on while you complained about the lack of fuckable men in your life. Joaquín, of course, acted all offended and joked about how incredibly fuckable he was—at which you snorted, but silently agreed.

There was one long, charged second where neither of you knew what to say.

Then Joaquín said it. He offered. Asked if you wanted to have sex—no strings, just good old-fashioned stress relief between friends.

You hesitated, of course. Torn between tearing off your—admittedly sexy—best friend’s clothes, or telling him that in no way was this kind of arrangement a good idea. You didn’t want to ruin what you had. Living with him was great, and the thought of messing all that up made you nauseous.

But then he licked his lips. Raised a brow.

And something deep inside you snapped.

You agreed. With two conditions: no kissing, and no falling in love.

Simple, right?

Well, you thought so. Until you found yourself under him—or on top of him, or beside him, or in some other twisted position—every second night. Panting, whimpering, crying out his name while he made you come with his mouth, his fingers, his very impressive cock. Once you started, you couldn’t get enough.

And slowly—somehow—you started feeling different. About him. About everything. Different in a way that made your heart race, your cheeks flush, and your stomach do weird somersaults every time he flashed that boyish grin.

You haven’t quite admitted it yet, but you’re pretty sure you’ve gone and broken one of those rules.

And not even the one that should have been the easiest to break—because even after almost three months of being roommates with benefits, you still haven’t kissed him. Not once. Not even almost.

The click of the front door lock startles you. You blink hard at the TV screen you’ve been pretending to watch for the past few hours, then crane your neck to peer over the back of the couch. And sure enough, there he is.

His curls are damp from the rain, clothes a little soaked too, and there are deep purple circles beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted—but somehow, still gorgeous. Still infuriatingly hot, even though you’re pretty sure he hasn’t slept the entire week he’s been gone.

“Hey,” you call, pushing up from the couch.

He drops his duffel and kicks off his shoes. “Hey,” he says, eyes lighting up the second they land on you. “I missed you.”

And God, it doesn’t help when he says things like that.

You roll your eyes and walk around the couch, leaning a hip against the back of it while he shrugs out of his wet jacket and hangs it on the rack by the door. The apartment isn’t huge—just an open-plan living and dining space, with the kitchen off to the side—which means there are only a few strides left between you and him.

“Don’t roll your eyes when I say that,” he adds. “I’m allowed to miss my best friend after being forced to spend a week in hell—or Nevada, as the locals like to call it.”

You laugh quietly, folding your arms just to stop yourself from reaching out. Because holy shit, you've missed him—but you’re not about to admit it out loud.

He misses his best friend.

You miss the boy you’re in love with.

It’s not the same. Not even close.

“I almost cried when it started raining on the cab ride home,” he says with a soft chuckle. “The desert sucked. I’m never going back there. I told Sam he can find a new Falcon if he wants to do more recon in a state that’s more red dirt than grass.”

“Wow,” you mutter. “Maybe Sam should find a new Falcon, then. One that complains less.”

He narrows his eyes as he steps forward, slowly closing the distance between you.

“You know,” he says, stopping barely a foot away, “this isn’t the kind of welcome I was hoping for.”

You lift a brow. “And what exactly were you hoping for?”

He shrugs, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Candles. Rose petals. Romantic music.” He steps in again, eyes dragging up your body—slow and deliberate. “You. On my bed. Naked.”

Your heart thuds in your throat, and heat blooms across your skin, but you refuse to let it show. You won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You’re used to this—to him. He was flirty even before you started sleeping together, but now? Now it’s like making you blush is his full-time job.

“Really?” you ask, keeping your voice level. “Didn’t think you’d be up for it tonight. Aren’t you tired?”

“Never too tired for you, baby,” he mutters—low and dangerous—as he closes the space between you entirely.

His hands find your waist and his lips drop to your neck, just above the collar of your shirt—his shirt—where he knows exactly how to make you sigh.

And you do.

Like you’ve been holding your breath all week, just waiting for his touch. And now, with his soft lips and wet tongue drawing a slow bruise into your skin, just above your shoulder—you can finally breathe again.

“Joaquín,” you whisper, “I’m your roommate, not your—”

He shoves his body against yours, the unmistakable, rock-hard length beneath his jeans pressing into your hip.

“Cariño,” he murmurs against your neck, “I’ve been living in a one-bedroom safe house with Sam for seven days. I haven’t come since you made me before I left. If I don’t come inside you tonight, it’ll be into my own hand while thinking about you. And I know which I’d prefer.” He presses a wet kiss just beneath your jaw. “What do you prefer?”

Your eyes almost roll back as he slides one hand beneath your shirt, fingers digging into the flesh at your waist. His lips continue their assault on your neck—sucking, licking, biting, soothing—while you choke back moans and grip the front of his shirt for dear life.

“Come on, baby,” he sighs, breath hot on your skin. “Don’t make me beg.”

You bite back a grin as you tip your head back, breath stuttering. “Maybe I want you to beg.”

He pulls back—lips puffy, eyes glazed, that familiar smirk still very much in place. “Want me to beg?” he echoes, brows lifting. “I’ll do it. I’m not ashamed.”

Then, slowly, he drops to his knees in front of you. His hands slide down your body, igniting fires in their wake and making your pulse stumble.

“I want to fuck you so bad, baby,” he mutters, tongue darting across his lower lip. “Please let me.”

The sight of him makes your knees weak—curls tousled, lips damp, eyes dark with lust and something darker, hungrier. God, if you said no to a man like this, you’d have to be insane.

Your breath hitches as he lifts the hem of your shirt and presses a kiss just above the waistband of your sweatpants.

“Please, cariño,” he whispers. “Please let me fuck you.”

He slowly pulls the grey fabric down, sliding it over your hips until it drops in a pool at your feet—leaving only a lacy pair of pink panties between him and what he wants.

You lean harder against the back of the couch, gripping it like a lifeline as he leans in again, lips brushing the tops of your thighs.

“Gonna need you to say something, baby,” he murmurs.

You swallow hard and let out a shaky breath. “Yes,” you manage. “Yes, Joaquín, you can f-fuck me.”

He grins up at you—boyish charm and deadly intention—as his fingers hook beneath your panties and slide them down. You gasp at the sudden exposure, and before you can say or do anything else, his hands grip the insides of your thighs and part them. Your grip tightens on the couch before your knees can give out, and you hear him chuckle as your legs shake with anticipation.

“So wet already,” he breathes, face barely an inch away. “Mierda, cariño… ¿todo esto para mí?” (Shit, baby… all this for me?)

You nod, once, because you know you can’t speak. Not with him on his knees. Not with his mouth so close to your cunt. Not after a whole week of that useless vibrator, waiting for him to get back.

“Been thinkin’ about this pussy all week,” he mutters, eyes locked on the apex of your thighs like he’s praying.

Then he hitches one of your legs over his shoulder—and his mouth is on you.

Warm, wet, and worshipful, he licks a slow stripe through your folds, lips and tongue coaxing every nerve alive. You gasp, fingers flying into his curls, and your back arches as a strangled moan slips free.

He works you open like he’s savouring every second, tongue deliberate and unhurried, lapping up every drop like it means something. A low moan rumbles in his throat—part pleasure, part hunger—and the vibration shoots straight through you.

Your hips twitch. Your grip tightens in his hair. He doesn’t flinch.

One hand steadies the back of your thigh. The other slides between your legs, fingers teasing your soaked entrance while his mouth keeps working, determined and relentless.

“Fuck,” he groans. “She missed me, huh?”

Two fingers push inside you—slow, careful, deep—and your whole body jolts. You cry out before you can stop yourself, head tipped back as he curls them just right, dragging along that spongey spot that makes your knees buckle.

His mouth stays pressed against you, tongue flicking over your clit in perfect rhythm with every thrust of his hand.

Your breath stutters. Your legs shake.

He’s so good at this. Too good. It’s almost unfair—the way he pulls you apart with his mouth and fingers like it’s nothing. Like he was made for it.

“Joaquín,” you whisper, barely able to speak. “I—fuck—”

He hums again, lips sealed to you like he can’t stand to let go. His fingers move faster, deeper, knuckles brushing as he works you open. Your whole body tightens, strung up and ready to snap.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice ruined and reverent. “Come for me, baby.”

It builds fast—hot and sharp and blinding. His hand slides from your thigh to your ass, pulling you tighter against his face, guiding you against his tongue until you can’t think, can’t breathe.

He sucks hard on your clit, and it hits. You let out a broken cry, hips jerking, grinding against his mouth as your eyes squeeze shut and—

You shatter.

The wave crashes over you, tearing through every nerve, and you collapse forward with a moan caught in your throat. Your thighs tremble. Your lungs burn. Your hands are still tangled in his hair, holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

And he doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally goes slack, and the only sound you can make is a soft, helpless little whimper you don’t even recognise.

He lingers for a beat, lips pressing soft, soothing kisses to your thigh, breath warm against your skin, his hands sliding gently up your sides to steady you. Then he finally pulls back and looks up—curls messy, lips swollen, face glistening. And fuck, he’s never looked hotter.

“That was—”

“Quick,” you mutter, a little breathless, cheeks burning.

He blinks, then grins—slow and wicked. “I was going to say hot. But sure, quick works too.”

“Thanks,” you mutter dryly, eyes locked on the slick shine around his mouth. “You want to clean yourself up, or—”

“Oh, no. I’m not done with you yet,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, his brows drawing together just slightly. “I’m gonna fuck you properly now.”

Before you can reply, he straightens up and grabs the backs of your thighs, lifting you easily. You let out a startled yelp, but your legs wrap around his hips instinctively, your arms locking behind his neck.

“It’s my turn, baby,” he says, eyes sparkling. “And then probably your turn again, and again if you’re up for it.” He pauses, ducking his head to brush his lips against your collarbone. “Your vibrator dead yet?”

You frown as he starts walking down the hall. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He chuckles. “I figured with me gone all week, you’d be handling things the old-fashioned way. Thinkin’ about me while you—”

You smack the back of his head, which only makes him laugh harder.

“Just because you can’t stop thinking about me doesn’t mean I’ve been thinking about you,” you say, even though it’s a total lie.

He leans back a little, eyes narrowing as he kicks open his bedroom door and steps inside, stopping at the edge of the bed.

“Okay then,” he says, voice dark with challenge. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck you ‘til you can’t think about anything but me.”

Then he drops you.

You hit the bed with a squeal, bounce once, and barely have time to register the ceiling before his weight presses you down. He slots perfectly between your thighs, dragging the hard line of his denim-clad cock along your soaked cunt.

And God, does he fuck you.

He fucks you until you can’t think about anything but him. Until you forget your own name. Until your muscles shake and your lungs burn and your voice is hoarse from moaning his.

And then—after all of it—you fall asleep in his bed. In his arms.

And it’s the best sleep you’ve had since he left.

-

You wake before Joaquín, your nose pressed to his bare chest and his arms wrapped tight around you. One is tucked beneath your neck, the other curled over your shoulders, his hand cradling the back of your head like he’s holding something precious. His chin is resting at the crown of your head, and he’s softly snoring—a sure sign that he’s still deep asleep.

You wriggle a little, testing. He hums and tightens his hold, but doesn’t wake. He’s hard against your lower belly, and for a second you consider waking him with your mouth—but your bladder protests.

And so does your heart.

God, you should’ve made more rules. You should’ve protected yourself. You’ve always known you were soft for Joaquín—already halfway gone long before this whole thing started. And now? Now you’re all the way gone. Completely fucked. Up the creek without a paddle and regretting that you didn’t make a rule about cuddling, because waking up like this feels a lot heavier than just roommates.

You ease your way down the bed, slipping gently from his grip, being careful not to rouse him. He stirs a little, but doesn’t wake, and you realise just how tired he must be after that mission—yet somehow, not too tired to fuck your brains out last night.

You pick up the nearest item of clothing—his shirt, obviously—and slip it over your head as you pad across the hall to the bathroom. The only bathroom in the apartment, which hadn’t seemed like a problem when you first moved in—at least, not until Joaquín got very comfortable walking in on you mid-shower. Not that it matters much now. But still.

You go to the toilet, brush your teeth, wash your face, and count four new bruises along your collarbone—one a little higher than you’d normally let him get away with. Then you head into the living area to find your sweatpants—still crumpled on the floor behind the couch—and slip them on before starting a fresh pot of coffee.

You’ve got your head in the fridge, looking for the packet of bacon you know you bought the other day, when a knock at the door startles you. You stand up so quickly you bump your head on the way, cursing under your breath as you rub the sore spot and glance at the microwave clock—10:27AM.

It’s Sunday, which means no work, no plans. And you know Joaquín has this week off after the mission—so it definitely isn’t Sam here to collect his baby bird.

Another knock echoes through the apartment.

You shut the fridge, still frowning, and walk across the kitchen toward the front door. Every now and then, it does cross your mind that a dangerous criminal could show up looking for Joaquín—he is a superhero now—but today you decide that even criminals probably take Sundays off.

So you open the door.

“Hola… tú no eres Joaquín.” (Hi... you’re not Joaquín.)

It’s a woman, late fifties—you’re guessing—a little on the shorter side, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her eyes are dark and sharp, dragging up and down your body not with judgment, just curiosity. Her dark brows are drawn slightly, forming two small creases in the middle of her otherwise perfectly tan skin.

She looks familiar. But you know you’ve never met her before.

Oh no.

“¿Tú quién eres y por qué estás usando la ropa de mi hijo?” (Who are you and why are you wearing my son’s clothes?)

You step back, eyes wide. “Uh, I—I’m sorry, Joaquín is just—”

“¡Mamá! Ay, por favor—¿por qué no me avisaste que estabas en camino?” (Mom! Oh, please—why didn’t you tell me you were on your way?)

You whip around to see Joaquín—curls messy, shirt only half on—appearing from his bedroom.

“No me dijiste que tenías novia,” the woman—Joaquín’s mother—says. (You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.)

Joaquín sighs. “No es mi novia, mamá. Es mi roomie.” (She’s not my girlfriend, Mom. She’s my roommate.)

She lifts one perfectly manicured brow. “¿Entonces por qué está usando tu camisa ella?” (So why is she wearing your shirt?)

“Porque ella solo—” He hesitates, clearly frustrated. “¡Ugh! No importa. Somos amigos. Don’t make it weird.” (Because she just— Ugh! It doesn’t matter. We’re friends. Don’t make it weird.)

“Lo raro es dormir con una amiga, mijo,” she says with a little smirk. (What’s weird is sleeping with a friend, my son.)

“¡Mamá!”

She shrugs. “Solo digo. Estas cosas nunca terminan bien. Además, es muy bonita—deberías salir con ella de verdad.” (Just saying. These things never end well. Besides, she’s very pretty—you should actually date her.)

Joaquín’s brow furrows, not in anger but something like defeat. “No es así.” (It’s not like that.)

“¡Podría serlo! Quiero nietos.” (It could be! I want grandbabies.)

“Mamá… ella entiende casi todo lo que dices.” (Mom... she understands almost everything you’re saying.)

His mother laughs again. “¡Qué bueno! Así sabe que necesito nietos antes de morirme.” (How good! That way she knows I need grandchildren before I die.)

Joaquín sighs, shaking his head. “Ay, Dios mío. Just speak English. If you're gonna embarrass me, just do it in English.” Then he turns to you with a sheepish smile. “This is my mom.”

You give him a wide-eyed look before turning back to his mother, who’s now grinning at you like you’ve just told her you’re expecting.

“Hi.” You give her a tight smile. “I’m the roommate.”

She grabs your hand and holds it in both of hers. “I’m Lucía, but you can call me—”

“She is not call you mamá,” Joaquín cuts in, exasperated. “We’re just friends, ¿sí?”

Lucía rolls her eyes, dropping your hand. “Okay, okay. Just friends.”

“Give me those,” Joaquín mutters, stepping up beside you to take her bags.

You move aside as he takes her things and ushers her into the apartment. Your feet feel heavy, your pulse is pounding in your ears, and your cheeks are burning so hot you wouldn’t be surprised if you spontaneously combusted.

“This place is nice, Joaquín,” Lucía says, her English carrying just the slightest accent. “Though I suppose it has a woman’s touch.”

She glances at you with a knowing twinkle in her dark eyes, like she’s already two steps ahead.

“Mamá,” Joaquín says, dropping her bags at his bedroom door, “are you going to be weird the whole time you’re here?”

She gives him a sharp smile. “And are you going to be oblivious your whole life?”

He frowns. “Oblivious?”

She looks back at you and nods. And God, you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

“Joaquín,” you murmur, voice tight. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

His cheeks flush pink. “Yeah—uh, Mamá, we’re just going to—”

“It’s okay, mijo,” Lucía says, drifting toward the kitchen. “I’m going to pour myself a coffee.”

Joaquín smiles and nods, his eyes flicking back to you. “Come help me strip my bed?”

His mother chuckles softly but doesn’t say anything else.

You bite back the urge to whack Joaquín square in the chest as you walk past him, slipping into his room with him a step behind and shutting the door a little harder than necessary.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me your mother was coming to visit?” you snap, eyes narrowing.

He shrugs. “I was going to. I just didn’t get a chance.”

“Oh, so you decided eating me out and fucking me four times was more important?”

His eyes go wide. “Shh! That woman hears everything—she has ears like a bat.”

You step forward, brow furrowed. “Joaquín Torres, I swear to God—”

“I’m sorry, okay?” he cuts in, lips twitching as he tries not to laugh. “I honestly forgot. I didn’t think she’d be here until later tonight. She called last week, said she missed me, and got all upset that I hadn’t invited her to visit since moving.”

“You could have texted me,” you mutter.

“I said sorry. I just—” He pauses, eyes dropping to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “I got distracted. But she’s here now, and she seems to like you. So, that’s a good start.”

You blink. “You didn’t think she’d like me?”

His eyes go wide. “No, no! I knew she’d like you... eventually. She’s just not always warm the first time she meets someone.”

“Joaquín,” you deadpan. “She was talking about me having your babies before you even introduced us. Doesn’t get much warmer than that.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, she did say that.”

You raise your brows. “Do you really think this is funny?”

He shrugs. “A little.”

You sigh out a heavy breath and drop your head into your hands, wishing you could close your eyes and start the day all over again.

“She’s not going to be here long,” Joaquín says. “Two nights, that’s it. Then she’s going to Tía Carla’s in Baltimore.”

You drop your hands. “Two nights?”

He nods.

“Where’s she going to sleep?”

He glances at the bed. “My bed.” Then he looks back at you, smirking. “After I change the sheets.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay. Where are you sleeping?”

“Well,” he says slowly, “I was thinking—”

“No,” you snap. “Absolutely not. You are not sleeping with me.”

He frowns. “Why not? We slept together last night.”

“Because your mother is going to be on the other side of the wall!”

He grins—slow and wicked. “I’ve got ways I could keep you quiet.”

Your eyes go wide. “Joaquín!”

“Okay,” he chuckles, “okay. I’ll sleep on the couch. It’ll be fine. It’s only two nights.”

You nod. “Good. Couch is good.”

“Besides,” he sighs, turning toward the bed, “I think you’re the one who won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself.”

You step around to the foot of the bed and start helping him pull the sheets up. “Excuse me?”

He flashes you another grin. “You heard me.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, pretty boy. Let’s not forget who practically mauled me the minute he got home last night.”

He bundles up the sheets and dumps them in a pile on the floor. “And let’s not forget who couldn’t stand on her own in the shower.”

You narrow your eyes, tongue running along your top teeth, watching him dismantle the bed with a shit-eating grin. You want to walk over there and slap it off his face. Or better yet, you want to shove him on the bed and let him fuck you so full of grandbabies you won’t be able to stand again.

Because like it or not, you’re hopelessly in love with Joaquín Torres—and you’re starting to worry that he might just know it.

After helping him make his bed with clean sheets and picking up all the evidence from last night, you reemerge from his room and head straight into your own. You can hear him and his mother chatting away as you gather fresh clothes and pad quietly into the bathroom.

You take a little extra time showering and getting ready, inexplicably wanting to impress his mother—as if you have something to prove.

Please, Mrs. Torres. Tell your son to fall in love with me!

You roll your eyes at your reflection as you apply a generous layer of lip gloss, then you quickly tidy the bathroom—making extra room on the vanity for Lucía—and step out.

“We could go to La Ventana Roja,” Joaquín says, his voice carrying down the hall.

Lucía sighs. “If I wanted to eat Mexican food, I’d cook dinner myself, chico estúpido.”

You press your lips together to keep from giggling as you drop your dirty clothes in the hamper just inside your bedroom door.

“Why do you come here just to insult me?” Joaquín asks, the pout audible in his voice.

“I come here to make sure you’re alive so you can give me grandbabies one day,” Lucía replies.

You step around the corner and spot them in the kitchen, each standing on opposite sides of the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee in front of them.

“Speaking of grandbabies,” she adds with a grin, “you look lovely, linda.”

You give her a soft smile. “Thanks, Lucía.”

Joaquín clears his throat, eyes flicking up and down your body as you come to stand at the end of the counter. “We’re trying to figure out where to go for dinner,” he says. “Sam’s coming too.”

“What about Oil and Salt?” you offer.

He nods. “Italian. I could do Italian.” Then he looks at his mother. “Mamá?”

She smiles. “Yes. Good boy, listening to your novia.”

Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you quickly turn toward the fridge, deciding to distract yourself with food.

“Ay, Mamá,” Joaquín sighs. “Stop saying that. She’s not my girlfriend.”

Lucía just shakes her head and takes a long sip of coffee while you keep your attention firmly fixed on the inside of the fridge—though you can feel Joaquín’s gaze burning into the side of your face.

Eventually he gives up on trying to get your attention and dials the Italian restaurant to make a reservation for tonight. You busy yourself making toast while he and his mom continue to catch up, muttering half in Spanish and half in English.

After two cups of coffee, they decide to head to the mall—Miami doesn’t have a Crate & Barrel like D.C., and apparently Lucía loves that place. They ask you to go with them, but your cheeks are still burning and there’s a strange tightness in your chest—because watching Joaquín with his mom, soft and attentive and effortlessly sweet, is making your heart do stupid things. So you decline.

Instead, you spend the day cleaning the apartment and doing laundry, taking extra care in Joaquín’s room to ensure Lucía won’t stumble upon any more evidence of your very not-so-friendly relationship with her son. You also take some time to plan an outfit for dinner—you haven’t gone out in a while, and you wouldn’t mind making it a little harder for Joaquín to keep his hands to himself.

By the time you hear them get home, you’re already halfway through getting ready. You’re in your room, sitting at the small mirror in the corner by the window, wondering what colour blush to use—or if you should use any at all. You’re wearing nothing but your underwear, with the silky, dark green dress you picked for tonight laid across the bed.

“We’re home!” Joaquín calls.

“I’m in my room!” you call back.

You can hear shuffling—paper bags, muffled voices—and then footsteps, getting louder down the hall.

You jump up quickly and dart across your room, planting both hands against the door just as the handle turns, stopping it from opening fully.

Joaquín gives it a shove. “What the—”

“Dude,” you hiss. “I’m not dressed.”

He peers at you through the gap, brows raised, lips twitching. “And?”

You stare. “And we’re roommates. Remember?”

“Right.” He chuckles. “Well then, roommate, are you going to be ready in half an hour? Sam said he’ll meet us there.”

“Yes,” you mutter. “If you leave me alone, I’ll be ready.”

He leans in a little, trying to see more through the narrow gap—like he thinks he’s subtle. “And if I don’t leave you alone?”

You brace yourself harder against the door. “Then you’ll be limping for the next week.”

He grins, challenging. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

He snorts. “You barely survived the week I was away. You wouldn’t add another—”

“Mijo, leave the poor girl alone!” Lucía calls from the kitchen. “Come help me unpack, and then you can get in the shower so you don’t smell at dinner.”

You can’t help but smile, laughter catching somewhere in your chest as you watch him roll his eyes and trudge back down the hall. Then you shove your bedroom door shut again and return to getting ready.

You finish your makeup, do your hair, and slip into the dress that slides against your skin like butter. It falls just above the knee—silky and forest green—draped in all the right places with a neckline that isn’t too low, but low enough to tease the smallest sliver of black lace if you lean forward just right. You finish the outfit with a pair of knee-high boots and an oversized leather jacket—for modesty, of course. Nothing to do with wanting to shed the jacket at dinner and make Joaquín choke on his own breath.

Half an hour later, you step out of your room into the bright, pungent cloud of Chanel No. 5 saturating the apartment. The bathroom door is shut, but you can hear Joaquín humming behind it, and at the end of the hall you spot Lucía waiting at the dining table.

“Just waiting on Joaquín?” you ask as you step into the kitchen.

Lucía hums. “Like always. He takes so long with the hair, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

You bite back a laugh. “Neither do I.”

Just as you unzip your purse to look for your lip gloss, you hear the bathroom door squeak open. The fan clicks off, footsteps echo up the hall—and then Joaquín steps into the kitchen like some kind of smug, fully-formed thirst trap the universe handcrafted to ruin your night.

His curls are damp and pushed back off his forehead, dark ringlets dripping slightly onto the collar of a clean, fitted black button-up. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms. His jeans are dark and well-worn in ways that should be illegal. And of course—of course—his shirt is unbuttoned one extra button more than necessary, exposing just a hint of warm, tanned chest.

Then he sees you.

And he stops.

His gaze drops, slow and deliberate, landing squarely on your boots.

“Well,” he says, voice lower than it needs to be, “look at you.”

You fold your arms to hide the way your hands start to shake. “Look at you.”

He hums—soft, appreciative—as his gaze drags up your legs again. “New boots?”

You shrug like your heart isn’t sprinting laps. “Maybe.”

He steps closer, leaning his weight onto one hip and folding his arms to mirror you. “Buy those just for me?"

You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Lucía clears her throat from the dining table, not even trying to hide her amusement. “Ay, por favor. The both of you—stop looking at each other like that. We are going to eat.”

You cough, straighten your jacket, and grab your bag. “Ready to go, then?”

Joaquín just grins—slow, wicked, knowing—and gestures for you to go ahead of him. Lucía sighs, muttering something in Spanish under her breath as the three of you head out the door.

The Uber ride to the restaurant isn’t long—but it feels like hours. With Joaquín’s dark eyes fixed on you through the rear-view mirror, you can barely follow whatever Lucía is saying as she points out the window. The driver tries to make small talk with Joaquín too, but it’s useless. The two of you are somewhere else entirely—a different universe, thick with tension and eye contact, and you’re about ten seconds away from spontaneously combusting and leveling half of D.C.

“Oh, we’re here,” Lucía announces at last—and only then do you realise the car has stopped. “Joaquín, ven a ayudar a tu mamá a bajar del auto.” (Joaquín, come help your mom get out of the car.)

Joaquín shakes his head and fumbles with his seatbelt, mumbling a quick thanks to the driver before stepping out. You blink hard, forcing yourself back to reality, and follow—circling around the rear of the car to find him helping his mother onto the sidewalk.

It’s almost annoying how sweet he is with her. Sure, he’s always polite—you’ve always known he was well raised—but seeing it is something else entirely. And seeing it while trying to ignore the fact that you’re already stupidly, painfully in love with him makes the thorns tighten around your heart. Clawing up your chest. Flower buds blooming in your throat.

“There she is!” Sam throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “How long has it been?”

You roll your eyes even though your lips twitch. “It’s been, like, two weeks, Sam. No need to be dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” he echoes. “Try spending a week in the desert with Fly Boy over there.” He jerks a thumb toward Joaquín, whose eyes are slowly widening. “Man would not shut up about you.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “About me?”

Sam nods with the weight of someone bearing deep emotional trauma. “Every day. Every night. ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’ ‘Do you think she’s sleeping?’ ‘Should I text her?’ ‘What if she—’”

“Sam,” Joaquín warns.

“No, no, don’t ‘Sam’ me,” he fires back. “You were a pain in my ass all week.”

You bite back a smile, heat blooming under your skin. “Wow. I know you missed me, but… that much?”

He shrugs a little too casually. “Sam exaggerates.”

Sam scoffs. “I wish I was exaggerating.”

Joaquín shoots him a glare that peel paint—but Sam just pats your arm.

“Anyway,” he adds with a grin, “good to see you again. Next time, don’t make me suffer through another mission with Lover Boy pining the whole time. You can tag along.”

Lover Boy?

Your heart starts to beat a little faster, heat crawling up your neck as you turn toward the restaurant’s front door. He doesn’t really mean that, right? Lover Boy. Sam’s just joking. Being dramatic. Trying to get a rise out of Joaquín.

Right?

You glance at Joaquín, but he refuses to meet your eyes. He just shoves his hands deep into his pockets, his cheeks a little redder than they were a few seconds ago. And when you look back at Sam, he’s already moved on—Lucía has her arm looped through his as they chat like old friends.

You follow them into the restaurant, pausing at the podium while the host checks the reservation under Joaquín’s name. Then you weave through tables until you reach a low booth, bathed in soft gold lighting and tucked away from the rest of the crowd.

Sam slides in first before Joaquín helps his mom onto the end.

“Can I take your coat, ma’am?” the host asks, almost startling you.

You glance at him, nodding. “Uh—yes. Please. That’d be great.”

You slip the leather jacket off your shoulders, and the reaction is instant.

Joaquín freezes.

His jaw drops, eyes dragging down the line of your dress, slow and hungry and stunned. He looks like he’s genuinely forgotten how to function.

“Holy fu—”

“¡Joaquín!” Lucía snaps, swatting the air. “Lenguaje.”

He swallows hard, jaw working as if he’s trying to form a second sentence and failing miserably.

Sam doesn’t even try to hide his amused snort. “Yeah,” he murmurs into his glass of water, “now I see why he wouldn’t shut up about you.”

Joaquín shoots him a murderous glare—but then his eyes flick straight back to you. The humour fades from his expression, leaving something quieter, darker, like gravity pulling between the two of you.

“You look…” His voice comes out rough, quieter than before. “Dios mío.”

Lucía clasps her hands together like this is the most romantic thing she’s ever seen, but Joaquín doesn’t seem to notice. His attention is pinned to you, every muscle in his body tense like he’s holding himself back.

Sam leans back in the booth, smirking. “Just pretend we're not here.”

And that’s when you finally look away—because if you don’t, you’re going to forget how to breathe.

Lucía clears her throat, clearly delighted. “Come, querida. Sit, sit—antes de que alguien se desmaye.” (Come, dear. Sit, sit—before someone faints.)

You keep your eyes down as you slide into the booth beside Joaquín—not across from him. His thigh presses against yours under the table, warm and solid and definitely intentional. Lucía is already telling Sam about today's trip to Crate & Barrel, but it all washes over you like white noise with Joaquín’s arm brushing yours.

Then the waiter appears.

He’s tall, all clean lines and easy confidence, a white towel draped over one arm. “Good evening,” he says, flashing a very professional—and very appreciative—smile in your direction. “Can I start you all with drinks?”

“We’ll start with a bottle of the house red,” Sam says.

The waiter nods—but his eyes stay on you. “And for you?” he asks.

“Oh—same is fine,” you say quickly, because it’s hard to think when Joaquín is sitting so close.

The waiter offers you another smile—warmer now. “Great choice.”

“Thanks,” you reply, trying to ignore the way Joaquín shifts just slightly beside you, his shoulder brushing yours like he’s reclaiming space.

“I’ll grab that bottle for you now,” the waiter says, barely even glancing at the rest of the table.

The second he’s gone, Sam looks pointedly at Joaquín, brows raised like he’s waiting for something. But Joaquín doesn’t say a word—he just clears his throat and busies himself with arranging his napkin on one knee like it’s a tactical operation.

“So, Lucía,” you say, desperate for distraction. “How long are you staying with your sister?”

She sets her glass down with a soft thunk, dark eyes meeting yours across the table. “However long it takes for me to convince Carla to break up with that criminal boyfriend of hers.”

Your brows shoot up, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “Oh?”

Joaquín sighs. “Mamá, he’s not a criminal.”

“Yes, he is,” she argues. “He has that awful little—uh, ¿cómo se dice perilla?”

“Goatee,” Joaquín mutters.

“Oh!” You giggle, turning to face him. “Weren’t you trying to grow a goatee last month?”

Lucía gasps. “¡Ay no, mijo!”

“That’s right,” Sam laughs. “Looked like he glued pubes to his chin.”

You laugh harder, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like a maniac.

Joaquín scowls at him. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It wasn’t good,” you mutter.

He whips around to you. “You said you didn’t mind it.”

You shrug. “I didn’t hate it, but it—”

“Tickled, I know,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes.

Your eyes go wide.

“Tickled?” Sam echoes, nearly choking on his water.

“¿Cosquillas?” Lucía repeats, looking mildly horrified.

You drop your face into your hands. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

Joaquín turns bright red. “Oh—no, I— that’s not—”

Before Joaquín can finish digging himself into a deeper grave, the waiter returns—wine bottle in hand.

“House red,” he says smoothly, presenting the bottle to you first. “Should I start you off?”

You look up, blinking. “Oh—sure.”

He uncorks it with practiced ease, and the whole table goes quiet. Even Sam stops smirking. The waiter pours a small amount into your glass and tilts it toward you with a gentle smile meant only for you.

“Tell me what you think.”

You pick it up and take a small sip. “It’s great.”

“Good,” he says—voice low and a little too warm. “I’ll pour for everyone else.”

He fills the other glasses—Lucía first, Sam second—and when he reaches Joaquín, he finally breaks eye contact with you. Just barely.

Joaquín meets his gaze, unwavering. His fingers tap once against the table. Sharp. Controlled.

The waiter doesn’t notice—or maybe he does, but his eyes slide right back to you anyway. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu, or should I give you a few more minutes?”

“Um.” You glance down at the menu, unopened on the table. “Maybe five more minutes.”

He nods once, still smiling. “Of course.”

Then he turns and walks away, hands clasped behind his back.

Sam chuckles. “Well, he’s friendly.”

“Too friendly,” Joaquín mutters.

You slide the menu off the table and finally flip it open. “He’s just doing his job."

Joaquín shifts beside you—his knee knocking yours, elbow brushing your arm—as he flips open his own menu. You glance at his other side, where he clearly has enough room to move over. But no. He’s going to stay right beside you, practically pressed against you, for some ridiculous reason.

Lucía and Sam start muttering about the menu, pointing at dishes and debating what to order. You can barely focus on any of it though—not with the heat still crawling under your skin thanks to Joaquín’s earlier slip-up. Your brain is fried, your whole body too warm, and by the time the waiter returns—not a second more than five minutes later—you haven’t even made it past the appetisers.

“Are we ready to order?” he asks, looking straight at you.

“Oh, um—” You glance at the menu, then back at him. “If you could just give me a couple more seconds, I—”

“Of course. I’ll start with the other side of the table.” He turns to Lucía. “What can I get you, ma’am?”

You drop your gaze again and start skimming the list. You’re not even that hungry—or at least, not for food—but this place has a great reputation, so you can’t not order one of the main dishes.

“You’ll like this one,” Joaquín says, pointing at a pasta dish. “Or that one.” He points to another.

You look at him from the corner of your eye. “Are you just saying that because you want to try those ones?”

His lips twitch. “Can’t both be true?”

You shake your head, eyes sliding back to the menu. “God, I know you too well, Torres.”

“And for you?” the waiter asks, turning to Joaquín with raised brows, no smile. “Sir?”

“I’ll have the chicken piccata,” Joaquín says, handing back his menu without breaking eye contact.

The waiter hums, scribbles something down, then looks at you. He’s smiling again—too warm—and his gaze flicks up to your face just a beat too late as you lift your head.

“Which would you recommend between the pappardelle and the ravioli?” you ask.

“I always recommend the pappardelle,” he says, leaning in slightly. “It’s rich. Creamy. Really indulgent.”

Joaquín’s arm tenses beside you.

“Great.” You close the menu and hand it to him. “I’ll get that.”

“Good choice.” His fingers brush yours—lingering just a second too long. “And if you need anything else, just let me know.”

You blink, the small frown between your brows slowly softening as realisation finally hits—he's flirting with you.

With one last smile, aimed only at you, he turns and walks away.

“I think—” you tilt your head, lowering your voice, “I think he was flirting with me.”

Sam snorts, and even Lucía gives a soft little laugh.

“No shit,” Joaquín mutters into his wine glass.

Your pulse trips, your heart stumbling out of rhythm.

Was that... jealousy?

No. It couldn’t be. Joaquín doesn’t get jealous. Not over you. Not when this whole arrangement is supposed to be casual and uncomplicated. Just two roommates who occasionally—and far too easily—find themselves tangled in each other’s sheets.

But there’s a tightness in his jaw now, and a stubborn set to his shoulders like he’s holding something back. Like that little brush of the waiter’s fingers just punched straight through something he’s trying very hard not to acknowledge.

And maybe you’re just imagining it.

Maybe it’s nothing.

But the warmth in your chest says otherwise, and suddenly the room feels smaller. His arm is still against yours, warm and steady, like he’s holding you there—or staking a claim.

You shouldn’t like it. You shouldn’t want the weight of it.

But you do.

You want him to be jealous.

“So,” Sam says, looking at you, “how’s work?”

You clear your throat, setting your wine down with an unsteady hand. “Good. Busy. But good.”

He nods, smirking. “Any interesting contracts lately?”

“None you’re cleared to know about.”

His brows shoot up. “Excuse me? I’m Captain America.”

You shrug, leaning back in the booth. “A spandex suit and an oversized frisbee doesn’t give you security clearance.”

Joaquín snorts beside you. “Ouch.”

You turn to him, one brow arched. “And what are you laughing about, fly boy? You think a mechanical bird costume is any better?”

“Wow.” Sam chuckles. “You actually managed to insult me twice.”

You laugh softly, fingers curling around your wine glass again. “I’m good, aren’t I?”

Sam rolls his eyes, Joaquín shakes his head, and Lucía just smiles into her sip of wine—like she knows something you don’t.

It doesn’t take long before Sam starts talking about their week in Nevada—joking about how much fun it was while Joaquín launches into a dramatic recount of why he’s never, ever going back. Lucía just laughs, muttering in Spanish about how much of a drama queen he can be.

You stay quiet, keeping your wine glass close to your chin and taking a sip every few seconds just to distract yourself from the warmth of sitting so close to him. From the way his thigh presses against yours, the way his arm keeps brushing yours every time he talks with his hands.

You’re so lost in the heat and the burn of wine at the back of your throat that you almost jump when the waiter steps up beside the table again.

“We’ve got the chicken marsala,” he says, placing a dish in front of Lucía. “And the lasagne.” He sets Sam’s plate down next.

Then he turns to your side of the booth.

He doesn’t announce Joaquín’s dish—he just sets it down without looking at him, then shifts the last plate into both hands and lowers it gently in front of you.

“The pappardelle,” he says, smiling now.

You sit up a little straighter, creating the smallest sliver of space between you and Joaquín. “Thank you. This looks amazing.”

The waiter leans in—subtle, but noticeable. “It tastes even better.”

You glance up at him. “I bet.”

There’s a beat of silence—a quiet pause where everything at the table seems to still, leaving you and the waiter holding eye contact longer than you meant to.

Then Sam clears his throat. Loudly.

“Right.” The waiter straightens, clasping his hands behind his back—but his eyes don't leave yours. “If you need anything else, just wave.”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a small smirk. “Or just read my mind?”

His smile widens. “I’ll try my best.”

When he finally walks away, the table doesn’t fall back into easy conversation—not right away. There’s a subtle shift in the air, the kind that buzzes under your skin before you even turn your head.

Sam is staring at you like you’ve just pulled off something mildly impressive and deeply inconvenient for him. Lucía hides another knowing smile behind her wine glass. And Joaquín… hasn’t moved.

You shift a little and reach for your fork. “So… this looks great, right?”

Sam lets out a quiet scoff. “Uh-huh. Sure does.”

You shoot him a look. “What?”

Lucía waves a hand. “Nada, querida. Absolutely nothing.”

But there’s definitely something glimmering behind her smile.

Beside you, Joaquín finally shifts—only just—but it’s enough to draw your attention. His fingers tighten around his napkin, smoothing the fabric with unnecessary precision. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice, and then he reaches for his fork.

“Eat,” he says softly, not quite meeting your eyes. “Before it gets cold.”

You watch him for a beat, unsure whether he’s annoyed, flustered, or trying very hard to pretend he’s neither. “Okay,” you murmur, twirling your pasta.

The moment you lean slightly forward, his thigh presses into yours again—firmer this time, unmistakable in its intent. And unlike earlier, you don’t move. You let him close that tiny distance between you—and his shoulders visibly relax.

But Sam notices, because of course he does, and he kicks Joaquín under the table.

Joaquín jolts. “Ow—what the hell?”

Sam just raises his brows, the universal expression for please, I am begging you, get a grip.

Joaquín glares at him, then grabs his wine and takes a long, steady drink—long enough for you to feel the heat gathering in your cheeks again, pooling low in your stomach.

You look back at your plate, stirring the pasta you haven’t even tasted yet, trying—and failing—not to smile.

Because dinner suddenly feels less like dinner… and more like Joaquín’s own personal brand of torture.

The rest of the meal settles into something surprisingly easy. A few minutes pass, then a few more, and the earlier heat simmering beneath the surface evens out into something warm and comfortable—tensions forgotten.

Conversation drifts from Nevada to work gossip to an argument about the best empanada filling, and somewhere between the second glass of wine and Joaquín stealing a forkful of your pasta, the sharp edges of the night soften.

Lucía tells a story about Tía Carla’s neighbour who owns seventeen cats and one very unhappy parrot. Sam nearly spits his wine laughing. And Joaquín mutters something ridiculous about government oversight for bird safety, which makes you roll your eyes so hard your head tips back against the booth.

And all the while, his thigh stays pressed to yours—not tense anymore, not deliberate, just there. Warm. Familiar. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

By the time everyone’s plates are scraped clean and the last drops of wine have been poured, the earlier tension feels like a distant echo. You’re a little flushed, a little full, and dangerously close to believing this moment could last forever.

Then Lucía sets down her glass—slowly, deliberately—and her eyes slide to you with the kind of gentle curiosity that should terrify anyone in a ten-mile radius.

“So, querida…” she begins, voice warm and sweet and laced with landmines, “how long have you and my son been so… close?”

The air stills.

Your pulse skips.

Joaquín goes rigid beside you, wine glass halfway to his lips.

Sam inhales sharply through his nose like he knows exactly how fast this is about to spiral.

And before any of you can even attempt to recover—

“How’s everything going?”

The waiter appears beside the table with a bright smile and absolutely disastrous timing, dessert menus fanned in one hand like this is the best moment in the world to ask about tiramisu.

“Ay.” Lucía’s eyes brighten. “Sí, algo dulce suena perfecto.” (Oh. Yes, something sweet sounds perfect.)

The waiter hands both Lucía and Sam a menu, then places one on the table in front of Joaquín before turning back to you with a soft smile.

“If you’re thinking about something sweet,” he says, handing you the menu slowly, “the torta al cioccolato is my favourite. Rich. Intense.” His eyes flick to your mouth—subtle, but unmistakable. “And very, very satisfying.”

You let out a soft hum as you take the menu. “Well… I do like to be satisfied.”

Joaquín goes completely still beside you.

The waiter smirks. “Then it’s perfect for you.”

You tilt your head, looking up at him through your lashes. “You sure?”

“Positive.” His voice drops. “And if you want, I can—”

“We’ll take the check,” Joaquín says—sharp, controlled, dangerous.

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

The waiter blinks. “Sir, I—”

“Check,” Joaquín repeats through his teeth. “Now.”

Lucía sighs, dropping the menu on the table. “Ay, Dios.”

The waiter hesitates—only for a second—before retreating in stiff silence, and the moment he’s out of earshot, Sam groans, dragging a palm down his face like he’s aging in real time.

“Este niño…” Lucía mutters under her breath, shaking her head.

You’ve stopped breathing. Completely. All you can do is stare at Joaquín—at his rigid shoulders, clenched jaw, the way his eyes refuse to meet yours.

“Are you—”

“Fine,” he snaps, grabbing his wine and finishing what’s left in one gulp before he sets the glass down harder than he means to. “Totally fine.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah. That’s definitely the vibe you’re giving off.”

Joaquín shoots him a warning glare just as the waiter returns with the check, placing it delicately in the middle as if worried someone might bite him. Understandable.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he offers gently.

Joaquín snatches it before anyone else can blink. “We’re ready.”

Lucía lifts a brow. “Mijo…”

“I’ll pay at the front,” he mutters.

Everyone shuffles out of the booth and gathers their things. Lucía slings her purse over her shoulder, a different waiter—female this time—brings you your coat, and Sam adjusts the waistband of his jeans like he’s eaten far more than he planned to.

You reach for your bag, but Joaquín grabs it before you can. “I’ve got it.”

Then he brushes past you and stalks toward the front of the restaurant, broad shoulders tense, every heavy step barely controlled. The host standing by the register sees him coming and visibly pales, his eyes growing wider the closer Joaquín gets.

Sam whistles under his breath. “Well. This was fun.”

Lucía pats your hand. “Don’t worry, querida. He’s just… feeling something.”

Your stomach flips. “What do you mean?”

She only smiles—too soft, too knowing. “You’ll see.”

The three of you weave through the tables until you meet Joaquín by the front door—receipt in hand, jaw still set, mouth a tense line.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”

There’s no room for argument. No waiting for anyone to gather themselves. He shifts until he's walking behind you, his hand hovering at your lower back but never quite touching—like he wants to guide you out but refuses to let himself.

The walk out is quiet. Heavy. Charged. You can feel his frustration radiating off him like heat, the kind that sinks beneath your skin and twists deep in your stomach. And the moment you step outside into the cool night air, he exhales—sharp, shaky, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.

After Sam bids everyone a good night—giving Lucía an extra warm hug and wishing her luck—the rest of you climb into an Uber. The ride home is almost completely silent, save for the soft crackle of the radio. Not even Lucía tries to make conversation. It feels like hours before the car finally pulls up in front of your apartment block, and when you climb out, Joaquín is already offering his mother an arm—just like he had outside the restaurant.

You make your way through the lobby in that same thick quiet, ride the elevator up without a single word, and by the time the doors slide open onto your floor, the silence has turned into something almost suffocating.

Lucía exhales loudly—dramatically. “Ay, por favor. I’m done. I need a shower and a prayer.” Her eyes flick to Joaquín, then to you. “And tomorrow? I expect better comportamiento from both of you.”

Once inside the apartment, Lucía beelines straight for the bathroom, muttering something indistinguishable under her breath as she shuts the door behind her.

The moment the lock clicks, silence settles over the living room. Heavy. Awkward. Ridiculous.

Joaquín stands in the middle of the room, jaw tight, eyes flicking everywhere but you. You stay by the door, arms crossed, not moving. Not blinking. Not giving him an inch.

You glare at him.

He pretends not to notice.

From the bathroom, you hear the shower turn on—pipes creaking, water running, Lucía humming softly to herself.

Neither of you move.

Neither of you speak.

You just... wait.

After what feels like the longest ten minutes of your life, Lucía finally steps out of the bathroom, calls her goodnights, and disappears into Joaquín’s room. You hear the light switch click, the faint rustle of sheets, and then—silence.

Real silence.

Nothing but the muted sounds of the city outside, and the two of you standing in the dimly lit apartment. Still. Tense. Frustrated.

You break the silence first.

“What’s your problem, Joaquín?”

He finally looks at you. “My problem?”

“Yes, your problem. Because you spent the entire dinner looking like you wanted to throw that waiter off a building.”

He steps forward, jaw tightening. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t flirt with someone who can’t read a room.”

“Oh, you mean you?”

“Me?” he snaps. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Keep your voice down,” you hiss. “Your mom doesn’t need to hear—”

“My mom just watched you shamelessly flirt with the waiter for two hours straight—I don’t think a little argument is going to shock her.”

“Shamelessly?” you echo, incredulous. “You really think I was the one in the wrong?”

He drags a hand over his face. “Can we not do this right now? I’m tired, I just—”

“No,” you fire back. “You've been acting like an asshole all night and you made a whole scene over dessert—so yeah, we’re doing this.”

“I didn’t make a scene.”

“You asked for the check like you were about to arrest him.”

“He was flirting with you,” Joaquín snaps. “Right in front of me.”

You frown. “So?”

He looks away, jaw flexing hard.

You take a step forward. “Answer me, Joaquín. Why is that a problem?”

“Because,” he starts, “we were—I mean, wasn’t it obvious that we’re—”

He stops.

Your breath catches.

“He was being unprofessional,” he mutters, too fast. “That’s all.”

“Oh?” You fold your arms, trying to hide the heat starting to crawl up your neck. “So I’m supposed to believe this is about restaurant etiquette?”

“Yes!” he snaps. “Friends don’t—” He cuts himself off too late, frustration spilling over. “Friends don’t do shit like that.”

The words hit you like a slap—and you go still. Very still.

“Right.” You try to laugh, but it comes out thin, broken. “Okay. You want to talk about what friends don’t do?”

His throat works once—visible, panicked—but he stays silent.

You step in, heat rising, heart beating too hard.

“Friends don’t sleep in each other’s beds,” you say, voice low and surprisingly steady. “They don’t shower together, or pin each other against walls, or—God, Joaquín—friends don’t fuck.”

His breath stutters, chest rising and falling too fast.

“And friends definitely don’t get jealous,” you finish, barely above a whisper. “So what exactly are we doing?”

Joaquín blinks. Once. Twice.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“I… I don’t know,” he finally mutters. “I thought we were just... friends. I thought we could do this without it getting too complicated but maybe—maybe we should just stop.”

You feel the words hit like a punch to the ribs.

“Stop?” Your voice is soft—dangerous. “That’s what you want?”

“That’s not—” He drags both hands through his curls, taking a step back, panic rising fast. “Look, I’m just saying… maybe this whole thing was a mistake.”

Mistake.

The word hollows you out.

You let out a breathless, humourless laugh. “Wow. That’s great. Really, Torres—thank you so much for finally realising what a mistake I am.”

He winces. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“Save it,” you mutter. “Just... don’t bother.”

Then you turn on your heel, fury and humiliation burning hot beneath your skin as you march down the hall.

Behind you, he calls your name—once, soft, almost pleading—but you don’t look back.

You stop at your bedroom doorway, the last of your patience snapping clean in half.

“I hope the couch sucks,” you say.

Then you slam your door.

Hard.

-

You wake late and lie in bed until you can’t ignore your bladder any longer. The light leaking through your curtains is soft and grey—because of course it’s raining today. The universe would never miss a chance for dramatic ambiance.

When you finally drag yourself out of bed, you avoid the mirror, already knowing you look like heartbreak leftovers thanks to all the crying last night. You shuffle into the bathroom, hearing the faint sound of voices from the kitchen and hating the way your stomach twists with nausea. You wash your face, brush your teeth, and emerge hoping—praying—Joaquín might have left for the day.

But he hasn’t.

Of course he hasn’t.

You step into the kitchen and find him standing at the counter in sweats and a t-shirt, hair messy, eyes fixed on the mug in his hands like it personally offended him. He stiffens when he hears your footsteps, but he doesn’t look up.

You clear your throat. “Morning.”

His reply is barely a breath. “Morning.”

Lucía is sitting at the dining table watching with exasperation, her brows drawn, lips pressed, eyes flicking between the two of you—and the fourteen inches of stubborn silence between your bodies.

“Niños,” she mutters into her coffee mug. “You look like you’re in mourning."

You blink, but stay quiet. Joaquín just sips his coffee.

The silence stretches—too long, too heavy—until you finally sigh and step into the kitchen, moving around him like he’s a live wire. You keep your gaze fixed on the coffee machine, every nerve acutely aware of him standing close enough to feel the warmth of his body, but stubbornly refusing to look at you—or move away.

Lucía watches you silently, stirring her spoon with the slow, patient judgement of a woman who has already written both of your wedding vows in her head.

“So,” she says, far too innocently. “Did everyone sleep well?”

“Sí,” Joaquín lies immediately.

“Fine,” you lie right after.

Lucía hums. “Interesting. Because the couch,” she glances at her son pointedly, “is not comfortable.”

Joaquín’s jaw flexes. “It was fine.”

Lucía eyes the both of you one more time, clearly unimpressed with the silence thick enough to spread on toast.

“Voy a cambiarme,” she announces, rising from the table. “Then we go out. I didn’t fly all this way to watch you two stare at walls.”

Joaquín nods without looking up. You nod without looking at him. It’s pathetic. She knows it. You all know it.

When her bedroom door clicks shut behind her, the apartment slips into that same strained quiet as last night—all sharp edges and swallowed words. You scull your coffee while Joaquín rinses his mug. Twice. Maybe three times. Then, without a word, you head back to your room and try not to cry while you pick something to wear for the day.

Eventually, you all reconvene in the living room. Joaquín grabs his jacket. You grab your keys. And you both follow Lucía out the door like lost ghosts.

She drags you both across D.C. like a tourist seeing the city for the first time—museums, a market stall, a coffee cart where she insists you try something sweet.

Joaquín softens around her. He links her arm in his, laughs when she teases him, smiles without thinking. It hurts in a stupid, petty way. And you can’t bring yourself to walk too close. To join them. You’re just near. Hovering. Following.

Joaquín steals glances when he thinks you’re not looking.

You look away every time, pretending to be fascinated by a city you’ve known for years.

Then there’s lunch—which is worse. Much worse.

Lucía, clearly at her limit with the brooding, decides to try—bless her meddling soul—to lighten the mood.

“So, querida… Juan was very handsome, no? The waiter last night?”

You choke on air. Joaquín goes stone silent.

Lucía smiles like she’s one rude comment away from exploding into laughter.

“Yeah,” you mutter, looking anywhere but at Joaquín. “I guess.”

Joaquín’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing.

And that’s the end of lunch. No one speaks for the rest of the meal.

By the time you get back to the apartment, you’re all exhausted. Not just from walking through the city, but from tiptoeing around whatever fragile thing is hanging precariously between you and Joaquín right now.

Lucía sighs as she kicks off her shoes, then presses two fingers to her temples. “I’m going to lie down,” she murmurs.

Joaquín gives her a soft smile as she starts down the hall toward his bedroom, and when the door clicks shut, silence spreads through the apartment again, heavy like smoke—slow and impossible to ignore. You move into the kitchen just to have somewhere to stand, fingers hovering at the pantry door even though you have no idea what you’re looking for.

Behind you, Joaquín clears his throat. “I can order dinner later,” he says. “If you’d like.”

A peace offering—fragile as glass.

You keep staring at the cereal box in front of you. “I’m not hungry.”

He shifts—the kind of shift you feel rather than see. “You barely ate at lunch.”

“And you barely spoke,” you say before you can stop yourself, finally turning to face him.

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t have anything to say.”

“You could’ve tried,” you murmur. “You could have said something.”

He swallows once. Hard. “I’m trying now,” he says quietly. “I’m asking you to eat dinner with me.”

It should feel good. It should feel like effort. Growth. Something inching toward reconciliation. But it doesn’t. It just feels like someone pressing a thumb into a bruise to check if it still hurts.

You exhale hard, gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t sit across from you and pretend we’re fine.”

He steps closer—barely—but it still feels like too much. “We’re not fine?”

Your eyes flick up, a short, hollow laugh slipping out. “You tell me, Joaquín.”

He doesn’t answer—he just looks at you, apology lingering at the edges of his gaze, swallowed by fear before it can reach his mouth.

“I’m gonna shower,” you say, already turning away. “I’ll... see you later.”

The bathroom door closes behind you without a slam—which is worse, somehow—a gentle surrender instead of rage. A reminder that you’re not angry, not really. You’re just... sad. Heartbroken. Finally at the crossroads you’ve been dreading, where you have to give up what you’ve been hopelessly holding on to.

Because it’s not real.

And you can’t keep pretending it is.

Under the hot spray of the shower, you press your forehead to the wall and let the water hide the tears you swore you were done with. When you emerge thirty minutes later, hair damp, wearing an old t-shirt you’re not even sure belongs to you, you can hear him in the kitchen with his mom—cutlery clinking over quiet conversation.

You hover in the hallway—not eavesdropping, just... overhearing.

Lucía’s voice is low, but not low enough.

“Joaquín,” she sighs gently, “¿Qué te pasa? You were cruel last night. And today? You barely spoke to her.”

“I wasn’t cruel,” he mutters. “I just—it's complicated and it got out of hand.”

Lucía sighs, exasperated. “You are so blind. How do you not see the way that girl looks at you? Desde el momento que abrió la puerta, I knew she was in love with my son.”

Your breath catches. Hard.

A chair shifts, scraping softly against the hardwood floor. You imagine him sitting back, rubbing the back of his neck—embarrassed, uncomfortable, running from the truth like it burns.

“Mamá…” Joaquín’s voice is soft, frustrated—afraid. “You’re reading too much into things. It’s not—we’re not—it’s just casual. Nothing more.”

Your heart lodges in your throat, fresh tears burning your eyes.

Lucía huffs. “Casual? Joaquín, cariño, nothing about the way you look at her is casual.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Thick. You know too well that kind—the kind full of truths that could shatter either one of you if you dared touch them.

You don’t wait to hear more.

Before anyone notices you standing there, you slip silently back to your room and close the door without a sound. You climb into bed, pulling the blankets up like armour, and stare at the ceiling as your heartbeat stutters in your throat.

Because she sees it.

Everyone sees it.

Everyone but him.

You lie there for what feels like hours. Or maybe it’s twenty minutes. Time is strange when your chest feels too tight to hold air properly. You stare at the ceiling until the shadows shift, then you roll over, curl into yourself, unfold again. You toss. You turn. You try to sleep.

But you don’t.

Your eyes burn, and you swipe at them with the heel of your hand like it might stop the ache. But it doesn’t. So you grab your phone, dim the brightness, and scroll mindlessly—news, memes, someone’s engagement announcement you want to be happy for but mostly you just feel hollow. You watch three videos of raccoons washing grapes and read half an article about hair loss you don’t absorb.

Eventually, you hear Lucía’s voice—soft, muffled—saying goodnight to Joaquín. Then a door closes, footsteps fade, and the apartment settles into stillness. The kind of quiet that leaves you alone with your thoughts. The kind you wish you could outrun.

You switch off your phone and try again—eyes shut, breathing slow, blanket tucked up to your chin. It’s peaceful for maybe sixty seconds.

Then thunder starts to roll, low and lazy across the night sky. Not dramatic, not a storm—just enough to rattle the window and stir something restless under your ribs. The kind of sound that makes you think of company, warmth, someone’s chest to press your ear against.

You squeeze your eyes tighter. It shouldn’t be like this. You don’t get to think about him right now.

He’s not yours—no matter how much you wish he was.

Then another rumble. Closer this time. Louder.

You shift onto your back and stare at the ceiling again—heart beating too loud, the air too thick, the walls too close. Every second stretches until you’re sure you could hear a pin drop.

And then—a knock.

So soft, it’s barely a tap.

You stop breathing.

Another knock—gentle, hesitant—the kind that asks for permission instead of expecting it.

You know that knock. You’ve felt it against this door before—late nights, whispered laughter, the weight of a body sliding under the sheets beside yours like it was natural.

“Hey—uh, are you awake?”

Your heart stutters hard enough to hurt.

“Um. Yeah.”

There’s a pause—like he’s gathering courage, or trying to decide if he should turn around.

“…Can I come in?”

For a moment, you consider saying no. You should say no. It’d be easier. Simpler. But your heart betrays you like it always does.

“…Yeah. It’s open.”

The door creaks, opening just enough for him to slip inside. The hallway light silhouettes him for a second—messy hair, wrinkled t-shirt, uncertainty shaped into a boy who looks like he hasn’t slept either. He closes the door softly behind him, as if a noise too loud might break whatever fragile thing hangs between you.

You sit up, dragging your knees to your chest and hoping your voice is steadier than you feel. “What’s up?”

He looks at you, then the blankets, then the window behind you.

“I… heard the thunder,” he says quietly. “Didn’t know if it bothered you.”

You huff a laugh. “It’s just weather, Torres. I’ll survive.”

He takes a tentative step closer. Then another.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But... still didn’t feel right leaving you alone.”

Your heart flips. Stupid, traitorous thing.

You tilt your head toward the foot of the bed. “You can—uh, you can sit. If you want.”

He hesitates—just a second—then sits at the edge of your bed, careful to keep space between you. Not touching, but close enough that the mattress dips toward him. Close enough that you feel him like static.

Silence settles. Not heavy like earlier—but fragile. Delicate. Like one wrong move could shatter everything.

Then Joaquín sighs, his shoulders sagging. “I hate this,” he admits.

Your throat tightens. “Me too.”

He nods, staring at his hands like the words he needs might be written in the lines of his palms.

“I keep trying to figure out what to say,” he murmurs. “But every version sounds wrong.”

You shift, not away from him but toward, the blankets rustling as you pull your knees tighter and wrap your arms around them. “You could try just... talking to me,” you whisper.

He exhales—a long, slow release that softens something rigid in his posture—and when he looks up, his eyes catch yours with a kind of tired honesty that twists something deep in your ribs.

“But what if I say something that ruins everything?”

Your breath stutters, just a little.

He notices—of course he notices. He always does.

Then, slowly, he shifts closer, like gravity is doing the work instead of intention. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and you feel it—not just physically, but in the air, in your bones, in the way your pulse picks up like it recognises something familiar approaching.

His knee brushes yours, light enough to pretend it didn’t happen.

Neither of you move.

The room is dim—only the glow of moonlight bleeding through your sheer curtains, soft and silver, painting the curve of his cheekbone, the soft dent beneath his lower lip where he bit down earlier without thinking. His curls fall messy across his forehead, still a little damp from his own shower, and he’s close enough now that you could count the beauty marks scattered across his skin.

He clears his throat quietly, eyes flicking to your mouth and back like he regrets looking—but can’t help it. “Do you remember,” he asks, voice low and too warm, “the rules we made? Back when this was supposed to be simple?”

Your heart squeezes, painfully.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I remember.”

He leans in a fraction, voice soft with something vulnerable. “What were they again?”

You feel it then—the moment the floor drops out from beneath you, the air thickens, the entire world shrinking down to the fragile space between your bodies and that question sitting between you like a live wire.

He knows the answer.

You know he knows it.

But he wants you to say it.

He wants to hear it now—from your mouth.

And God, it’s intimate.

Intimate in a way sex with him never scared you, but this does.

He waits—eyes searching your face like whatever you say next could ruin him completely.

Your voice comes out quiet, barely above a whisper. “There were only two rules.”

Something shifts behind his eyes—recognition, regret, something carved deep and unspoken. He leans closer. Slow. Careful. Like he’s approaching something he’s wanted for a long time but never trusted himself to touch.

Your breath catches when his thigh presses flush against your hip, when you can feel the warmth of his exhale on your lips. You don’t move away. You couldn’t if you tried.

“What were they?” he asks—soft, coaxing, like he wants you to ruin him.

You swallow, hard, because saying them now feels like prying open your own ribcage and handing him your heart still beating.

“No kissing,” you say, your voice thin.

His gaze drops to your mouth—slow, reverent—as though he’s memorising the shape of the rule he’s been breaking in every touch, every look, every moment he let himself linger. He’s close enough that one tilt of your chin would erase the space between you, and he knows it. God, he knows it.

“And the second?” he breathes.

Your pulse thrums in your ears, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it. You lick your lips without thinking—and his eyes follow the movement like he’s starving.

You breathe in once. Shaky. Unsteady. Then you give him the second rule like reopening a wound half-healed.

“No falling in love.”

The words hang between you. Heavy. Bare. Irreversible.

His breath stutters. You feel it—the tiny hitch in his chest, the way his fingers curl into the sheets like he needs to hold onto something before he reaches for you instead. He leans in a fraction closer, close enough that the tips of your noses nearly brush.

“Shit,” he whispers, eyes searching yours. “We really fucked that up, didn’t we?”

Your lips part—but nothing comes out. You’re not sure you could speak even if you tried.

He lifts a hand, slow as forgiveness, fingertips trailing along your jaw in a feather-light graze. A question. A plea. Permission hanging on a breath.

“I’m done pretending,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches somewhere between want and fear.

“And I’m about to break both of those rules.” His voice drops low, wrecked. “Unless you tell me not to.”

The whole world stops.

You don’t say no.

You don’t even think it.

You just breathe his name—soft, helpless, like a prayer you’re tired of choking down. “Joaquín.”

And that’s all it takes.

He moves first—barely—just a tilt of his head, the faintest brush of his lips to yours like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he touches you too quickly. It’s soft, tentative, a question disguised as a kiss. His mouth is warm, careful, almost reverent. Like he’s been waiting to do this for a lifetime and doesn’t want to rush the first second of it.

You inhale sharply—not out of surprise, but relief. Relief so deep it aches. You kiss him back just as gently, your fingers curling in the sheets like you need something to anchor you before gravity takes over.

And it does.

Because when you don’t pull away—when you lean in the smallest amount, when your lips part on a quiet, helpless sound he swallows up—Joaquín breaks.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, drawing you closer with a desperation he’s fought too long to hide. The kiss deepens—slow at first, then hungry, then all-consuming—months of every touch but this, every touch but the one that mattered, breaking open between your mouths like those rules were never meant to exist.

He tastes like mint toothpaste and that fruity soda he had with dinner—familiar and new all at once, like something you’ve known forever and only just realised you were starving for. His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying possessively, tugging you across the sheets and into him like he needs you closer—closer still—not just next to him, but against him.

You go willingly.

Your knees uncurl, your body shifting until you’re pressed chest to chest, breath mingling, heartbeats stumbling over one another. His curls brush your forehead, damp and soft, and he makes a sound low in his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh—just pure want.

When you kiss him deeper, his fingers tighten at your waist; when you slide your hand into his hair, he exhales like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. The world narrows to mouths and heat and the slow drag of his thumb at your jaw as if he can’t believe you’re real.

He pulls back just a fraction, lips hovering over yours, breath shaky and warm.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice wrecked, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

And the way he says it—raw, unguarded, like confession and promise tangled together—makes your stomach twist, makes your pulse leap, makes any distance between you feel unbearable.

You kiss him again.

Harder this time.

His mouth meets yours, deeper this time—no hesitation, no gentleness left unspoken. The kiss steals whatever is left of your breath and gives back something hotter, hungrier. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, and he goes willingly, like he’s been waiting his whole life to be asked.

As you lay back, his weight settles fully between your thighs—careful, but urgent—and the low sound he makes against your lips borders on a plea. He’s everywhere at once—the warm press of his chest, the slow drag of his palm up the back of your thigh, the way his nose bumps yours when he tilts his head to kiss you harder.

He pulls back only far enough to speak, breaths mingling, foreheads pressed together.

“Tell me you want this,” he whispers—like he needs the words to anchor him. “Tell me you want me.”

Your thumb brushes his cheekbone, soft and trembling. “I want this,” you whisper. “I want you.”

Whatever restraint he had left dissolves.

He surges forward, kissing you like he’s making up for every night he talked himself out of this—slow, then deep, then deeper still, like he’s afraid to come up for air in case you disappear.

His hand slides beneath the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your ribs, reverent fingertips mapping skin he’s only ever touched in half-dark—never like this, never with your lips and your heart, never sacred.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you—really look—eyes glassy like something inside him cracked open and light spilled out.

“You’re sure about this?” he asks, voice rough. “My mom’s still here, we can just—”

“Joaquín,” you breathe, “shut up and fuck me.”

He drops his head and groans against your throat, lips brushing your pulse, each word a confession pressed into skin. “I want you so bad,” he murmurs. “I want every last part of you—I need you."

He lifts the hem of your shirt higher—slow enough to back out if you push his hand away, slow enough for consent to breathe between you—but your hips arch instead, inviting, answering without words.

He exhales a shaky laugh—relief, disbelief, hunger—before pressing a kiss to your sternum through the thin cotton.

He helps you sit up just enough for the shirt to slip over your head, leaving you in nothing but underwear and the soft shadowed light. His gaze drags over you like a touch, slow and adoring, and his voice drops to something quiet and raw.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Then he leans down again, kissing the newly bared skin of your collarbone, then lower—trailing devotion like a rosary he’s repeating in reverse. His hands slide along your waist, your hips, your thighs, guiding you back into the pillows with something between gentleness and possession.

Your hands skim down his chest and curl into the fabric of his shirt, bunching it up until you can’t pull it any higher. A soft whine slips from your throat—wordless, pleading. He breaks the kiss only long enough to laugh under his breath, a low sound that vibrates where your palms rest on his skin, and then the shirt is gone—pulled over his head and tossed somewhere you’ll never find again.

He barely has it off before you’re touching him again, palms exploring lower, nails dragging lightly over the ridges of his stomach. He exhales like the contact winded him, like your touch is enough to undo him. Your fingers find the waistband of his shorts—hooking, tugging—and his breath catches as he shifts to help, pushing them down over his hips with a quick, desperate motion, never breaking the kiss for more than a second.

Your panties are last. The last thing between you and everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t real. Wasn’t more.

His fingers hook in the waistband, dragging them slowly down your thighs with a reverence that borders on worship—slow enough for you to feel every inch, slow enough to make your whole body spark. You gasp when his fingertips brush the inside of your thigh, a shock of heat rippling through you, arching you off the mattress without conscious thought—just hunger. Just him.

When they’re finally gone, he settles between your legs again—and you gasp, sharp and helpless. He’s already hard, heavy, sliding through your slick with a slow grind that feels like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. Like he needs the friction. Like he needs it more than he’ll ever admit.

A strangled, unhinged sound tears out of you when the head catches just barely at your entrance—too close to ignore, not close enough to satisfy. Just torture.

He smiles against your mouth, voice a low murmur of affection and arrogance all tangled together. “Always ready for me, huh, cariño?”

Then he moves lower, his mouth closing over your nipple, and you break—back arching, thighs squeezing around his hips as his tongue flicks and his teeth graze just enough to make you burn. His hand cups your other breast, thumb circling lazily in a rhythm that steals the air right out of your lungs.

“Joaquín—” your voice catches when his hips roll, dragging the thick length of him over your clit, slow and deliberate.

“Shh, baby,” he whispers, breath hot against your skin as he moves to your other nipple. “Gotta be quiet for me.”

You bite your bottom lip hard—copper blooming faint on your tongue—trying to hold in the sounds clawing up your throat as your body arches beneath his mouth. He’s warm above you, solid and shaking, teasing you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that skim right where you’re aching for him. Heat coils low and deep, tightening with every breath, every touch.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as his mouth trails up your collarbone, voice rough like gravel dragged over confession. “I was jealous last night.”

You let out a sound—half laugh, half desperate moan—nails digging into his back like you need something to hold onto before you break apart under him. Words scatter. Thinking is impossible.

“I wanted to kill that guy,” he breathes, lips brushing along your jaw, voice dark and sinful. “The way he looked at you…” His tone drops lower—a growl you feel in your spine. “You’re mine.”

The word detonates inside you. A shockwave of want. Of relief. Your back arches, thighs trembling as heat rushes through you like a fuse lit too fast. You swallow a moan, shoulders pressing into the mattress.

“P—please,” you pant. “Joaquín, just—”

He shifts, slow and deliberate, guiding himself against you again—teasing, sliding through your slick, dragging pleasure through you in agonising, perfect strokes that make your vision spark.

“Please what?” he breathes, noses brushing, lips hovering over yours. “Use your words, cariño.”

His forehead rests against yours, breaths shared, hot and uneven. You feel him steady himself before sliding along you again, slow strokes that have your whole body trembling, coating himself inch by inch in the proof of how badly you want him.

You whimper, hips tipping up instinctively in invitation, but he still doesn’t push in—not yet. Instead he catches your mouth again, kissing you slow and messy like he’s trying to burn the shape of your desperation into his mind, rocking his hips just enough to drag pleasure through you until your legs shake.

He groans against your lips, the sound deep and unguarded. “Dios, baby… you’re already so wet for me.”

“Joaquín—” your voice breaks, raw and pleading. “Please. I need you.”

He lets out a sound—half laugh, half pained relief—and shifts his weight to one arm, the other hand sliding between your bodies like he needs to feel exactly how ready you are for him.

“You sure?” he murmurs, searching your eyes like he’s asking for more than just consent—like he’s asking for trust.

Your hands move to cradle his face, holding him there, close. “Joaquín, I’m going to scream if you’re not inside me in the next five seconds.”

His answering laugh is wrecked, soft with something dangerously close to love. “As you wish.”

Then he moves.

He drags himself down, nudging right where you’re open for him, and pushes in—slowly, unbearably slowly—like he wants to feel every inch of you take him. Your body stretches around him, tight and warm, and his breath breaks in a shuddered moan at the sensation.

“Fuck—” he manages, voice thick and ruined. “You feel… Dios… you always feel so good.”

Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer without thinking, legs tightening around his hips like instinct. He sinks deeper, then stills, foreheads pressed, chests heaving together as the moment settles—heavy, holy, too much and not enough all at once.

His eyes open just enough for you to see them—dark, vulnerable, worshipful. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, like he means it. Like he finally understands it.

Then his mouth is on yours again, soft at first—an exhale, a promise—and then he sinks into you fully, slow and steady, until he’s as deep as you can take him. The sound that escapes the both of you is almost identical—relief, disbelief, something too raw to name.

For one suspended, impossible second, you just hold each other there.

Breathing. Shaking. Whole.

Then—on a breath that brushes your lips—he starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Each roll of his hips measured, deliberate, like he’s speaking with the motion instead of words—I love you. I want you. I’m yours. You’re mine.

Your fingers find his back, shoulders, curls, anything you can hold onto as your body moves with his like instinct. Your lips graze his jaw, a half-moaned, half-cracked sound caught in your throat.

“Fuck, Joaquín—”

He answers with a groan that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape. He pulls back only to return with more intent, more need, and the drag of his body against yours sets your nerves alight. Heat coils low and tight in your belly, slow-building and unstoppable.

“Feels so good,” he whispers against your mouth, voice frayed. “You feel so good, cariño. I’m not—God—I’m not gonna last long.”

Your legs tighten around his waist, urging him closer, urging more, and he kisses you again—slow, hungry, desperate—even as his rhythm deepens, pace picking up like he can’t help it. Like you’re pulling it from him.

Each movement has you gasping softly into his mouth, the world narrowing to shared breath and heat and the way he holds you like you’re something holy.

“You’re mine,” he breathes between kisses, voice rough, almost breakable. “All mine. Gonna keep you right here—wrapped around me, making those pretty little sounds.”

You whimper, helpless to stop it. Every inch of him is inside you, moving through you, dragging against that tender spot that makes your vision blur. The tension between you—months of denial and longing—sparks like a live wire, lighting up every nerve in your body.

His thrusts grow harder, quicker—hungry now—each one hitting deeper, stealing the air from your lungs. Heat coils lower in your belly, winding tight, your whole body trembling under the rhythm of him. There’s nothing but the press of his chest, the warmth of his breath, the drag of his body inside yours. Too much. Not enough. Everything.

“That’s it, cariño,” he groans in your ear, voice rough. “You take me so fucking well.”

You don’t even know what sound comes out of you next—something broken, needy—and your hand slides up your chest, fingers pinching lightly at your nipple. His rhythm stutters, a shaky moan falling out of him at the sight.

“Shh,” you breathe, or try to, voice wrecked. “Gotta be quiet—your mom—”

“Fuck,” he gasps, hips snapping harder. “How am I supposed to be quiet when you—God—when you feel like this?”

His hand tightens on your hip, the other pushing your leg open wider so he can drive deeper, like he wants to carve himself into every part of you. Each thrust is devastating—deep and relentless—pleasure building sharp and fast, curling tight behind your ribs.

Skin meets skin in soft, desperate rhythm—wet, breathless, messy—the only sound in the room besides your shared panting, his soft curses pressed against your mouth, your throat, your shoulder.

Your thighs shake where he holds you open, but you barely register anything beyond the pressure building, climbing too fast, too much. Your fingers tug at your breast again, desperate for more, your voice breaking against his shoulder.

“Joaquín—” it’s barely a word, more a prayer. “I’m close. I’m—fuck—I’m already so close.”

“I know, cariño,” he grits, sweat dripping from his temples. “I can feel it. You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

His pace stutters, then finds a slow, devastating rhythm—deep enough to bruise, tender enough to worship. He kisses you again, sloppy and hungry, like letting go would kill him. You feel how close he is too, can hear it in his jagged breathing, feel it in the way his muscles tremble with restraint.

“Gonna come for me, baby?” he breathes against your mouth, voice raw enough to break you.

You whimper, nodding helplessly. Words are impossible now—your mind gone, your body nothing but nerve endings and him. Every thrust hits that perfect spot inside you, grinding up into your clit with each downward roll of his hips. It’s maddening. Hot. Unforgiving. You’re shaking, eyes fluttering, breath catching in broken gasps.

Your fingers claw down his back, reaching for any grounding you can find, your other hand sliding down your stomach—needing more, needing something—

But he catches your wrist, pushes it away, replacing it with his own hand like he knows exactly what you’re asking for without you saying it. His thumb finds your clit and circles—slow at first, then with steady, knowing pressure that has your breath catching sharp in your throat.

Your whole body arches, breath caught in your chest, every muscle drawn tight as the pressure builds, sharp and consuming. His thumb doesn’t let up—circling, pressing, teasing—until it’s too much, not enough, and everything in between. 

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick and gone. “I’ve got you.”

Your thighs tremble around him, the pleasure twisting tight like a live wire pulled to snapping point. You choke out something broken—half a sob, half a plea. “‘S too soon—”

He lets out a wrecked, disbelieving laugh, forehead pressed to yours. “No it’s not. I’m right there with you. I—fuck—”

You crash your mouth to his, hips rising to meet the next thrust just as his thumb presses down perfectly—

And then everything goes white.

It hits you like a tidal wave—your orgasm ripping through you so fiercely it borders on pain, heat flooding every nerve as your body locks tight around him. You cry out before you can stop yourself, legs shaking, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’ll fall through the mattress if you don’t hold on. You pulse around him—slow, deep, relentless—and it feels endless.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice wrecked as he buries his face in your neck. He keeps moving through it, slower now but deeper, like he wants to feel every second of you coming around him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You don’t even have time to breathe before he breaks too.

His hips falter, then stutter, and he lets out a sound you’re going to think about for the rest of your life—something raw and helpless and entirely yours. He thrusts once, hard and final, and you feel him come with a shudder that shakes through both of you, spilling into you as he gasps out a broken, devastating, “Fuck—I love you.”

You hold him as he falls apart, his body trembling against yours, his breath hot and uneven at your throat. The room is quiet except for your mixed breathing—heavy, tangled, like you’re still sharing lungs.

For a long moment, neither of you move. You just exist in each other’s arms, skin to skin, hearts trying to beat out of your chests and into each other’s.

Then he lifts his head and kisses you—slow and gentle. The kind of kiss that feels like an apology and a promise and a confession all at once.

You smile against his mouth, breath still shaky.

“I think,” you whisper, “we might have been a little loud.”

A huff of laughter escapes him—soft, breathless—like he’s too wrung out to laugh properly but too happy not to. He presses another slow kiss to your lips, then one to your cheek, then your jaw, like he can’t decide where to love you first now that he’s allowed to.

You both sink back into the pillows, limbs tangled without thinking. His weight settles partially on top of you, heavy in the nicest way—grounding, real. His hand slides under your ribcage and tugs you closer until your thigh is hooked over his hip, your chests pressed together, hearts finally beating in something that feels like harmony instead of war.

He noses your temple.

You smile.

And for a long moment, neither of you speak. You just breathe. Warm. Shared. Safe.

Your fingers trace lazy shapes up and down his spine, memorising him in quiet ways—the dip at his waist, the slope of his shoulder, the tremor still hiding in his breathing. You’re both wrecked. You’re both glowing. You’re both absolutely done for.

“Why now?” you murmur into the dark, voice soft and a little fragile. “We’ve been doing this for months. So… why now?”

He stills—not tense, just thoughtful—his thumb brushing the underside of your breast absentmindedly, like he’s touching you just to reassure himself you’re real.

“I’ve always loved you,” he says finally, voice quiet and unbearably honest. “I just… didn’t let myself say it. Or think it.”

You swallow, chest tightening.

He shifts, just enough to see your face in the low spill of moonlight, curls falling across his forehead. You run your thumb along the curve of his jaw, and his eyes flutter shut like the touch knocks something loose inside him.

“When we were in Nevada,” he admits, “I kept turning over in bed expecting to find you there. I kept looking for you in every stupid moment—at breakfast, in the hall, brushing my teeth—and you weren’t. And it felt like someone carved something out of me and forgot to put it back.”

Your breath catches. “It was only a week, Joaquín.”

“And then last night,” he continues, voice even softer, “watching that waiter look at you like he had a chance—like he could be the one to make you laugh, or hold you, or wake up next to you—I realised I couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t share you. Couldn’t pretend this was casual. Not when every part of me already feels like it belongs to you.”

Your eyes burn—warm, aching.

“Joaquín...” you whisper, not sure how to hold everything he’s giving you.

“I don’t know why it took me so long,” he says, thumb tracing slow circles at your hip. “But I know we broke that rule months ago. I just didn’t have the guts to say it.”

You run your hand through the curls at his nape, gentle and slow.

“And now?” you ask.

He kisses you—soft, sure—like the answer is in his breath and not his words.

“Now I’m yours,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re stuck with me.”

You tuck your face into the curve of his throat, breathing him in—warm skin, mint, something that feels like home. His arm curls around your waist, holding you like he doesn’t plan to let go this time. Maybe ever.

This time, when you shut your eyes, sleep comes easy.

And when it finds you, it’s tangled together—his fingers laced with yours, your leg thrown over his, his breath slow and steady against your shoulder like a promise.

Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks softly.

Lucía’s door, maybe.

Or fate laughing quietly to itself.

Either way, you fall asleep smiling.

-

Sunlight wakes you before anything else—soft, warm, slipping through the curtains in thin golden stripes across the sheets. The first thing you register is heat against your back. A slow rise and fall. An arm around your waist. A leg tangled with yours like he anchored himself there in his sleep and never let go.

You turn your head just enough to see him—hair a mess, mouth soft, lashes dark against his cheeks. He looks young like this. Peaceful. Like last night cracked something open and let light in.

For a few minutes you don’t move.

You just watch him breathe.

Like a creep—maybe—but you don’t care.

Eventually, he stirs—nose brushing your shoulder, fingers flexing at your hip like his body notices you’re awake before his mind does.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

You turn enough for your noses to brush, and he kisses you—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that feels like a secret being shared instead of stolen. His hand slides up your spine, fingertips barely there, just tracing, memorising.

It would be easy to stay here forever.

Too easy.

But your stomach growls—loudly. You didn’t eat dinner last night.

Joaquín snorts, his laughter warm against your mouth. “Okay,” he says, “I think that was a cry for food.”

You shake your head, nuzzling into his neck. “Five more minutes.”

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips like punctuation marks. “If we wait five minutes, we won’t leave this bed.”

And he’s right—because the way he’s looking at you makes it a dangerous truth. So you groan, flop onto your back, and let him sit up, curls messy and lit by the bright morning sun.

He offers his hand, and you take it.

You both slowly find your clothes from last night, thrown somewhere across the room. It isn’t fast, because every time you get close, you pull each other in for another kiss. Just one more. Which is a lie every time, because after ten minutes of getting dressed, you’re both still only halfway there—sprawled across the bed again, hands roaming, smiles pressed against each other.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, you’re both half-dazed, hair scrambled, wearing the kind of glow you couldn’t hide if you tried.

Joaquín moves around the kitchen with that easy familiarity he always has—barefoot, shirtless, sunlight catching the slope of his shoulders as he rummages through the pantry. You hop up onto the counter just to watch him move, legs swinging, hands gripping the counter edge. It’s embarrassingly domestic how natural it all feels.

When he reaches the coffee machine, you feel your skin warm with recognition. His hand brushes your knee on the way, thumb lingering just a second too long. And the moment the button clicks on and the machine hums to life, you wrap a hand around his bicep and tug him closer.

He lets out a surprised laugh but goes willingly—slotting between your legs like he belongs there, looking up at you with those stupidly soft brown eyes that have completely ruined you.

“Can I help you?” he asks, smile lazy and lovesick.

You hum, hands sliding up to cradle his jaw. “I don’t know. Got anything to offer?”

“For you?” His fingers tighten at your hips, warm and sure. “Anything. Everything. Just ask.”

You try to roll your eyes, but it dies halfway with a lovesick grin to match his. “God, you’re cheesy.”

“But you love me.”

You inhale, leaning in until your noses brush. “Yeah,” you breathe. “You’ve got me there.”

And then you kiss him again.

Slow at first—soft and morning-warm—but it deepens quickly, heat sparking under your skin like flint to tinder. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he goes pliant in your hands, mouth parting for you like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact contact.

The kiss turns lingering. Then hungry. Then something sweeter—fed by new honesty instead of tension.

His mouth trails to your jaw, down your throat, kisses slow and sweet and sinful, and your fingers dig into his shoulders as he presses closer, hips nudging against the counter between your thighs. You gasp against his lips and he swallows the sound eagerly, thumb brushing your jaw, eyes dark with softness and hunger all at once.

And that’s when—

“Ahem.”

You jolt so hard you nearly knee Joaquín in the stomach.

Lucía is standing at the edge of the kitchen—still in her slippers and robe, smirking like God personally handed her front-row tickets.

“Well,” she says, “glad you two have finally learned how to communicate.”

Joaquín’s cheeks go pink, and you bury your face in his shoulder.

“Buenos días, Mamá,” he mutters, voice embarrassingly wrecked.

“Buenos días, mijo,” she says, smirk widening as she steps around you both toward the coffee machine.

Joaquín peels himself away from you, strategically keeping his back to his mother as he rounds the breakfast bar to stand on the other side in the world’s most obvious attempt at dignity. His ears are red. His neck is red. He is, in fact, a tomato with abs.

You slide off the counter and drift to his side, like gravity is a concept invented just for the two of you.

“Sleep well, Lucía?” you ask, trying for casual and missing by a mile.

She hums as she pours her coffee. “Very well.”

Then she pauses, takes a slow sip, and turns to face you both—with a smile so smug it should be federally regulated.

“Although,” she says lightly, “I think this apartment is embrujada.”

Your stomach drops. “Haunted?”

She nods, far too innocent. “Sí. I heard… noises… in the middle of the night.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks so violently you’re surprised the lights don’t flicker.

“Oh?” Joaquín replies, edging behind you like the coward he is. “What kind of noises?”

Lucía takes another sip—slow, dramatic, weaponised. Her eyes never leave her son.

“You know what kind of noises, hijo.”

Lucía sets her mug down, eyes twinkling with wicked amusement. You already know she’s about to deliver something lethal—and she does.

“Bueno,” she says casually, as if commenting on the weather, “if you two are finished making the walls shake, maybe we can celebrate properly. A nice dinner? Or…” she pauses just long enough to kill you both, “the engagement party later?”

You choke on air. Joaquín chokes harder, spluttering like someone handed him a live grenade instead of a mug.

“Mamá,” he manages, voice cracking in the middle. “We literally just—”

She waves a hand, dismissing his suffering. “Ay, por favor. Why so embarrassed? You’re grown adults. You don’t think I know how these things work?”

She pauses—taking another slow, theatrical sip of coffee.

“I know where babies come from, hijo.”

You’re pretty sure your soul leaves your body.

Heat floods your cheeks and you step back, searching desperately for dignity and finding absolutely none. “I’m—uh—going to… get dressed before I die of embarrassment,” you say, words tripping over each other as you retreat like you’re escaping a burning building.

You make it halfway down the hall when arms wrap around your waist from behind—warm, strong, sure—and a laugh ghosts against your neck.

“You’re really just going to leave me to suffer alone out there?” Joaquín murmurs, voice low, teasing, already smiling.

You try for stern and fail spectacularly. “Yes. Obviously. That's your mother.”

He spins you gently—not dramatic, just enough that your toes leave the floor and you let out a startled squeal you’ll deny later. You land against his chest, palms splayed over warm skin, and he looks at you like last night wasn’t a mistake or a question—like it was a beginning.

His forehead dips to yours, voices low enough that Lucía can’t hear.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers. His hands slide to your hips, grounding you, worshipping you in the simplest way. “Not a chance.”

Somewhere from the kitchen, Lucía calls out—

“¡Cierren la puerta si van a hacer más ruido!” (Close the door if you're going to make more noise!)

You bury your face in Joaquín’s shoulder as he walks you backward toward your room, and he’s shaking with silent laughter, kiss landing on your cheek like it belongs there.

The world feels warm. Ridiculous. New.

And when he nudges your door open with his foot, you know exactly how your day is going to end—happy, stupidly in love, tangled up in him with no intention of ever letting go.

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[sun-hashira]

Guilty as Sin?

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: after cutting Dex out of your life, his spiraling desperation leads you to make your first real choice for yourself instead of everyone else.

𝙬𝙝𝙤: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter/Bullseye x Female!Murdock Reader

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 2.5k

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: soulmate au, hurt/comfort, blood, injury, Dex has a mental spiral. If I have missed any please let me know!

part 4 of the "Glitch" Series

𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧: The Great War

𝙙𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙮: @uzmacchiato

𝗮/𝗻: Part 4 of this series! Like before feedback is welcome!

“They’re gonna crucify me anyway… “ — Guilty as Sin? by Taylor Swift

The silence became unbearable on the fourth day.

It wasn’t Matt’s silence, nor was it Karen’s. Those you could survive because you knew that your brother loved you more than anything, and Karen had never stayed angry at you for long.

You knew that eventually the three of you would have a conversation or another argument or more tears to break the silence and fix this situation.

But what you hadn’t expected was how much Dex’s absence would ache. How the lack of gifts and him not breaking in through your window at night would hurt so much.

You stood in your kitchen staring at your phone while rain hit hard against the windows, exhaustion heavy on your body. Your apartment felt colder now and empty in a way it hadn’t been for a while.

Like something else had quietly left when you told him to leave.

Your fingers brushed unconsciously against your mark again, a gesture that once brought you a small bit of comfort now made tears well up in your eyes.

Sighing softly, you unlocked your phone again despite knowing what you’d see.

23 unread messages.

14 missed calls.

9 voicemails.

All from Dex.

You hadn’t answered a single call, hadn’t listened to a single voicemail, and hadn’t opened a single message. 

Tapping the messages app, you saw that they had started normal the messages had gradually got less coherent as the days passed.

Dex: Are you okay?

Dex: Please answer.

Dex: I’m sorry.

Dex: I’m trying.

Dex: You said leave you alone.

Dex: I’m trying to do that.

Dex: Please answer the phone.

The last message had arrived nearly seven hours ago, and the lack of anything else since has left you feeling more unsettled than relieved. But the ache in your chest still deepened as you locked your phone again and tossed it onto the counter.

Leaning heavily against the counter, you closed your eyes to try to stop the tears from coming because this was what they wanted, wasn’t it?

Distance. Space. No Dex.

So why did it feel like something was broken and bleeding inside you now that he was gone?

Because he had noticed you. You thought to yourself.

Because Dex had noticed everything about you.

He had noticed when your shoulder hurt, when you skipped meals, when you were exhausted, when your smile wasn’t real.

How he looked at you like you mattered, like you were something precious.

And now the silence he’d left behind haunted your apartment like a trapped ghost.

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Your phone ringing loudly on your bedside drawer startled you awake hard enough that your heart jumped painfully.

Grabbing it with a groan, the brightness of it blinded you before the name flashing on the screen made your stomach twist immediately.

Dex.

Glancing at the numbers on the top of the screen, you felt your heart begin to race again.

2:17 AM.

Dex never called this late. He knew your schedule too well and knew how little sleep you got between the apothecary and the clinic. Your stomach clenched again as the ringtone ended and a ping indicating a voicemail came through a few moments later.

But what made your chest tighten was the notification that showed he had already called four times before this one had finally woken you up.

You knew that you had been tired last night, but tired enough to miss four phone calls? You bit your lip with worry.

Then your phone rang again, and before you could think yourself out of it, you answered.

“Dex?” You asked into the phone.

He didn’t answer, but the sound of heavy, uneven breathing came through the phone.

But it was the sound of something falling somewhere made you worry instantly.

“Dex?” You asked again.

A long pause.

Then finally he spoke quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes closed briefly as your stomach settled, but hearing those words from him made your chest ache.

“What happened?” you asked softly.

More silence.

“You told me to leave you alone.” His voice sounded wrong. “I was trying to.”

The words hit painfully as you swallowed hard.

“Dex—”

“I can’t think when it’s quiet.” His voice was frustrated now as something crashed faintly in the background.

You straightened up immediately. “Are you hurt?”

Another pause.

“… No.”

A lie, and you could hear it instantly.

“Where are you?” You asked as your fingers tightened around the phone.

“At home.” His breathing stuttered unevenly again. “Baby, I’m trying very hard not to come see you.”

You felt a tear slip down your cheek at his words. Because he had listened, even if it was destroying him.

You stared out at the rain streaking your apartment windows before moving out of bed and through the apartment.

“I’m coming over.” You said sliding on your shoes and then grabbing your coat and keys.

The silence on the other end was immediate.

“You don’t have to.” He whispered.

“I know.”

Another long pause.

“Okay.”

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Dex’s apartment looked like a war zone.

The moment he opened the door, you immediately froze. Glass littered the floor, a lamp had been shattered against the wall, one of the dining chairs lay broken near the kitchen, there were dents in the drywall, and blood was smeared across the edge of the counter.

And standing in the middle of it all was Dex.

Barefoot, breathing unevenly with his knuckles split open and bloodied.

Your chest tightened sadly because now every unread message felt heavier. More desperate.

Dex’s eyes immediately found yours and stayed there as if he was checking you were real.

“You came.”

The words sounded almost uncertain as your gaze slowly swept over the apartment again.

“What happened?”

Dex looked away for the first time since opening the door.

“I got angry.”

Your eyes dropped to his bleeding hands.

“You punched the wall.”

“Yes.”

Apparently several times you thought to yourself.

You stepped carefully over shattered glass as you entered his apartment and shut the door behind you. The place smelled faintly of blood and something electrical from the broken lamp.

But Dex didn’t move. Didn’t come closer. He was still doing what you’d said that night.

Leave me alone.

“Sit down,” you said quietly, pointing to his sofa.

He obeyed immediately.

You grabbed the first aid kit from where it sat untouched under the kitchen sink before kneeling carefully in front of him.

His eyes never left your face. Not once.

The cuts across his knuckles were messy and swollen already as you gently took one of his hands in yours. The soulmate mark on your collarbone burned faintly at the contact.

Dex inhaled sharply.

You ignored it.

“Why didn’t you clean these?”

Dex watched your thumb brush carefully beneath his split knuckles.

“I couldn’t focus.”

Your chest ached at his words as you carefully soaked a gauze and gently cleaned the blood from his skin.

The apartment remained painfully quiet except for the sound of heavy rain against the windows.

Dex looked exhausted. Like something inside him had been wound too tightly for too long and finally snapped.

“You should’ve listened to the voicemails,” he said quietly after a while.

You glanced up briefly. “Were they coherent?”

“… No.”

Despite yourself, a small, tired laugh escaped you.

Dex’s mouth twitched faintly at the sound and then disappeared again.

“I tried,” he admitted softly.

Your hands stilled slightly against his skin. “I know.”

“No,” he said quietly. “You don’t.”

His jaw tightened once. “I stayed away.”

Guilt twisted low in your stomach.

Not because his spiral was your fault. It wasn’t.

But because you suddenly understood how hard he’d actually tried.

“I know,” you repeated softer this time.

Dex finally looked away again. “I kept thinking about what you said.”

Leave me alone.

The memory made your chest tighten painfully.

“I didn’t mean forever, baby,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Dex’s eyes snapped back to yours immediately. Something desperate flickered there so quickly it almost hurt to look at.

You quickly focused back on healing his hands.

Your powers stirred faintly beneath your skin as you carefully brushed your fingers across his bruised knuckles. Warmth spread softly from your touch, easing some of the swelling before the wounds closed.

“All done.” Your hands faintly shook as you pulled them away from him.

Dex exhaled softly as the pain left his hands.

“You’re tired,” he murmured immediately.

Of course he noticed, you thought to yourself. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

You snorted quietly. “A little hypocritical coming from you.”

His mouth twitched again. A tiny, almost smile.

God, you had missed that.

The realisation settled heavily in your chest.

Carefully setting the supplies aside, you leaned back slightly against the sofa, Dex still watching you like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

“You destroyed your apartment,” you muttered softly.

“I know.” He whispered.

“You probably scared the neighbours.”

“I know.”

“You called me at two in the morning.”

At that, something conflicted crossed his expression.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

The honesty in his voice hit harder than anything else tonight.

You looked at him quietly for a long moment, then slowly reached out and touched his face.

Dex immediately went still beneath your hand. His eyes fluttered shut briefly as he leaned into your touch.

Your thumb brushed gently beneath the bruise near his cheekbone.

“You should’ve called earlier.”

Dex opened his eyes again slowly.

“You told me to leave you alone.”

God.

The fact he treated every word you said like they were sacrosanct made your chest ache.

You swallowed thickly. “I know.”

A softer silence settled this time as Dex leaned further into your touch almost unconsciously, like he needed it.

Your heartbeat stumbled painfully.

Because this right here felt dangerously close to the tenderness you had wanted for years, and maybe that was what scared you most. Not the violence, not the obsession, but this.

This softness.

“I missed you.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

Dex froze completely as his eyes searched your face like he didn’t trust what he’d heard.

Then something inside him visibly unraveled.

His hand lifted slowly toward your face like he was afraid you might pull away. When you didn’t, his fingers brushed your cheek carefully.

Reverently. Like you were something breakable.

“You did?” he asked softly.

Your chest tightened. “Yes.”

The confession settled heavily between you.

Dex stared at you for one long second before suddenly leaning forward and kissing you.

This kiss felt nothing like the last one.

It wasn’t desperate, wasn’t forceful, and there was no panic like before, just warmth and careful hesitancy in a way that almost hurt more.

Your breath caught sharply.

Then slowly you kissed him back.

The soulmate bond burned warmly beneath your skin as his other hand slid carefully to your jaw, thumbs caressing against both your cheeks like he still wasn’t fully convinced you were real.

And God, you wanted this, wanted him.

The realisation hit hard enough that you pulled back abruptly.

Dex immediately stiffened as panic flashed across his face so quickly it hurt to see.

“I’m sorry,” he said instantly. “I thought—”

“No.”

You cupped his face quickly before he could spiral again.

“No, that’s not—”

But his breathing had already started changing again, sharp and uneven.

You moved closer instinctively.

“I wanted that,” you admitted softly.

Dex stared at you. “But you’re upset.”

“No, baby, it’s—I liked it.”

His expression shifted into something stunned and painfully hopeful all at once.

You let out a shaky breath. “This is complicated.”

“I know.”

“You don’t actually.”

That nearly made him smile again as your thumb brushed carefully across his cheek.

“I just…” your voice softened, “I don’t want this to happen because you’re vulnerable right now.”

Understanding slowly crossed his face before it turned almost unbearably soft.

“You stayed anyway,” he whispered.

The vulnerability in his voice nearly wrecked you as your forehead gently rested against his.

“I’m still here.”

Dex went completely still beneath your touch. Then slowly his eyes closed. Like those words physically settled something broken inside him.

The apartment remained quiet around you, the rain still landing hard against the windows.

Your fingers slid gently through his hair as his breathing finally began to even out beneath your touch.

“You should sleep,” you murmured eventually.

Dex opened his eyes again immediately. “You’ll leave.”

The certainty in his voice hurt. You shook your head softly.

“Not tonight.”

Fragile relief crossed his face then.

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The apartment was less like a war zone come morning light after you spent the three hours that you couldn’t sleep tidying it up as best as you could.

You stood in Dex’s kitchen wearing one of his shirts while making coffee as the sun shone in through the windows. Behind you, Dex leaned silently against the counter watching you.

“You stare a lot,” you muttered softly.

“I like looking at you.”

Heat crawled faintly into your face as you turned toward him, holding out his coffee. Dex took it carefully, his knuckles looking significantly better this morning after your healing.

“You didn’t sleep much,” he observed immediately.

“Neither did you.”

“But I slept.”

You blinked slightly at the quiet honesty in his voice before you realised that he meant he slept because you stayed. The thought settled pleasantly deep in your chest as you leaned lightly against the counter beside him.

The silence this morning didn’t feel awkward.

Just…quiet.

“You’re not scared of me.”

The words came suddenly.

You looked at him carefully. “No.”

Dex studied your face closely. “You probably should be.”

You snorted softly. “There’s the self-awareness.”

His mouth twitched slightly, then faded. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache again. “I know.”

Silence stretched softly between you.

Then Dex spoke again. “What do you want?”

The question caught you off guard.

Not because of the question itself. But because no one had really asked you that through all of this.

What do you want?

Not what would Matt want? Or what would Karen think? Or what’s morally right?

Just…you.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your mug.

You. You thought to yourself. 

“I don’t know,” you said quietly. 

Dex nodded once like he understood.

“One date.” He said after a moment.

You looked at him.

His expression remained calm, but there was something careful underneath it now. Something uncertain.

“I’m not asking for anything else,” he said quietly. “Just one date.”

Your heartbeat stumbled.

Because this wasn’t fate demanding something from you, it wasn’t obsession, this was a choice. Your choice. And for the first time since all of this began, you let yourself think about what you actually wanted.

Not what everyone else feared.

Not what everyone else expected.

You thought about the warm takeout left on counters, the flowers at the apothecary, the eye-colored rocks, his gentle calloused hands against your skin, and someone who looked at you like you mattered.

Your lips parted softly “… Okay.”

The word barely left your mouth before something in Dex’s expression softened so completely it almost took your breath away. It wasn’t triumph, not total possession, but quiet happiness.

Real happiness.

Happiness that felt far more satisfying than anything else.

TAGS: @benspoindexter @noisyinfluencerstrawberry @genya1617 @monikastuff @peanutbutterjellytime3000 @hanniesrock @not-the-teen-witch @its-jackie-bb @that1weirdweebgirl @trulovekay @star-yawnznn @snowwythegloww @ethereal-athalia @musicalfan2026 @mewmew222 @scarlet48 @doesanyonereadthis @skylerepost @disappearintofanfiction @floatingintheupsidedown @abbotfan @ancientbeing10 @sarahskywalker-amidala @artistadistrada2002 @kakuchosbff @weallhaveadestiny @hyperfixations-go-brrr @capri-cuntz @bullseyeshandcuffs @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @muffinbrown @cowboylover00 @hearsaygoose @badbishsblog @celleryxo @thecityofspareparts @miixkl @ninajambrich @iangelofmusic @planetevermore @sadest-bookshelf @paige0103 @bury-me-in-the-star @mrsxchase @kkkeeeiiirrraaa @clowninavan @mossmydarling

[sun-hashira]

Willow

summary: prison was never going to stop Dex from finding you again.

who: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter/Bullseye x Female!Murdock Reader

word count: 2.9k (i got carried away)

warnings: soulmate au, mentions of blood, injuries, break-in, imprisonment, emotional tension, and obsessive themes. If I have missed any please let me know!

part 1 of the "Glitch" Series

next chapter: I Can See You

divider by: @uzmacchiato

“Wherever you stray, I follow…” — Willow by Taylor Swift

It was the uncomfortable pain in your shoulder that woke you from your restful sleep.

A pain that was no longer sharp, not like it was that night, but one that still lingers as a pinching, persistent ache that settles deep in your shoulder on cold and wet nights like tonight.

Rolling onto your back, you lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling and breathing through the pain as you gently massage three fingers against the ache, hoping it will pass and you won’t have to leave the coziness of your warm bed.

Feeling the rough scar beneath your fingers, you lie there trying to ignore the memories of how you got it, but when the sirens pass your apartment building, you find yourself slipping back into your memories of that day.

The day your life changed forever.

You, Foggy, and Karen had just left Josie’s Bar to check on Cafaro when the loud crack of a gunshot filled the air and pain hits you from behind. It rips through your right shoulder, taking your breath away before you fully understand what’s happened, as the force of it sends you stumbling forward.

But what made you stiffen was the blood splatter on Karen’s face as you realised that the bullet had exited your shoulder and hit Foggy, who had collapsed onto the ground as people around you screamed in horror, and for a few seconds you froze in pain and panic before adrenaline kicked in and you were moving before your mind caught up.

Yelling for someone to call an ambulance, you press your hands firmly against Foggy’s wound, willing your powers to stop healing you and to heal Foggy.

To keep him breathing, and to keep him stable. To keep him with you.

You were so lost in your panic that you didn’t even notice when Karen put her hands against your shoulder until she pressed down hard enough to make you gasp in pain as she tried to keep as much of your blood where it should be.

“Stay with me.” Her voice broke as each word filled with more panic. “Both of you, please.”

But you don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when you're forcing everything you have into Foggy. Not when you can hear your brother fighting on the roof of Josie’s Bar, knowing that he’s listening to Foggy’s heartbeat, to your blood dripping onto the street.

With your body begging to heal the hole in your shoulder, your vision blurs as you push through the pain, putting everything you have into Foggy. You hadn’t even realised that you'd been repeating the same things over and over.

“Keep breathing. Just keep breathing. Stay with me.”

But the strain keeps building, becoming sharper with each passing moment, when a heavy impact lands behind you three. Your breath catches as your powers flicker for just a moment as you silently pray that you won’t lose them both tonight. Not Foggy and Matt.

Not your brothers.

Breathing deeply, you steady your hands, channel your powers, and check that Foggy is still breathing as the paramedics that have just arrived rush to help before you turn your head and let out a sigh of relief.

Not Matt.

You slouch into Karen's waiting arms, your pain finally catching up with you as you fully turn to look at Benjamin Poindexter on the ground, barely conscious, and as you make eye contact, it happens.

The pleasant burning feeling on your left collarbone. The sign you've been waiting nearly your whole life for.

The sign that you have met your soulmate.

And yours has just shot you.

Breathing deeply, you push the memory out of your mind, reminding yourself that you’re in your apartment tucked away in your warm bed and not bleeding in the arms of your friend.

But the ache is still there, still pinching, and you realise that no amount of gentle rubbing is going to relieve it tonight. Sighing you toss your covers back, slide your feet into your soft slippers to make your way to your kitchen, where you last put the pain relief balm.

Slowly you push yourself to stand, your aching shoulder throbbing in protest as you put on your fluffy robe, fingers brushing against the scar, and take a deep breath.

Checking your clock that reads 1:44 AM, you tighten the robe and step into the hallway.

The apartment is pitch black except as you make your way towards the kitchen, you don’t bother turning on any lights, using the moonlight to help lead you to the balm left on the center island.

Opening it, you gently massage the soothing gel onto your scar, letting out a sigh of relief as you feel it take effect. Placing the lid back on the tin and tucking it into your robe's pocket, you turn back towards the bedroom when the sound of fabrics moving against each other comes from the darkness of the living room.

Slowly you grab a knife from the wooden block and move carefully towards the sound, slippers gently slapping against the wooden floors. Keeping your breathing as quiet as possible, you slowly crept around the corner and quickly flicked the lamp on, flinching at the brightness and nearly dropping the knife when you saw who was sitting on the sofa.

Benjamin Poindexter was supposed to be imprisoned and serving multiple life sentences. Not casually sitting on your new sofa.

Blood darkening the side of his shirt as one of his hands pressed tightly against it, though a slow trickle of blood slips through his fingers. His head lifts the second the light turns on, and for a moment he doesn’t move; he just stares at you with a look in his eyes that you can’t quite place.

For a few seconds, neither of you speak. You just look at him, cataloguing everything that has changed since you last saw him. He’s bigger and bulkier than before, as if he had nothing to do in prison except gain more muscles. You ignore how it makes your heart stutter.

Dex’s eyes flicker briefly towards the knife clutched in your hand, and a smirk appears on his face as he looks you in the eyes. “Are you going to use that?” he asks quietly.

“Why are you here?” Your voice comes out stronger than you expected. “What do you want?”

Soulmate or not, this is still the man who shot you.

Dex’s eyes lower briefly to the blood staining his side. His hand still tightly clutching the wound. “I needed help.”

Then his eyes lift back to yours. “And I wanted to see you.”

Something tightens in your chest because part of you understands exactly what he means.

For a moment you stay where you are, knife still low at your side, eyes flickering once again towards the blood dripping from his hand and staining your sofa.

“You’re staining my sofa,” you say, placing the knife on the shelf, hands more steady than you feel.

Dex tilts his head, eyebrows twitching in confusion. “What?”

“My sofa is brand new, and you’re ruining it.”

“Oh,” he says, finally noticing his blood soaking the cushions. “So I am.”

You exhale slowly, feeling the last bit of adrenaline leave your body. When your brother told you this morning he was going to see Dex in prison, this wasn’t how you expected your night to go.

“Let me see it,” you say.

Dex stills at your words, his hand moving to his ribs, his eyes slightly hopeful.

“Your injury,” you sharply say, face flushing red. “Not that.”

His eyes stay on you for a second before he slowly moves his hands away from his body. Blood immediately gushes through the tear in his shirt, a stab wound from what you could see and probably a few hours old.

You swear softly under your breath. “You should be at a hospital, especially with those face wounds as well.”

“No.” His answer was quick but certain. “Just you, only you.”

You don’t bother arguing as you step closer, removing your robe and setting it below you on the coffee table. He looks worse up close, pale even in the light of your warm lightbulb, and the left side of his face was bruised.

But his eyes never left you, slowly roaming up and down, taking in your light blue PJs, and smirking at your fluffy cow slippers.

“What?” you ask, reaching for the box of medical supplies you kept in the ottoman. Usually you would have used your powers, but tonight you were too tired and drained from helping out at the back-alley clinic your boss ran.

“Fluffy cow slippers?” His amusement was clear in his voice.

“Shut up,” you say, putting all your supplies on the table beside you. “They were a gift from Karen, and they’re very comfortable.”

Dex snorted. “Sure.”

“Are you armed?” you ask, pulling on gloves and sliding to your knees.

“Yes.” He said, spreading his legs to give you more room.

“… Are you planning on using it?” You ask, facing your supplies.

“No.” His answer was quick and certain again. “Not on you, never on you.”

Again. You couldn’t help but think.

“You’re nervous,” Dex says quietly, still watching you, and you begin to wonder if he’s even blinked.

You snort at that. “You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night and are now bleeding all over my sofa.”

“You’re still helping me.” He says like this means something.

You refuse to answer that as you reach for his shirt because deep down it does.

“Lean forwards.” You say quietly.

Dex obeys immediately and you lift his shirt. The movement exposing his defined muscles, and a few inches above the wound in black letters was your name. Unblemished, like he had done everything to protect it.

You freeze slightly at the sight of it, feeling the rush of emotions that happened every time you thought about him. Shaking the feelings away, you grabbed the disinfectant and soaked a gauze.

Silence settled between you as you dabbed at the wound, soaking up as much blood as you could before grabbing a fresh gauze.

“You didn’t come to see me,” he whispered breaking the silence, his eyes leaving you and going towards his blood-soaked hand.

“Don’t,” you say quietly, pressing the alcohol-soaked gauze harder against the wound than intended.

Dex barely reacts as his eyes move back to you. “Don’t what?”

“Talk like this changes anything.” You whisper, grabbing a new gauze to wipe away the remaining blood.

And for the first time since you walked into the living room, something shifts in his expression. Not anger, not hatred, but something you didn’t expect to see on him.

Hurt.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew, but you never came.”

You still at his words because what was there to say? For months you’ve refused to talk about what happened that night, focusing on your family and pushing every thought or feeling about him away.

For months you’ve kept your bond with him to yourself despite how much you wanted to cry and rant to someone about it without being judged or scorned.

You force yourself to keep working, fingers steady despite the sudden tightness in your chest. “Yes,” you say evenly. “I knew.”

The quiet is heavy as it fills the room before you clear your throat, reaching for the needle and thread in the kit. “You need stitches.”

“Sit up properly if you can,” you instruct, pulling all the necessary items closer to you.

Dex watches you for a second longer before pushing himself upright from the cushions, his jaw as he straightens himself up.

“Take the shirt off.” You say, preparing everything that you needed to stitch him up.

Dex drops the blood-soaked fabric onto the table behind you, exposing the full extent of the wound. The weapon grazed more than it pierced, but it still tore enough flesh to make a mess of his side.

Wiping the surrounding area with a fresh gauze, you gently rubbed some numbing cream around the wound and threaded the needle while waiting for it to dry.

“This is going to hurt.” You say, leaning closer towards him.

Dex goes still at your words, his attention once again focused fully on you.

You try to ignore his eyes on you, focusing completely on stitching the wound perfectly and not on how close he was now that you’re kneeling between his legs and leaning against him to get better access to the wound.

“You should’ve had this cleaned hours ago,” you mutter nearly halfway done.

“I was busy.” He answers as his hand gently brushes against your shoulder.

“With?” You ask, eyes still not leaving the wound but not shrugging his hand away.

His eyes scan your face. “Finding you.”

Your hand slips slightly. Not enough to hurt him, but enough for him to notice.

“You already knew where I lived.”

“I wanted to see you.”

There’s that sentence again. So honest, like there was nothing else more important.

Silence settles between you again, broken only by the quiet rattle of paper as you open fresh gauzes and the sound of rain against the windows. Focusing once again on your task, you quickly lose yourself in what is familiar.

Then Dex quietly says, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You tie off the last stitch before grabbing more gauze and soaking it in antiseptic alcohol. “Most prisoners send a letter.”

“I didn't think you’d like letters from me.”

You couldn’t stop your quiet snort.

“Did you think about me?” he says quietly after a while. Hand tightening on your shoulder like the answer to this question could hurt him more than his wound.

You press the gauze against the stitches, cleaning them and the surrounding area. “You were all over the news, quite hard to miss.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He says cupping your face and forcing you to look at him.

His face is blank, but his eyes are looking at you like he’s already decided you belong in his life.

And maybe you did. But it causes that familiar complicated feeling to twist in your chest.

“You shot me,” you say softly before you can stop yourself. “I waited years for you, and you shot me.”

Your confession settles heavily between you, and for the second time that night, Dex looks away.

“I know.” He says his face filled with something you couldn’t place—guilt, maybe.

The apartment smells faintly of antiseptic, rain, and blood. Outside the storm gets stronger.

Inside the living room, neither of you move.

“You’ll live,” you say, taking off your gloves.

Dex looks down at the neat line of stitches crossing his side before his gaze drifts back to you. “I know.”

Standing up, you move all the soiled items aside so that you can toss them in the kitchen bin. “You should go before the numbing wears off.”

Moving back to the table, you pack up the remaining medical items, making a mental note to restock and place them back in the ottoman.

Leaning down to grab your robe, your breath catches as Dex reaches out his hand, gently grabbing your wrist, his thumb gently pressing against your pulse.

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.

“I’m tired.” You say, making no move to pull away.

“You’re drained.” He states.

You almost deny it. But what would be the point? He noticed everything else about you tonight.

“I’ve had a long night,” you remind him.

“And you still helped me.” He states like this means something.

Before you could reply, Dex’s gaze drops to your shoulder. To the scar barely hidden by your shirt. His expression shifts into the same look as earlier.

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” he says honestly. “You moved in front of him so quickly I didn’t have time to stop.”

You look away at his admission, part of you wanting to believe him while the other part wants to shoot him to make it even.

Rain hits the windows harder as you begin to feel it again, that persistent and wanting pull between you becoming tighter the longer he stays.

“You need to leave,” you say quietly.

Dex looks at you for a long second. “Why didn’t you come to see me?”

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. Months of knowing exactly who he was to you, and you’d done nothing.

No visits. No letters. Nothing except pretend the name on your skin didn’t exist.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew where I was.”

You couldn’t force yourself to hold his gaze. Not when you knew what he was really asking. Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you choose me?

But you can’t answer that. Not honestly. Not when the truth was that every day you wanted to see him, to betray your friends and your family just to get a day with him.

“You need to leave.” You say, instead of spilling the truth, pulling your wrist out of his grip.

For a second, you think he might argue. His stare fixed so intensely on you that you almost cave and spill the truth.

Then he stands, pulling his shirt back over his head, and makes his way towards the window. Pushing it open wider, as storm blows cold air and rain into the living room as he tosses one leg out before he pauses and turns to look back at you again.

“I’m going to see you again.” He states.

Then he disappears into the night, and you’re left standing alone in your living room.

Your fingers slowly brush his name on your skin, and you can’t stop the feeling of wanting to see him again.

A/N: This is my first one-shot written so feedback is welcome!

@benspoindexter @noisyinfluencerstrawberry @genya1617

[whosjunglejim4322]

Dex just wants to take care of you <3

Warnings! Themes of stalking and obsession duh, very self indulgent fluff, Dex making sure you’re safe when you’re out at the bar cause he’s sweet like that, drunkenness (you, reader)! Not proofread yet pls forgive me

Older neighbor Dex who’s always had this thing for protecting you.

Even when you’re not looking, not paying attention to your surroundings and moving through life in that sweet way that you do- he’s there, your guardian angel really.

You were off today, a Saturday night with nothing to do and normally you’d be home, in your living room on the couch with a book and a show playing in the background because he’s noticed you don’t like the silence. Don’t like feeling alone.

It reminds him of himself.

So it perplexes him, and throws a wrench in his plans because he had things to do tonight once he made sure you were snug and secure in your own home per usual.

Because you’re out. And it makes his eye twitch, his muscles ache cause he’s so incredibly tense. You’re having a good time, nothing crazy just meeting up with a few people he recognizes as your co workers.

But this is a change in plans, and he doesn’t like a change in his plans. Especially not his routine.

Two girls, one guy. You’re at the bar in a dress that is attracting more stares than he’d like, I mean he can see the individual eyes that are raking you over and it’s obscene. Disgusting. Courtesy of the professional grade binoculars from his scope.

And the dress is simple enough which is the worst part, it’s flowy and clings to your softness in all the right places. Little imprints of you when the oscillating fan breezes past your form and you’re too enrapturing for the shitty little bar.

And worse, you’re already wobbling.

He can’t hear you, but he sees your hands motioning to your friends. You have to shout a few more times than he’d like, because they should be listening to you by now why won’t someone just pay attention?

You point inside your bag and one of the women, one of your co workers, grabs the device for you because you can’t seem to grapple for it in your current state.

Your mouth is moving, and you’re making a scrolling motion with your fingers. She’s searching for something, flashing you the phone screen for confirmation. You nod fervently, a smile on your face that makes his stomach ache badly.

He’d give anything to be smiled at like that from you right now.

Something buzzes in his pocket, and it shakes him from his little reverie. He forces his big hand into his jeans, scowls when he picks it up.

His annoyance is completely forgotten when your name lights up across his screen.

“Hello?” He says it with too much forced causality. Like he isn’t watching you speak to him right now.

“Hiiii!! Dex, sorry I didn’t think you’d answer.” Your voice is sitting high, words swaying like your body as you walk outside the bar to the front of the building.

His skin tingles, starts to feel hot because you’re still smiling big. Exuberant, free of worry. His breath catches when you almost trip, but you steady yourself against a light post.

“Don’t be sorry, I’m actually uh, out right now.” He clears his throat, grips the binoculars tighter in his right hand.

“No way!!! This is…well…I’m at this bar and I think, well maybe I’ve had one too many drinks and I just thought,” you take a breath, and his lips twitch when he sees you bite the skin around your thumb like you’re nervous.

“Yeah? You need a ride?” He shouldn’t be so obvious, a hitch in his tone with he asks, but you’re not in any state to question it and you also aren’t in any state to take an Uber and be alone in a vehicle with a stranger while drunk.

He’d rather cut his own tongue out,

Your face lights up - and he holds back a wistful groan.

“Yes! Oh my god, you read my mind, you’re so smart and you know me so well Dex - yeah could you? I’ll love you forever!”

It’s so silly, so juvenile that it takes his breath away to hear you say those words. Even with a slur and dragged out syllables. He already wonders what it might sound like when it’s genuine, when it’s leaving your lips soberly.

“Just send me your location, I’m probably not far if you’re in the city.”

He hears your soft breaths on the other line, hears the noise and nightly bustle of downtown when you take your phone away from your ear to look at your screen. It takes literally five whole minutes, but he gets the notification eventually. Then your sweet voice is back in his speaker.

“Kay, see you soon?” You ask, and he smiles to himself, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I’ll be there in 10.”

Dex is less than a block away. He could walk to you in less than 5, but of course he waits for realism and all that jazz, you know.

You’re getting cold by the time you see his truck pull up, and the joy emanating from you is ridiculous, obscene even. Cause he gets out and walks over to you with this vigilance - like you’re the most important thing in the world and any of your surroundings could be this glorious threat.

“Dex! You’re a real person!” You’re shouting, but no one cares. The beauty of the city is that everyone is so absorbed in their own life, they don’t take notice to the beautiful loud woman struggling to jog towards a handsome brooding man.

“I am real, yes, oh.”

He meets you halfway because you’re off kilter already, and he’s glad you’re not perceptive enough right now to notice he trembles when you throw your arms around his neck and embrace him like he’s a real life savior.

He holds you steady for obvious reasons, and totally not also because being touched by you makes him feel a euphoric buzz all over.

“Let’s get you in the car, yeah? How much you have tonight?”

He knows already. Three mixed drinks, you’re a lightweight. His hands feel big and warm and encapsulating on your waist, your shoulders as he open the door for you and helps you climb into his truck.

When he hops into the drivers seat, you shrug far too dramatically, jutting your bottom lip out. He finds it all too amusing, all too…cute. He’s grateful he watched you now, anyone could’ve tried to take advantage of you in this state.

Anyone could’ve taken you away from him.

The drive back is quiet, and he’s not mad at it. But you make it hard for him to think clearly when you grab at his shoulder, tugging at his shirt with your fingers. You’re getting sleepy, and he deduces that you want his arm as a headrest so he gives it to you with no fight.

He’s give you anything, everything with you a second bat of his eyes.

Elbow rested on the center console, your arms wrap around his bicep with a vice grip. His pulse thuds, skin sweltering. His fucking palms are sweating, cause your cheek is smooshed against him and you’re also about 100 degrees even through the fabric of his jacket.

“You’re amazing…saved me Dex. You’re the best…you know that?” You’re delirious but god, it means everything to him.

“Shh, almost home.”

Cause he can’t hear anymore. He’ll take it to heart, it’s already burning in his head and branding a permanent mark in his psyche.

Getting you out of the car is a difficult feat and not because of your drunkenness, but because of your impromptu nap in the car ride home. Drowsiness in a powerful thing, especially when combined with alcohol.

You’re whiny, petulant when he gets you out and you’re quick to cling to him like you’ve never known another source of grounding. His ribs ache with the pounding of his heart, he doesn’t even mind the fact that getting up the stairs almost made you cry because your feet hurt sooooo bad Dex they’re gonna literally fall off.

Your keys are a mess, too many keychains that make it difficult to find what he’s looking for. He pushes your door open, and it’s strange to be in here with you in his arms and not looking through family photo albums while you’re at work.

The door is shut and you’re groaning again, letting him guide you to your room with unsteady feet because you recognize you’re home now. With him. And sleep is threatening to take you completely under, but you’re absolutely elated.

You don’t think about how he knows where your room is, or how he knows which closet to put your shoes into when he lies you back on the bed with a hand cradled around your head, and takes them off of your feet.

You’re just humming to yourself, pleased that he’s touching you. That he’s in your presence and you smell him on yourself now. Clean, a little salty, sweet on the edges. It makes your skin even hotter, so you reject the covers when he tries to pull them over you.

“Thirsty.”

You make a show of sounding like you’re dying, like you’ve been without sustenance or hydration for weeks.

He chuckles, and you don’t see it cause you’re half lidded but you hear the soft breath leave his nose. It makes you smile in return.

His weight is off the bed and it’s an eternity, for you personally, until he returns.

He cracks the cap open on a cold water bottle.

“Sit up for me, here - there we go, drink.”

He holds the back of your neck with a softness you didn’t think he’d be capable of with such big, calloused hands. He runs slow, reassuring circles on your nape.

You take a mouthful and swallow, and he doesn’t move the bottle but instead pushes it against your lips like he wants you to take another - so you do. You make a noise, like you’ve followed through with his silent request and you’re satiated.

This satisfies him, and he wipes a dribble of water escaping the corner of your mouth with his thumb. You don’t see him lick it off when he turns to place the bottle on your nightstand.

“You care about me.”

You say it to the dark and the dark responds quickly.

“Yes, I do. I think you need to rest now, hmm?” His voice betrays his suggestion. It cries, do anything but rest. Talk to me all night, never fall asleep again if it means I’ll get to be with you.

His heart reaches his throat when your hands reach out, searching. And then your body is shifting and you’re sitting up even further and then your breath is against his cheek.

“Always looking out for me, my protector.”

It lands right on the corner of his mouth, the soft lazy kiss, and he can’t think. Can’t form words right now cause he still feels it, hot and tingly against his scruffy flesh even when you fall against the pillow with his heavy hand in yours.

There’s a silence that lingers for a couple of minutes. Content, save for the haze that’s encapsulating his head.

Dex hears your soft snores before he feels the tension leave your grip on his fingers. Now your digits are tangled with his, and he traces the curve of your palm as it leads to your wrist. Your soft breaths are soothing to him, something he ends up listening to for maybe an hour or so.

He has to make sure you fall asleep peacefully under his watchful care, right? What if you wake up and need water? Or can’t get to the bathroom?

He covers you up before he leaves, checks all the locks and makes sure you have ibuprofen and extra hydration on your nightstand. Slippers by your bedside so your feet don’t have to be subjected to the cold floor in the morning.

He wonders, when he crawls into his own bed, if you’ll think about him in the morning, remember everything like he already has.

He hopes so.

And he also hopes that you don’t see the message thread with him that he deleted before he left so that he can keep your location.

[burgundysnow]

Perhaps a fic with teasing Ryland Grace for days until he actually begs on knees 🤭??

Word count: 1.7k Warnings: handjob. Sub!ryland. Edging. Begging. Fem!reader. Dirty talk.

The sun pours through the windows like spilt orange juice. It’s really bright, and you feel just the tiniest bit warmer from where it touches your skin. 

The sun has a special effect on people. You soak it up through the layers and layers of flesh and it provides you vitamins for your body— the same goes for plants. It gives you that heat to feel warm and comfortable. 

But right now the special effect it has on Grace is that it makes him look beautiful. 

He always looks beautiful, but right now there’s just a certain type of beauty when the sun shines across his skin. 

Hair askew and his face lax with no thoughts behind those docile eyes. Sleeping looks good on him. The morning sun just brings it out better. 

You want to move to snap a picture, so perfect snuggled up against the sheets and your body. But as soon as your hand descends for the side table, Ryland stirs. 

Sucking in a big breath the sun makes his eyes squint, gaining his bearings after a minute and peeking his eyes open to find you laying in his bed, a smile just comes naturally.

“Morning.” Ryland stretches. Arms going far behind his back and showing off those perfect biceps. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

“Good morning.” Your hand travels into his hair first, just to brush it out of the way. But the dirty blond color reminds you of sun beams chasing away shadows into a corner. 

Ryland smiles wide, finally relaxing back into himself and laying next to you. Not minding if he put his face in your stomach or right on your chest. It doesn’t matter, you can make room for wherever he wants to rest against you. 

“S’today the day?” Ryland asked innocently.

Your fingers keep carding through his hair. Up and out. “Day for what?” 

“You know…” 

His bottom half moves. Right up against your leg and oh. You can feel it. Like a ball of fire in his abdomen that sparked his morning wood. His dick warm and burning for attention at the sound of your voice. 

“The day.” 

There’s a tug at your lips, Ryland is needy and apparently impatient. That’s how he got into this mess in the first place, not knowing when to stop bugging versus teasing. 

And he was teasing. 

Late night dinner party with some friends, Ryland’s hand slipped under the table. Nothing scandalous— but just enough to drive you crazy. 

His hand slowly moving back up and down your thigh, touching softly it had a sharp shiver running up your spine. He wouldn’t stop. Just the fingertips trailing across sensitive skin. Like feather light walking on top of a cloud.

Then there was the carless whispers. A small snide comment like, “can we leave soon or what?” Ryland’s impatience tended to make his mouth loose. He would let every thought that crossed his mind get whispered into your precious ears while doing the most innocent of things like eating pasta. 

“I wish we were at home, in bed…” He would say with a whine. It didn’t take a genius to expand on that though. 

“Wanna get under your dress so bad…” He whispered right as you were done fake laughing at your friend. 

“Can we please leave? I’ll do whatever you want.” His pleading voice always swayed you. 

So on those days, you would do what you wanted with him. Because he had said whatever. And what you wanted was to edge him every day for at least three days. If Ryland likes being needy at the wrong moments, you’d train him to be patient. Wait for that orgasm to finally rush over him. 

So that’s what the day is. Finally three days of constant edging to at last be tipped over that sweet and welcoming edge to spill everything out that he’s been holding back. He’d held back and obeyed you because he wanted so desperately to be good.

You hum. Fingers lowering to scratch at his nape where all the short hair was, soft against your hand. 

“I don’t know…” 

Ryland’s whine is immediate, shoving his nose into the crook of your arm and torso. He wants it bad. It’s like solar flares that have been building and building and finally need to release all the pent up hot energy that accumulated. 

“Please…” 

His arms hold tight around your waist. Aching and begging for what you know he wants. He’s adorable. 

“Ry, you haven’t shown me that you’ve learned your lesson.” 

“I have.” His voice sounds desperate, looking up into your eyes to show off the glow of his sweet, warm, and pleading blue irises. “I have learned, I’ve been so good— please I’ll do anything. I just— I need too…” 

His hips roll against your leg once more. You think he must be taking notes from the kids in his class because he begs like a child. Big, wet puppy eyes on display and negotiation skills turning on. 

He’s the most tempting trap you’ve ever fallen into. 

And ‘fallen’ is the right word. You think you’ve caught a glimpse of what Icarus must have seen when falling from the sky. The picture-perfect sun too beautiful not to be corrupted with our wrongs. 

And you desperately wanted to corrupt Ryland. 

You wanted to fly high into his warm arms and give him everything he wants and needs. 

But it’s fun to watch the moon rise too. A push and pull between the night and day. It’s only a treat to see the sun because the moon comes every night. 

“Please, I’ve learned. I swear I have. And— and I’m sorry. For what I did at the restaurant. But I’ve learned my lesson. Please it hurts.” 

Your other hand slides down, shifting just a little to reach under the blankets and inside his boxers. Quickly grabbing at his hard, achy, and apparently hurting cock. Poor boy. 

“Oh my fucking— yes.” 

It’s always a surprise when Ryland swears, since he only does it when you manage to catch him off guard. You try so hard to catch him off guard too because it’s so hot when he swears low and desperate like this.

Ryland throws his head back into the hand you have in his hair, even though all you’re doing is spreading the wetness around the tip of his dick with your thumb, soft velvet skin getting wetter by the second leaving his dick a leaky faucet in your hand.

“You—” he grabs at your soft shirt, grips it tight like you’re his lifeboat, leaving your shirt to get scrunched up to reveal more of your cleavage. “You have no idea how good this feels.” 

“Yeah?” You egg him on. Bringing your hand back up quickly to your mouth to spit in it. Saliva coating his cock and doing long slow pumps. “Tell me about it” 

It’s hard to focus on actual speaking when you’re teetering on a cliff. Ryland’s body frustrated and pent up leaving his mind affected. 

“Can you just go a little faster?” 

“Nuh uh, just this.” 

“Yeah okay— sorry.” 

Despite it not being enough, having anything feels better than having nothing. Your hand squeezes hard at the base of his dick and his hips jolt forward before you continue. 

“It feels good.” 

With his eyes fluttering closed, you can still see the pure pleasure etched onto his face. “And… and crazy. I think I’m… I’m gonna go crazy if you don’t—” his hips jolt again and you really can’t blame him. Now you’re the one being the tease, but only because he started it. “Pick up the pace or do something more. Please?” 

He’s breathless even at your moderate pace on his cock. He finally opens his eyes and is delightedly met with the view of your bunched up shirt with exposed cleavage. It doesn’t take another second for him to bite his teeth into the soft flesh of your tits. Small nibbles to keep him grounded.

Finally you give him mercy. Speeding up the thrusts of your hand that he’s been pleading for since the very beginning. The moans slip out of his mouth and just a slight whimper every few seconds. 

Ryland doesn’t notice because he has a lot on his plate, but his teeth bite down just a little harder and hands on your hips squeeze more, bracing himself. 

Sweat drips from his hairline, the sun making a delicious shine across his face. You feel his cock twitch in excitement in the palm of your hand. Ryland comes up, lips puffy from sucking and biting. 

“I… I wanna cum, please, please let me cum this time. It’s… it’s so much.” 

His thighs tense and twitch. Face twisted with pleasure. It’s a sight far more beautiful than a sunset itself.

“I’m just— I’m just so close. Fuck.” 

Throaty moans slip past his plush lips and you kiss his forehead. Maybe an apology for when you shift again, practically flipping on-top of him and edging him just once more. Boxers astray in a weird position and hands now on his chest, cock twitching with what could have came. 

“No—”

Ryland’s brows furrow in frustration and his lips close in a tight line. Hands holding onto your waist grasping like fresh air. “No, no please don’t do this…” 

“Ryland…” Your sweet voice rings out over his thumping heart. Coming down from what should have been a good orgasm. 

You cup his jaw, making him look right at you, his little backstabber. You see his big teary eyes, betrayal written all across with every action he takes. “Hey, look at me.” 

He does, with much reluctancy because maybe he did finally learn his lesson. 

“How long does it take for sunlight to reach the earth?” 

Ryland’s brows furrow. Your teasing has his brain lagging. A typically easy and simple question he asks in the classroom constantly has him closing his eyes and throws his head against the headboard of your bed to try to remember. 

“Uh…” he whispers breathlessly. “About eight minutes and twenty seconds because the speed of light is about 186,000 miles per second...” 

“Yeah.” You nod. He’s coming back, mind forgetting of the inevitable torture. Hand sneaking back down to pull his boxers all the way down and grab at his dick again. “And how long do you think it takes from the feeling in your dick to start before coming? Is there a lag time of eight minutes do you think?” 

“No.” he shakes his head, back and forth and jaw clenches like he’s trying not to bite something. “It’s not that long… I can show you if you just—”

Hips lifting from underneath you, trying to gain any friction again. “Just let me cum…” 

Finally with a big smile on your face and because the sun is so bright and nice today, your hand starts rubbing fast against his tip. 

“Okay, Doc.” With a slight murmur you watch his face go lax again against the warm rays of light.

“Show me your theory.” 

[gutsby]

Birds & Bees

Pairing: Sex Ed!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel explains how babies are made.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Virginity loss. Creampie. Daddy kink. Girthy, unspecified age gap. Exhibitionism if you squint. Oral (m! and f! receiving). Breeding kink. Assplay. Intercrural sex. Soft dom!Joel. DD/lg dynamics and the use of anatomical terminology to describe various body parts—don’t like, don’t read.

Note: “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” is a song by Journey 🕺🏻

Another note: All characters involved in this story are adults. Reader is described as having grown up in isolation, without access to formal education, and as such, her understanding of the human body and sexual reproduction is limited. This is not a reflection of her intelligence or her ability to learn the topics.

Word count: 18.0k

Surely, it hurt.

It had to.

Whatever was happening in the confines of the bedroom next to yours, the woman didn’t sound like she was having fun. A sharp cry had startled you out of your sleep, only slightly muffled by the cabin’s walls, and when you were awake, you heard all of it. Everything.

“Tommy.” The voice rose, pitchy and shrill. “Pleeease!”

It sounded as if someone were begging for their life, frankly; the responding male groan was near-deafening. The quick, hollow thumps against the wall picked up, and before you could even begin to wonder at what that was from, you heard Tommy Miller’s voice rejoin in turn:

“You fuckin’ love it, don’t ya, baby?”

No, clearly, your wife is in pain.

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing with your own two ears; you and Joel had come to visit for the weekend, since the two of you lived a little ways away from Jackson and the balmy summer weather was too good not to travel. It wasn’t all that often you got to see Joel’s only living family, but whenever you did, it was fun. Tommy, his brother, and Maria really seemed to suit one another, and you relished any opportunity to be around other people. You didn’t get very much of that with Joel.

He was technically your closest, and oldest, neighbor.

Since your grandmother had passed some years back, he had taken it upon himself to care for you. At first, it’d been just a matter of stopping by every now and then to make sure you were fed, safe, and content, but that had morphed slowly over time to you moving into his place. Taking up residence in his little two-bedroom abode out in the middle of nowhere, and becoming something like a friend to him. A pet, a plaything, a ward—you weren’t totally sure what to call your relationship to Joel, seeing as though you’d never been anything to any man before.

That was one of the drawbacks to being born and raised in the remote, post-apocalyptic world as you were: pure naïveté. Not knowing one thing by way of societal norms.

You rushed over to his bed now, no hesitation stalling your limbs as you tore off his sheets in a state of panic:

“Joel!”

The man lay there, motionless. His big, broad, black-and-silver speckled chest rose up and down, again and again.

Joel always slept heavy as shit. He wore boxers and nothing more, which you were used to seeing by now.

And you felt such a singular familiarity with him after all this time that you didn’t think twice to climb into the bed, right on top of him. This was just Joel, after all.

Round, brown eyes flew open as soon as you did.

“Fuckin’ sh—” he started, voice thick with sleep.

“Joel, hurry!” you hissed. Straddling his hips, grabbing at his bare shoulders and shaking them as hard as you could. “T-Tommy’s hurtin’ Maria! We need to help.”

A low groan sounded in Joel’s throat—not entirely unlike the one that you’d heard from his brother through the wall, you thought for half a moment—and shortly, a set of hands landed on your waist. They squeezed you tight.

And, just as it seemed they were about to lift and nudge you sideways, you bore down. Insistent, and frowning.

“Just listen! Right now. Please, Joel, I-I’m serious.”

You were pleading with him now, unable to contain the fear in your tone as you clamped a hand over his mouth.

Honestly, you probably didn’t even need to do that—the room was dead quiet, save for the sounds of you and Joel’s breathing, the soft whistle of the wind, then—

“Ohhhh, fuck me! Tommy, it’s—shit!” Maria whimpered.

“You asked for it, baby. Wanted me poundin’ ya, huh?”

Tommy’s words seemed to bounce off of every surface in the room with a grating, nauseating turn. It made your eyes widen, and your palm press even tighter to Joel.

“See?! He—He’s hittin’ her! We gotta g—”

Joel groaned again. Louder, and more pointed this time.

You hadn’t realized it, but your thighs were holding pretty hard, too. Your groin was aligned perfectly with Joel’s, your weight was sinking down, and that touch was concentrated. If there had been any room to consider your current spot, you could’ve sworn you felt a…lump?

“Fuck,” Joel gritted through his teeth. Finally lifting you off him, and wincing as he did, he sat up. He met your gaze with a sharp, stern, and bewildered sort of look.

“What—” he panted, “—are ya talkin’ about, darlin’?”

“Don’t you hear it?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

You blinked.

“So…go!”

“What?”

“Stop ‘em.”

“From what?”

“Fightin’, Joel!”

Now, it was his turn to blink.

He waited several seconds, then continued.

“Babygirl, Tommy and Maria ain’t…ain’t havin’ no fight.”

For a while, you had only to stare back at him, confused.

The ride home was awkward.

Joel could feel it in his bones, beneath his skin, itching from within the deepest recesses of his body: that morning had changed things. For you and for him.

What he had come to suspect for the longest time—and what had only made sense, since the one, lone soul you’d known all your life until him had been your grandmother—was true. You didn’t know what sex was, or what it did.

Joel swallowed thickly, pretending not to be conscious of the warmth on his back. Your arms snug around him. Your cheek resting gently against the cotton duck fabric of his jacket while the two of you rode on horseback to get home, and a pout the size of Texas no doubt marring your pretty face. You’d been cross with him all that day.

“Venison and cornbread for supper. How ‘bout it?” He tried supplying his tone with some playful inflection, hoping to entice with the promise of your favorite meal.

Clearly, though, he would need to try harder.

You shrugged against him.

“Fine by me.”

Joel knew that tone. Could probably pinpoint with surgical precision what you were feeling before the emotion even rose to your eyes. He couldn’t see you now, but he could feel the frustration bleeding through your words. Being treated as if you were too young, too innocent, too dumb to be told this hurt, plain and simple.

He wrestled with this thought the whole way home, then trudging into the cabin that you’d been sharing for months. You strode ahead, steps brisk and decided, and you peeled off your long, light cardigan without a care in the world. You kicked off your boots and set them beside the rest of his in the mud room. Joel followed you, softly.

He set his hands on his hips after toeing off his own Luccheses, watching you and not knowing what to say.

Then you turned to face him.

The cough was both reflexive and immediate. Joel had never seen—hell, it’d been years since anybody, but this…this was even worse, more jarring than he ever…

He forced his gaze away in a blink. He coughed again.

“Sweetie,” Joel started, low. “I think your, uh—”

“Will you just tell me?” you snapped. You threw your hands up, as if sick of having had to hold your tongue this long. “Whatever was going on. With Tommy and Maria. I know you think I’m…I’m…young, or whatever, but, Joel, I am a full grown adult!” Another pause just long enough for you to gnaw at your bottom lip and cross your arms. Bad, bad move for Joel’s resolve. “Ain’t like it’s my fault I was born after outbreak and never learned.”

You were right.

Joel shouldn’t have been so narrow-minded.

Still, that didn’t change the fact that you were wearing what looked to be the most slight, translucent fucking frock of all time. Something short and sweet and swept up in a sea of white tulle: you could’ve been modeling for a wedding night lingerie specialty line, bare as you were.

He must’ve missed it under your sweater. Not turned his head to meet your eyes or your ensemble that morning before you climbed up on the horse behind him and set out. Joel knew he’d never seen this…thing once before.

Your tits practically spilled out of the top. Your arms remained crossed, and you eyed him with a wary look.

“Well?” you said.

“Well,” Joel repeated, still floundering for words. “Wh—Well, y’know, I…see, I’ve—I’ve been…‘S’always been…”

Shit.

He was tongue-tied.

More helpless than a fish trying to ride a bike.

And, like a teenager with an untimely boner growing in his jeans—even though, at his age, Joel couldn’t get bricked that quick if his life depended on it—he shuffled away. Sidestepped you in the hallway and made a beeline for the kitchen, where he could feel an odd stir start to take root in his lower half. He cursed the half-cocked mass in his pants and sincerely hoped it wouldn’t interfere with what he knew he needed to do now.

“I’ll…I’ll explain it, sweet pea. While we cook, OK?”

“Alright.” You started trailing behind him slowly.

You didn’t sound convinced. Joel wasn’t remotely disposed for the conversation awaiting him in the kitchen, or having to look you head-on while half your body was on display to him. You didn’t seem to see it.

You were as innocent and clueless as the moment you’d bat your lashes at him in the half light of the bedroom that morning, straddling his hips, and replying to his last quip by saying, ‘If they ain’t fightin’, what are they doin’?’

“Who gave you that dress, anyway?”

Joel retrieved the meat from the ice box, setting it out to let it thaw while you and him prepped the rest of the meal. Across the room, you were already grabbing some of the ingredients you’d need: flour, cornmeal, sugar, salt

“Maria,” you answered, simply. “She let me have whatever clothes of hers I wanted. ‘S’nice, ain’t it?”

“It looks like something you’d wear on your honeymoon.”

After turning to preheat the oven, Joel sidled up beside you. His gaze affixed itself to the counter through pure force of will, though in his periphery, he caught sight of the outline of your breasts. He tore open a bag of sugar.

Then you turned to him, voice rising a little:

“What’s a honeymoon?”

Joel couldn’t help it; he had to meet your eyes lifting to find his. Inside them, he saw genuine curiosity brimming.

Innocence, too.

“Just a, uh…trip that folks would take right after their wedding,” he said, before clearing his throat. “Vacation.”

“Oh.”

For a brief space of time, silence settled into the grooves and bumps of that slightly uncomfortable realization—what the world was like before it all splintered apart—and neither one of you tried to speak. You worked nimble fingers over the dry ingredients, Joel cracked eggs one by one, and together, you made relatively quick work of readying the cornbread mixture for baking. It was easy.

Stupidly, Joel thought that he might be off the hook in terms of not having to discuss the mechanics of marriage and sex to you then, when you piped up again.

“So this is what I’d be wearin’ after gettin’ hitched? Like…like Tommy and Maria did?” You licked sugar off your thumb before sliding the tray to him, and he took it.

“Yeah. I mean…”

Joel opened the oven door, and more carefully than he probably needed to do, pushed the baking dish inside it.

“…not immediately.”

When he had, you were right back beside him.

“Doin’ whatever we heard this morning, you think?”

The curiosity in your tone was unmistakable. Perhaps emboldened by the plain look of discomfort that was twisting his every feature, you could say it more freely.

Having sex, of course.

Why the hell hadn’t your grandma bothered to tell you?

“Yes,” Joel replied, stiff as anything. “That’s…part of it.”

“How much of it?”

“Well—”

“And why’d it sound like Maria was in pain?”

“Baby, that—that ain’t any real pain, I pr—”

“She was screamin’, Joel! Really hollerin’.”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

He absolutely hated this.

With you pressed up beside him, eyes wide and glossy and shimmering with intrigue, his cock half-hard in his jeans and his mind thrumming with that constant, paralyzing thought—‘I promised I would keep her safe, not completely obliterate her innocence like this’—he balked. He took a step away from you and shook his head, like something had just rocked him to his core.

Your brows pinched.

“So then, what were they—”

“—can’t do this right now, sweetheart. ‘M’sorry.”

Joel’s whole chest seemed to cave with his sigh: the kind that reminded him how old he was, how naïve you were, and how wrong it would be if he gave you the wrong impression of sex. Make you afraid of it, or averse to it.

“We can go back to Jackson. Have one of them teachers in the schools explain it to you much better than I ever could.” Joel was walking to the pantry now, resealed food items cradled haphazardly in his arms. He didn’t slow.

And, before he had even gotten the chance to open the door, much to his shock and sheer, unmitigated dismay, he heard your voice again. Behind him, as defiant as ever.

“Whatever, Joel.”

Your voice was hard; he could feel the eye roll baked in. Then you stalked past him, straight for the living room.

Stomping ahead, and calling over your shoulder, you said: “If you won’t tell me, I’ll just ask some other guy to explain. Maybe the boys my age won’t be such prudes!”

It was the closest you’d ever gotten to downright bratty in your life. Joel had only to stand there, arms full of various powdered fixings and his jaw gone partly lax. He stared at your back, gaze following you as you went over to the den. You flopped onto the old and weathered sofa.

He dropped whatever he was holding then.

With something red-hot and ugly beginning to pool in his gut, mind reeling from the words you’d just spoken to him, Joel acted without thinking. Footsteps echoed.

“Darlin’.”

He wouldn’t get angry.

“Sweetheart. Sw—Hey. Look at me.”

That simply wasn’t in his nature. He loved you too much.

You turned to face him in your seat, and this time, Joel didn’t feign not to see you. Half-naked as you were, pert nipples poking through your dress and chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths, you looked like a dream.

So what if he couldn’t be with you how he wanted?

He could teach you, and that would be enough.

Joel tugged you back up onto your feet.

“Fine. You wanna learn about sex?”

As soon as he said it, your eyes went wider. A heat must have spread from your cheeks all the way down to your toes and strangled your tongue as it did, because all you could do was close and unclose your mouth, repeatedly.

How fast that brave, no-bullshit attitude was to disappear, Joel thought idly. He wanted to smile.

You didn’t even know what sex was, and still, as if by instinct, you knew that that word meant something.

It made you shift on your feet, toes curling.

“I, um…”

Huh.

“What?”

“It’s just…” you went on, sounding uncertain.

“Baby, if you can’t even stomach the word, I’d say we’d be better off saving this conversation for another day.”

That made you tense up again.

As if he’d just shocked you with a live wire, muscles jumping and skull surely shaking a, no, Joel, I can stomach it fine, I promise, you cut right back in.

Eyes lifting to his, bottom lip no longer snagged between your teeth, and then with your body lowering, slow, back down to take a seat on the sofa, you finally forced it out.

“Joel, I—I want you to teach me how to fuck. Really, I do.”

Well, shit.

Joel reckoned that had ‘pretty please’ beat all to hell.

Your words damn near knocked him sideways.

It was all the man could do to keep from keeling straight over and croaking on the spot—he had to get away from you, if only by a couple extra feet. He shuffled back. Stood at the center of the living room with his feet planted firmly in place, then tilted his head to you.

“And just where did you learn that word, young lady?”

Paternal condescension came too easy to him.

Joel blinked hard to keep his face in check.

You shrugged before him. Hummed back.

“Dunno. ‘S’what Maria said, right?” you replied, eyes locking with his. “Moanin’, ‘Fuck me, Tommy, pleee—’”

“That’s enough.” Joel held his hand up to stop you.

What was he going to do with you? Gaze glittering bright, lips parted, practically careening over the edge of your seat to hear the rest, while simultaneously looking terrified to learn for certain. You knew some words, but not other ones. You had an innocence and an obscenity bound up inside you at once. Joel was afraid to touch it.

“If I’m teachin’ you a thing…” he resumed, slow, stance widening where he stood and arms folding. “I mean one thing, sugar, we’re only using the clinical terms, y’hear?”

Joel scarcely had the words to describe the depth of his own emotion and what he felt toward you; he knew he’d need to keep some…distance when discussing this subject. Making his jargon dry, unappealing, and scientific seemed like the best way of doing that.

“Alright,” you said, tucking your legs underneath you.

Another beat of silence.

Another ripe, strangled breath slicing through his teeth.

“OK…” Joel went on, trying his best not to grimace. “Has anyone talked to you about the, uh…birds and the bees?”

“You mean dicks and vaginas?”

“Hey.”

Joel choked.

His hand scrubbed down his face in an almost vicious way, and he had to shield his stubbled mouth with his palm, for fear of another less-polite sound tumbling out.

Sat on the couch, you wore a faint, smug little smile.

“Sorry. Penises and vaginas,” you corrected yourself.

Again, Joel was blinking furiously, but now his index finger was lifting, too, pointing at you: ‘Thin ice, kid.’

You weren’t going to make this easy on him, clearly. Whether you were aware of the reasons why, or knew just how to wield your power over him was a separate question. Either way, Joel would need to keep moving.

So, pretending to clear a cough from his throat again, he went on. Recovering the grit to his voice, and scowling:

“Yes. Penises and vaginas. Pretty simple stuff, really.”

You raised your brows. Joel ignored it.

“Pole goes in the hole, and—”

“How’s it fit?” you cut in.

“What?”

Joel’s frown deepened. You sat straighter in your seat.

“I mean…every time I’ve seen one, it’s, um…wormy.”

Wormy?

“Wormy?” Joel returned immediately, in disbelief.

And he couldn’t contain the next, which all but launched itself off his tongue: “You’ve—You’ve seen a dick before?”

“Penis, Joel.”

“Penis.”

He sucked in a breath to try and calm himself, but the effort, evidently, was for nothing. He was near-seething.

You peered up at him.

“Just yours,” you said. A little sheepish. “Once or twice.”

Joel let the breath out. His mouth tightened.

“You’ve—” Then he stopped himself. The question was stupid; of course, you’d caught glimpses of him naked before. That was inevitable living in a house this small.

Before you could even try to apologize, he pressed on.

“OK, well, what’s…what the hell’s ‘wormy’ mean?”

“I dunno. Just, like, squishy and pink, I guess.”

“That’s—” Another brief pause. Joel had to steel himself right. “Well, hon, it doesn’t stay like that. It…It gets hard, when a man feels good. Helps him fit inside the woman.”

Not terrible.

Not perfect, but not terrible.

You perked up where you sat, and it was in that moment that Joel realized that his joints ached. His legs burned. The forearms crossed over his chest had unconsciously constricted tighter to the point that it was getting a little tough to breathe, so he released his hold. His hands fell to his sides at the same time you stood up in front of him

Damn that smile of yours.

Damn those gleaming eyes.

“Can you show me how?” you asked softly.

Your gaze trailed to his crotch, and Joel could feel it like a real, bona fide weight sinking him. It was curious. Sweet.

‘That ain’t right,’ was Joel’s first instinct, which he said.

Even faced with the stern, stormy exterior of a man no less than several decades your senior, though, you didn’t seem deterred by those words. If anything, it made the little tilt in your lips kick higher. You smiled lightly at him.

“How come?” you asked. “It’s just teachin’, Joel.”

Too easy.

Joel swallowed and shook his head.

“No. Sweetheart, teachin’s a whole other beast from…from me showin’ you what I mean. You gotta know that.”

Still, his eyes were glossing over, and a haze was settling over his mind like a mist in the sky just before the break of dawn. His limbs felt heavy, and his tongue went dry.

You were too fucking sly and sweet for your own good.

As if on cue, you drew closer to meet him where he stood. The hem of your dress shifted and swayed, barely long enough to scrape the tops of your thighs. Joel couldn’t bear to look higher, so he just stared at your legs. Scrambling like hell to come up with an excuse as to why he’d need to leave the room in less than a second, he wasn’t remotely prepared for what you ventured next.

You took the hem in your hands, and you lifted it.

Not just an inch or two but ten, easily, all the way until the fabric was touching your navel. The move exposed your entire lower half to him, and Joel found himself ogling a pair of bright, white, matching underwear.

Before he could move, you tilted your hips. As if showing him a new bump or bruise—which you often liked to do whenever you were hurt and needed attention—you said:

“Joel, look.”

He did.

He almost had to.

Old and awful and ashamed as he was, he couldn’t keep his eyes away. They were unblinking and ravenous, soaking in your form like a hunter surveying its next meal

Then you shifted on your delicate, socked feet.

“How ‘bout me? Can you show it on me?” you whispered.

Joel didn’t have the bandwidth to mince words right now

Teachin’, touchin’, lovin’, squeezin’—he had that craving.

One look between your legs and the man would’ve died on the spot if you told him. That was how needy he was.

Your fingers wavered a little when you didn’t hear a response. Joel was too busy eyeing you and trying not to drool, but the sight of you starting to lower your skirt snapped him out of it. He placed his hands on your waist.

“Wait.” Then, realizing how abrupt and sharp that sounded, he paused. He tried softening his tone a little. “Sorry. I mean. You…you want me to show ya, sweetie?”

Finally, his gaze slid up to meet yours.

You were watching him closely.

“If that’s…OK,” you said.

Well, shit.

Nothing would make him happier.

Still, fighting his base instincts, and just narrowly managing to keep his hold steady, Joel reeled it in.

Every thick, callused finger splayed across your sides was practically humming with primal energy; all the same, his love outweighed the lust. He lowered his voice to only the gentlest of tones and asked you, point-blank:

“Is that OK with you? Do you want me to teach you?”

Waves of chill bumps seemed to answer first: your skin, your eyes, your smile, every breath betraying that eager, nervous need. Then your grip moving from your dress. One hand clasping around his wrist and nudging it in.

You nodded.

You let him brush one sweaty palm across your skin.

Joel lowered without thinking. Sinking to the floor, onto his knees, felt like exactly what he needed to do, and he didn’t give a shit if it pulverized his joints beyond repair.

“Right here?” he breathed, now level with your heat.

Wooden floorboards creaked under his weight, and the air swelled thick and warm where he knelt. Sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing the space in a dreamlike sort of haze. Joel inhaled through his nose and almost pitched forward; you hummed your soft assent.

You didn’t know what you were doing then.

By what remaining, fraying thread of resolve the man possessed, Joel stopped himself before he went too far.

He blinked fast and moved his hands to your hips, just below where you were holding your dress’s hem for him.

Clinical.

Educational.

Fucking academic was what this would be.

“Anyone ever teach you about her?” Joel asked gently.

A ringing in his ears succeeded that question, louder than anything he’d ever experienced, and he looked up at you. You stared down at him, and one bat of your eyes was all it took to remind him he’d have to take this slow.

“Her?” you murmured.

“Yeah. Her.”

Joel wished his hands weren’t so big, seeing how easy it was to move his thumb: his palm glided across the slope of your tender mound, and in no time at all, he had a thick, callused pad stroking you over your panties. It traced your seam carefully—cautiously, like a single wrong move might wind up losing you to him forever—and then he searched your face. He swallowed, watching the features contort the slightest, slightest bit in yours.

Your breath hitched, and you whimpered.

You spread your thighs a little more.

“Private parts have…pronouns?”

That thumb swiped up. It grazed a tiny bud beneath cotton, and in under a second, your lips were twitching again. Your hips stirred, as if beyond your conscious control, and Joel eased off of you. He nodded his head.

“‘S’called a ‘vulva,’ baby.” Then his palm cupped it. Holding you in place, repeating: clinical, educational, academic like a broken refrain in his mind, over and over again. “This whole thing. Pronouns make it a little more personal, y’know? But can you repeat that word for me?”

“Vulva.”

The word was foreign on your tongue. You didn’t seem acquainted with the taste or the feel, and that forced a tiny line of worry between your eyebrows. Joel went on.

“Just like that, baby. Good. Reckon it’s best you learn about you before we take on any other stuff, for now.” Holding your heat like a weight in his hand, he crooked his fingers, and the pads grazed a smooth, clothed orifice. “Now what’s this called? You already said it.”

“The…um, vagina.” With a smidge more confidence, you still balked when his index and middle fingers prodded the fabric. That was all he needed for it—two tips poised above that tight, tender hole through the cotton of your underwear, and Joel could sense how acutely you felt it.

You shifted on your feet and let out a sharper noise. You clapped a hand to his shoulder and squeezed it, shortly.

“Joel.”

Then it felt like you were pulling back.

“What’s’a matter, baby? Everything alright?”

Inundated as he was with desire, Joel kept a firm grip over his self-control. His touch retracted from your heat.

“Y-Yeah. I’m fine. I just feel…”

A beat passed, and it seemed you were looking for words

“Is it normal? I feel a little…weird, and…and…”

Still searching. Joel was watching you closely, puzzled.

“Yeah, darlin’? What feels weird? Talk to me.”

At length, the internal foray ended, and you had only to clamp your other palm onto his shoulder, holding tight with both hands and letting your hem drop down again.

A sigh escaped you.

“Joel, I’m…I’m just…sticky down there.”

You said it, and at the same time, your thighs clenched.

Joel was no longer touching between your legs, but the gesture, along with your half-whispered, half-whimpered words nearly sucked him back in all over again. His head spun. His fingers were practically aching with need, wanting to tug your panties down and show you that this was a good thing, but, as before, restraint stopped him.

Instead, he nodded up at you.

With your palms pressing hard and your body positioned over him—towering, compared to his obeisant kneeling—Joel could only be sweet. Understanding. Softly coaxing.

“Yeah? Wanna show me, sweet pea?”

It took some more effort after that. Cajoling, for one thing, but also assuring you that the sticky, wet feeling you got between your thighs wasn’t something to hide but a perfectly normal, natural bodily function of yours. That it helped facilitate the act of sex, as a matter of fact.

“Means she’s happy,” Joel said, watching as you peeled your panties down—very nearly hearing the tacky sound.

Sure enough, the truth came to light. Quite literally, he was proven right with a pool of something thick and crystalline collected at the gusset of your undies; the stuff stretched in a half-dozen strings from the fabric to your drooling cunt, bared to him and pulsing with heat.

Clinical.

Educational.

Fucking academ—

“It hurts, Joel,” you said.

“Hurts?” Joel blinked once. “Where’s it—”

Suddenly, you were rubbing two fingers between your folds in a crude sort of way. Your underwear was in a puddle at your feet, and your free hand was back at the hem of your dress, lifting it slightly. Joel’s eyes widened.

“Right—Right here. It aches. Make it go away, please.”

“Baby—”

“Please, Joel. You said you would teach me, right?”

He did, of course.

He just never thought it’d include touching you half-nude

Leaning in on his knees, pretending he wasn’t decades your senior, chock-full of grays, and a man who had sworn to your grandmother that he would keep you safe. Ensuring you would be taken care of. Surely, that promise encompassed the perils of men and their darkest intentions, yet, here he was. Basking in your glow, reveling in the heat, sleek, and that fucking scent.

His lips were the first to give way.

They seemed to act of their own volition as they sank in to press a kiss between your own—lower, and wetter, but still your lips all the same—and they didn’t hesitate. They formed an ‘o’ directly over your throbbing clit and kissed.

Your stomach clenched in response. Your hips stuttered.

The hand that was clutching your dress jerked to Joel’s salt-and-pepper locks and made a fist, tight as anything.

‘Joel,’ you whined.

‘Joel,’ you pleaded.

‘Joel’ became the quietest, most plaintive refrain in a matter of seconds, with that old, lined, and weathered mouth latching onto your little nub and suckling her in.

Joel pulled off with a wet pop. He didn’t waste time.

“That’s your clitoris, sweetheart.” Hooded, hazy brown eyes drifted up to meet yours, while your legs trembled around his head. “Sensitive, ain’t she? Say ‘clit’ for me.”

Your jaw was slack.

Short, shallow gasps were working their way in and out of your lungs while it seemed you were trying to recover some semblance of propriety, but all that came out was:

“Joel…oh…oh…”

“‘Clit,’ baby. Say it back.”

Maybe that was mean. Hell, it definitely was.

Here you were, fighting to make sense of the wild, shocky feeling spiraling up from that tiny bundle of nerves, and he was making you talk your way through it. The smallest grin twitched at the corners of his lips, though he worked hard not to let it show too obviously.

He squeezed one of your thighs and forged on, soft.

“How’s about it? Got lots more ground to cover.”

You swallowed, finally blinking back at him.

“Cl—Clit. Can you kiss it again, please?”

And Joel did: to reward you, but also to contain the laughter that was no doubt about to be bubbling to the surface if he didn’t make use of that mouth of his, fast.

He kissed your clit like he’d done before, smiling against slick, sopping wet flesh and loving on it gently. He licked a ring around the hood and was about to use the tip to lift it up—to really hit your pleasure point and make you squirm—when another thought possessed him. Another step, another lesson, another far-too-tempting-to-resist spot where he might continue this campaign of erudition

“Ever heard of a thing called a ‘g-spot,’ baby?” Joel said.

You shook your head no.

With your hips tilted toward him and his head in the way, the fabric of your dress hadn’t slid down much since you’d let go, but all the same, Joel lifted a hand to grip the hem of it. He coaxed your fingers down while he did.

“Watch as you do it. I want you to put those pretty fingers to use, try and find that place. Can you do that?”

“Where?”

“Inside you.”

“But I—why?”

“Feels good, trust me.”

Your brows knit in that familiar way; Joel could fall apart with just one look at it. He didn’t press, even when your fingers fumbled down your tummy and made a pass through your legs—completely unaware of what those digits were meant to do and simply wanting to try. Perhaps you’d hoped to replicate the sensation he’d given you, too, or you wouldn’t have moved so quickly.

Swiftly slicking up your fingertips and toying, but making a face when it seemed like you couldn’t feel quite the same thing as you had before, you peered down at him.

“In here?” Your index hovered over a wet, dripping hole.

“Right there, baby. Push it in f’me if you can, alright?”

When you did, Joel had a front row seat; physically, he was no more than five or six inches away while you slid your small, trembling finger through the soaked band of muscle, but it felt like he was in you for the whole thing. Ogling the spectacle of your tight and untouched virgin cunt stretching, then hugging that little digit, before you whimpered and keened his name, was unlike anything he’d ever felt. He knelt between your legs and observed with all the outward practiced detachment of a doctor, though inside, he felt like every inch of him was on fire.

“It’s tight,” you whimpered.

“I know, honey, I kn—”

“I don’t like it.”

Right as your wrist flicked back to remove that finger, pussy stuffed too full and not in a good way, you’d evidently decided, Joel leapt to act. He didn’t even decide so much as he simply listened to your cries.

It hurts, you’d whined above him, Oh, Joel, please.

Suddenly, his thumb was rubbing your clit to dull the ache. Before your index could slide out, his own pushed in alongside it, coaxing that tight, wet ring to stretch with the heft and grit of his hand. Decades of experience preceded him, which made him confident in his words of assurance then—even when you grimaced and groaned.

“You’re OK,” Joel mumbled, nodding when you winced. “You’re alright, just stings a little bein’ stretched, huh?”

“Y-You said it would feel good,” you keened, mournful.

Clearly trying to buck that uncomfortable feeling, you moved back. You stumbled, as your ankles were still trapped within your panties, and Joel had to catch you.

You were close to the sofa; he nudged you toward it, swift enough that he didn’t need to move his hand and simply guided you onto the wide, cushioned armrest. Your feet kicked off the cotton, and in a second, you were sitting—straddling—that spot. Joel stepped even closer.

His finger sank another inch, and you looked fit to be tied

“I said, I don’t—” you started, sharp.

“—know where it is. Lemme help you.”

Joel had another half-minute, maybe. Laying sprawled out like you were, still impaled by his finger and yours, you clearly weren’t a fan of this feeling and would be shoving him off at any second. He’d have to be quick.

So, steeling himself and standing over you on the couch, he pushed in. To the knuckle. His pointer finger was big and warm and ribbed all over with little calluses, and it probably felt like a hot poker was forcing its way inside of your too-tight cunt beside your index, but Joel kept at it. Your muscles pulsed again, a tiny line or two of moisture crawling down his palm with the excess of your desire leaking out, and you grit your teeth. Your heels dug into the couch, and just when it appeared you’d had enough, he felt it. The tip of that probing digit brushed the place.

It was spongy and slick. Solid, but not without some give

Touching it made you squirm worse than anything.

Or, better might be a more accurate assessment.

“Oh, baby,” Joel said, relief flooding his tone as he saw it. “That’s the spot, ain’t it? That’s that special spot, there.”

Your reply was a light grunt when he stroked it again.

It was like you weren’t quite sure how to answer for it—your body, however, gave its resounding approbation when your walls bore down again and squeezed him.

Clearly, this wasn’t a pained hug. You wanted more.

“Remember what we call this spot, sweetheart?”

Syrup practically dripped from every syllable, and Joel didn’t refrain from leaning in. Pressing his forehead to yours, bracing his free hand against the sofa cushion behind you, the old man worked his finger back and forth. He dragged your smaller one with it, and he grinned when a hoarse little cry leapt out of your throat.

That wasn’t an answer, unfortunately.

Joel held the couch even harder and sawed his finger in and out, grazing that special place with every movement.

“C’mon, darlin’, I know you ain’t forgot it already.”

Your pussy was as full as it had ever been and making wet, squelching sounds each time that your finger and his moved through it. Clearly, your mind wasn’t firing on all cylinders, simply soaking in the sensations as you whined, moaned, and rutted your hips. Just precious.

Joel wasn’t letting you off that easy, though.

Still stroking, still petting that sensitive flesh, he went on:

“Is this what we call your…clit, honey? Is that what it is?”

Without warning, he pushed a second finger inside, and you hissed. Your own index slid out instinctively, and as if knowing the rest of it by heart, you started rubbing that sweet, pulsing, needy nub like your life depended on it.

“N-N-No, this—this is it,” you stuttered. Overcome with the wishing and waiting—wanting to show him what you’d learned, as well—you were keen. “This is my clit.”

Pleasure must’ve bloomed through your lower half when you said it, because your next words were swallowed up in a strangled moan. You tried lifting your hips instead, seeming to say to him: ‘See? I’m really learning, Joel.’

A grin sabotaged his face, and he couldn’t contain the urge; Joel leaned in and kissed your forehead. He tilted his chin to steal a glance where you were touching yourself, seeing how urgent those little circles were getting to be, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. Pride. He halted his ministrations just long enough to take a seat on the old couch and pull you into his lap.

Now cradling you, placing sporadic and comforting kisses along your hairline as he returned his fingers to your heat, Joel felt he could’ve melted between the cushions with just one whimper from your lips—that was how thoroughly you’d softened him already. He loved it.

“Very good, baby, that’s your clit.” His thumb covered yours easily and helped it draw little lemniscates over the bud, which made you squirm on top of him. You bit down on your bottom lip when he scissored his fingers inside you. Then he curled them and brushed that place again. “And what’s this, sweetie? Remember what we call her?”

Your brow furrowed.

Clearly, you were trying to think while the pleasure mounted and spiraled. You tilted your chin to him.

“It’s…It’s my g-spot, right?” you ventured softly.

“Exactly right,” Joel cooed in your ear.

As if to reward you for it, he curled his fingers and tapped that sensitive, special spot over and over again, knowing just what kind of effect it would have on you then. Your breath hitched, and your reflexes sent you lurching toward his chest. You clawed at his t-shirt.

Joel was certain he’d never seen something so goddamn endearing in his life. His smile widened, and he hugged you to him even tighter, not wanting to lose sight of you for even a second. Your legs trembled around his hand.

He nuzzled your cheek.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

Another clench.

“Daddy’s girl.”

And, as soon as he said the words, your chest heaved. Be it a breath, a whimper, a moan, your whole frame shook with the movement, and suddenly you were peering up at him through your lashes and staring, all glossy-eyed.

“Wh-What?” you stammered.

One more plunge of his fingers, and you keened. You looked bewildered, beleaguered, practically bursting at the seams and having only to meet his gaze and squeeze

You were close.

Joel could hear it.

“Daddy?” you repeated, breaths ragged.

Of course, you’d never heard that one before. Joel just nodded his head and let you bask in it—that feeling of wild curiosity. Perhaps not everything would compute.

He could teach you, but you might not get it just yet.

Seeing this look, and sensing how close you were to your climax, Joel leaned close and kissed your temple before murmuring, low: “Yeah. ‘M’not your old man, but that’s another word folks like to use sometimes. If you like it, then that’s all it’s gotta be. Our own little special thing.”

Your fingers tightened at his collar, like a wave was overtaking your body and you couldn’t control it.

Joel foresaw the question before it even arose.

“You doin’ OK, sweetheart? Feelin’ alright?”

“I—I don’t know. It kinda…sorta feels…”

“What? You got a funny feelin’, baby?”

You nodded.

His fingers had been stretching and pumping and pushing all kinds of fiery sensations inside that tiny space, feeling wet muscles contract around him—it didn’t surprise him in the least that you needed some extra time to come. You didn’t even know what it was.

“That’s an orgasm, honey. ‘S’a good thing. Real good feelin’, if you just let it build and build for a little bit lo—”

“Wanna stop,” you hiccuped. “Feels like I’m gonna pee.”

Joel had to hide a grin behind a bevy of kisses. He kept cradling you, kept fingering your soaked pussy with all the soft, practiced resolve of a man much gentler than he’d ever known himself to be. You weren’t pushing him away; he wouldn’t force you toward it. He just wanted to guide you to a path that would give you replete pleasure.

Hell, maybe he could even get you to squirt.

“You’re not gonna pee,” Joel assured you gently. “Even if you did, I wouldn’t care. You know your pleasure’s the most important thing, right? ‘S’why I’m here, baby.”

It seemed to strike you at almost the same moment it did him: this was not only for you, but about you. More than a step above simple pedagogy, Joel was trying to make sure you understood all the inner-workings of sex.

“That’s makin’ love, y’know? Takin’ somebody’s pleasure into your hands and treatin’ them right. Makin’ it…good.”

“Makin’ love,” you repeated, just like you’d done for every other term he’d taught you that day. You drew in a breath

And, at the same time that Joel’s movements slowed with his speech—fingers pumping slower, deeper, to make your insides all but strangle him with just how good it made you feel—something stirred in him, too. Hell, it was the first real movement he’d had in ages.

Decades, maybe.

Thank the stage of life that he was in, his lack of access to peri-geriatric care, or his blasted uncooperative cock, but the man hadn’t had a real, bona fide erection in a long time. He’d figured that that would help keep his urges at bay while he was teaching you these things.

Now he was almost fully hard in his jeans. You were about to finish all over his fingers, and then what?

“Daddy,” you whimpered. Your feet kicked and inadvertently brushed over the bulge in his pants. “Faster, please. I—I think that feels even better f’me.”

Joel couldn’t have you see it, or feel it, or know exactly what you were doing to him and think that you were in some way responsible for helping out with the rest. No, he wouldn’t allow that. This wasn’t about him getting off.

He slid your body back. He slotted his own, head-first, between your legs and dove in. Out of sight, he started to grind his lower half into the sofa, but only after you’d taken hold of his hair and rocked your hips into his face.

That’s it.

This is for you.

“Daddy’s gonna take real good care of her,” Joel said, as if finishing the thoughts that were brewing in his head. “You just lie back an’ close your eyes. Soak it all in, OK?”

And you did.

When he reared back and spit on your pussy, smeared it in with his fingers and panted again, just for good measure, ‘What’s the word for all this, baby? What do we call her?’, you raggedly answered. You told him that it was your vulva, and then you moaned so loudly that Joel thought it might blow his eardrums out. He rutted his denim-clad cock into the couch and kept going. Pleasure spiraled from some of the furthest recesses of his gut, and he dragged his warm, wet, silver-stubbled mouth up your slit, glistening with saliva and your own arousal.

“Smart girl,” Joel murmured appreciatively. Licking lines around your clit, before dropping a quick kiss over it. “And what’s this little button called, baby? It feel good?”

You replied by digging your heels into the couch first, head lolling back on the armrest. Then, light as anything:

“My clit. It—It feels so good when you do that, Daddy.”

“When Daddy kisses her and licks on her some?”

“Gives me that…funny feelin’ all over again.”

Joel could say the same for himself. Something tightened in his balls, right as he humped the cushion with a little more force, and then he knew it, without a shadow of a doubt—that old, worn, once-dysfunctional member of his was now engorged with blood and stiff. He could probably fuck his fist once and blow his load.

He tried to ignore it.

He pushed two fingers to the rim of your cunt, feeling tender, taut flesh bar his entry again, and he worked his way through it. Delicate as ever, your hole spread for him.

“And this?” he asked.

You told him.

He slid in deeper, and before he could even inquire after that ridged, sensitive wall of your insides, you stuttered:

“Th-That one’s my g-spot, Daddy. That’s—That’s—”

Joel sucked your throbbing clit between his lips and flicked the tip of his tongue, just as his fingers curved in.

“That feels good, Daddy, please.”

Your pussy pulsed against him; it wet his silver beard in streaks and left him groaning between your legs, dry-humping the old couch like he was an animal in heat.

He was much, much too old for you.

This was just a learning experience.

One measly orgasm and then he’d—

“Faster, faster, Daddy. P-P-Please.”

Joel pistoned his fingers and flicked his tongue and sucked mercilessly on that little nub until you squealed.

“Let it happen, baby. Come for Daddy,” he beckoned.

“Come? Where?”

“Here.”

And with that, Joel crooked his fingers one last time and made you finish on his tongue. You didn’t squirt, but your whole body convulsed, and you kicked your feet and made those pretty little whiney sounds and pulled his hair—as if you were stunned by whatever was happening to your body, your thighs clenched around his head and damn near yanked out half the grays. Joel kept licking and fingering and mumbling sweet nothings all the while

Pretty girl.

Precious girl.

Daddy’s girl—you were everything, everything to him.

Heat flooded his jeans, and he didn’t even realize it.

It took him more than a couple seconds; he’d just finished lapping up the last of your release and was trying to catch his breath, panting and blinking and savoring your taste, when that recognition dawned.

The man had reached his peak entirely untouched.

Sticky and warm, trickling down his front, it went quietly.

Joel swallowed and propped himself up on an elbow, meeting your gaze with a hot and semi-hooded stare.

He needed to clean up. He needed to get out of there.

Suddenly, you reached for him, fingers outstretched.

“Daddy.”

It sounded so sweet—still as innocent as ever.

You had no fucking idea how badly he wanted you now. How much he hated himself for even taking as much as he had. But he did, and nothing else would take it back.

He really, really needed to go.

“Are we gonna make love now?” Your smile was crooked.

Joel sat up. His mind was clear. Conscience was fucked.

He shook his head as he wiped his mouth of you.

“No. We aren’t,” he answered, pushing to stand.

He turned before you could see the spot in his jeans. Before you could protest, he hardened his voice out of necessity and, already striding from the couch, said:

“Lesson’s over. Put on your underwear, sweetheart.”

The look you gave him then could’ve broken him in two. It was raw and soft and hurt, clearly. You blinked a little faster as you sat up, dress falling back down to cover your modesty and everything the two of you had done.

“But—”

“Don’t talk back to me, neither,” Joel forged on, despising every syllable coming out of his mouth. He was already at the threshold of the room and turning away. “Whatever happened today was teachin’, remember?”

You blinked again, eyes glossier than a moment before.

You rocked back on your heels and tried to stand, but Joel was already retreating. He pursed his lips together, throat clearing and the most flimsy, pathetic veneer of paternal concern working to stabilize his tone. It failed.

“B-But, Daddy, I—I thought—”

His voice audibly cracked when he curtailed your speech.

“Ain’t nothing, honey.” He shook his head against the lie. “This was wrong. If you wanna pout and whine ‘bout it, best head into your room, ‘cause I don’t wanna hear it.”

That made your lip curl in surprise. Soft, muted fury.

You made a fist at your side as he turned on his heel.

And, though he tried moving fast—pretending to shrug off the moment and trudge his way out through the door like nothing had happened—he evidently couldn’t make it quick enough. Over his shoulder, he heard your voice.

Having just made it onto the porch and felt the warmth of the outdoors on his skin, it was as faint as anything. A slight breeze, along with the crushing weight of knowing how badly he was fucking this up, greeted him swiftly, but not before your words reached him. Joel swallowed.

That hurt just about as bad as anything he’d ever felt.

He knew he was wrong, especially hearing you sob:

“Daddy, please come back.”

Your body was abuzz from head to toe.

Anticipation was one thing, and hatred was another—both feelings seemed to be at war within you constantly.

Though, really, you didn’t hate Joel, and judging by the way things had panned out lately, you likely never could. A week had passed since your little ‘lesson’ with the man, and nothing had ever made you feel so shaken. Or lonely.

One moment being the most precious thing in a person’s eyes, only to fall from that staggering height to nothing. Joel had up and left and brushed you to the wayside, leaving you to clench your fists and kick and cry like a child throwing a fit. But you weren’t. You were a full-grown adult trying to learn what sex meant, and damn if you didn’t feel the sting of being abandoned so easily.

You wanted to hate him more than anything else.

You wished with every fiber in your being not to need a man like him, but you did. It confused you, particularly during moments like these when you’d sneak off to his bedroom in the early morning hours—he’d offered to take you fishing that day, and you’d declined. Now you were in this cabin alone, sifting through all his jackets, flannels, and chambray shirts hanging in the closet and hoping you’d locate one that smelled the most like him.

One you could get off with, maybe.

“Ow,” you murmured presently, having hit your knee on the little hickory nightstand before clambering into bed.

You slid the long-sleeve on. You shuffled forward for a pillow, then grabbed it. Following the same four or five steps you’d been replicating since That Day—seeking identical pleasure and failing spectacularly each time—you stuffed the big, bulky, feather-filled cushion between your thighs and pressed on. You let your eyes droop shut.

Good girl.

Daddy’s girl.

‘S’what you are, right? All mi—

You pivoted and gripped the footboard, bracing your knees even harder against the bed. So what if you needed to wear his shirts and reminisce on all the delicious, filthy words he’d spoken to you just days ago? It wasn’t like you were wailing for the guy’s attention.

That would have been embarrassing. Sad, and all-too predictable for a girl who had been raised without the influence of a male all her life—weepy and needy wasn’t what you hoped to emulate. You wanted to be tough and self-sufficient, just like it appeared Joel had always been.

You wanted to eat, sleep, read and write and cry yourself to sleep whenever you needed it, alone, so long as it meant you wouldn’t have to feel what you had back then, rejected by someone else. That, more than anything, made you realize how dependent you truly were.

This wasn’t working.

After five minutes humping at a pillow like your clit was on fire, you didn’t feel a thing. Well, other than defeat.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” You tugged Joel’s shirt tighter around you, blew out a breath, and leaned back.

Your eyes scanned the room—for what, you weren’t sure.

You’d been in here plenty of times before, whether you were cleaning or doing Joel’s laundry or whatever the case may have been, so your surroundings were familiar: old, five-drawer dresser across the way, stacks of quilts that should’ve been shelved ages ago, little trinkets here and there, a canteen hanging off the side of a ladder back chair, and then a desk, wide and shining and empty.

Finely ground specks of pine littered the surface of it.

This was where Joel did his woodworking. Off to the side, a partway-whittled bucking bronc stood, aloof.

You rose from the bed and walked to it.

Maybe—most likely—you were stupid. Joel had all but told you this to your face. Your fingers were small and helpless, and they couldn’t reach nearly close enough to where you needed them; they didn’t know what to touch.

What if you just…

Your brain didn’t get the chance to finish that thought. Your body acted first, and time sped up as soon as it did.

Before you knew it—and damn, were you so, so stupid—you had a hand on a tool. Vaguely recalling the name, some quarter-inch straight chisel or other, you held it up. Set it down. Shook your head, like this was the single dumbest idea you’d had in your life, then took it again.

You grabbed it and examined the handle briefly.

It was wooden and rounded, maybe three inches in diameter. Five inches long. You hadn’t the faintest idea as to what the appropriate size for a…substitute should be, or what the real deal even looked like, for that matter. All you knew was that man parts were hard, and probably much longer than any one of your fingers. You sat up on the woodworking stool and slid the chisel between the tails of Joel’s worn, buttoned shirt.

You were wet. That was the byproduct of thinking of him and humping a pillow mercilessly, plus brushing your fingers through your folds a few times that morning.

But you were tight, too. As if trying to stick your finger through a concrete wall, your walls wouldn’t budge an inch. If anything, the more you tried it, the more your body started clamming up and shutting anything out. You held the tool upright in your fist, tried sinking down, and, in a too-quick move, damn near slip-n-slided your silly, virginal rear end off the chair and onto the floor. You clamped your legs together and let out a wretched sigh.

“Just…go…inside,” you pleaded helplessly. Missing Joel’s thick, callused fingers and wishing he wasn’t such a dick, you tried thinking of him. Attempted imagining his voice.

“Hey, sweetheart?”

Then the bedroom door flew open.

Your hand released, and immediately, you jumped in place. Out of habit, your palms slammed on the table, like, I have nothing to hide, and you made a pass for the half-finished horse figurine. You grabbed it thoughtlessly.

Right as you flipped the thing upside down, pretending to study the base and looking for anything to fix your gaze on, Joel walked in. His footfalls echoed behind you.

A light touch grazed the nape of your neck.

“Hi, baby.”

“Hi, Daddy.”

It slid out without you thinking, like that was natural.

You tried covering it up as quick as you could anyhow.

Turning to face him, chisel still trapped between your thighs, and wearing nothing but the shirt on your back which also happened to be his, you held your arms out.

For the first time in a week, you smiled at him.

Joel hugged you after you set his latest creation down, and you could feel how surprised he was in that embrace. You hadn’t gone near him in days, and the last things you’d said to him, apart from, ‘No, thanks’ when he’d asked you to tag along on his fishing trip that morning, had been, ‘Whatever’ and ‘Leave me alone.’

You were bratty and full of anger. Who could blame you?

Now you were back to being his pet, or at least behaving like it. Joel seemed to heave the smallest sigh of relief as he stroked your head, kissed the crown of it, and rubbed your back. Told you all about the trout that he’d caught and the bear tracks he found, the sights he wished you’d been there to see and the flowers that he picked for you.

“Sittin’ in a jug in the kitchen if you wanna see ‘em,” Joel said, eyes glittering as he stroked your cheek. He really did seem to miss touching. “Lupines, just like you like.”

You tilted your face away from his fingers, smile tight.

“Thank you, Joel. I appreciate that.”

And, although the words, along with the slight movement away from his touch, were likely more than enough to clue him into the fact that you were still cagey—maybe turn a weaker man away from you, discouraged—Joel just stood straighter. Hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and surveyed the table out in front of you.

“I’ll clean the fish. You sit back, sniff them pretty flowers I picked ya, and afterward, I’ll show you how to whittle. How’s that sound?” The man wore an easy look. Underneath several decades of wrinkles, you could make out an expression that was lighthearted and jovial still.

You had a wood chisel about one inch shy of your pussy.

With that in mind, you shook your head and pressed on:

“I wanna try learnin’ on my own first. That’s what I’ve been doing, sittin’ here and admiring your handiwork.”

Lie.

“Get started in the kitchen, and I’ll be out in a little bit. Wanna try the, um…push-cut technique I read about.”

Whatever that fucking means.

You’d heard Joel mention it maybe once.

In reality, you simply needed an excuse to get him out of your hair so he wouldn’t notice that you weren’t wearing pants underneath that oversized long-sleeve shirt of his.

“Well, shoot, I can show you that right now, sweetie.”

Before you could protest his kindness, Joel bent over you, over the table, and reached for a coffee can full of loose materials. He took what seemed like a regular knife

If looks could kill, the man would’ve dropped on the spot.

Your body sagged a little in your seat, and you crossed your thighs tighter to make sure that the tiny metal-and-wood gadget in between them wouldn’t budge an inch.

Joel held his project up to the light.

“See…whatever you do, you gotta keep a real tight grip on the base. Like this.” He demonstrated by holding the flared bottom of the woodblock. “Wrist is always steady.”

Just shoot you in the head.

Wondering if tetanus might not be a legitimate concern in the event that the rusted chisel nicked your skin, you sat in stiffened silence. You listened to Joel wax poetic on finding the grain, saw how invested he was in sharing all the things he knew about his beloved hobby, and felt his palm fall next to yours on the table. He nudged you playfully, and the warmth of that touch made it hard not to remember. Just a week ago, the two of you together.

Then nothing.

‘This was wrong.’

“Wanna try it out yourself?”

Joel was still standing over you, still smiling, and the look on his face as he held out that mini cottonwood figurine made you want to say yes. You lifted your hand to take it.

Then Joel glanced down, grin stretching wider still.

“Gonna wanna use the quarter-inch straight chisel, hon. Why don’t you take that out from in between your legs and hand it over to me?” he pressed. He didn’t blink.

For a second, your world stood still.

Your breath hitched in your throat.

Meanwhile, Joel’s was flowing easy. He extended his free hand out to you, crooking his fingers in a ‘give it’ motion.

You didn’t think—probably couldn’t have done it anyway. Your eyes were glazed, and your heart was thrumming at at least a hundred beats per minute while you unstuck your legs from the seat. Numbly, you parted your thighs.

You pried the little chisel out of place and held it, shaky.

Joel’s expression above you was bafflingly calm. Like this was an everyday occurrence, he just took the tool that you’d retrieved for him, and then he turned it in his hands. Gave you a once-over that seemed curious.

Amused, even.

“I’m sorry,” you spit out. “It’s…It’s gross, I know. I’m—”

“—not mad at you, darlin’. Ain’t a thing to be sorry for.”

Joel shook his head, and in that low, rasping drawl, you sensed more than just an effort to console. His words were slow, like he was spoon-feeding you honey, and affection bled through every note. He focused on you.

His expression softened even more, if that were possible.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, darlin’. This is my fault.”

You stood.

You didn’t wait for him to tell you not to go, and you moved to leave. More than halfway across the room, you only stopped when he stepped in front of you, hands out.

Pleading with you gently.

“Baby—”

“Stop calling me that!” you snapped, all rancor and heat. “Quit callin’ me sweetheart, and honey, and darlin’, and whatever other name you think’ll make this all OK again.”

You could barely think having him this close to you, but you went on anyway: “Wouldn’t hear one word of that when you left me alone last week. We did what we did, and then you made me feel like I did something wrong!”

Joel’s expression splintered on hearing that. Above you, it was clear that there was a pain behind it—he wanted to reach out and touch you—but he had to control himself. Instead, he swallowed the big lump and shook his head.

“Wasn’t nothin’…nothin’ wrong that you did,” he croaked.

“Was it?” you said, voice cracking in the same way. “Because you haven’t been able to look at me all week, and every time it feels like we might talk, you just leave.”

“‘Cause I was in the wrong. I shouldn’t have done any of those things and…and stolen your innocence from you.”

“But I asked you to!”

“Don’t make no difference. ‘M’too old, and I shouldn’t—”

“—leave me to feel like I’m an idiot!”

“You’re not—”

“Like I’m broken and useless and stupid.”

You probably could’ve talked until you were blue in the face, and Joel’s expression only would’ve grown more distraught. He ran a hand through curls of black and gray and seemed to be making a concerted effort not to let his fingers shake as he did. He faltered in front of you.

He felt for his breast pocket, brows bunching together.

“Baby, you gotta…” He stopped himself shortly. Swallowed like something got stuck in his throat. “Believe me, ain’t none of that true. Wasn’t nothin’ you did—and you shouldn’t feel like you need to be usin’ my woodworking tools, neither…Should be somethin’…real.”

You couldn’t read his expression at the last.

Still, you knew what you hoped it meant.

“So show me,” you said. “Teach me.”

Your voice was weak. His lowered.

“You know why I can’t do that.”

Every spot, scar, and wrinkle gracing those weathered, middle-aged features seemed to harden at once. He wore a stern look, like a father’s, and didn’t budge when you reached out to touch. Just lifted a hand to his chest.

And, sliding something small out of his breast pocket:

“I stopped into town. Got you this.”

A little hand-held mirror.

You took it.

What for?

And you asked him that.

Watched Joel shift from foot to foot as you held it up.

The look in his eyes should have been answer enough. They told you, without prevarication, what this mirror was for. It was up to you to make sense of it yourself.

You took a seat on the bed.

Joel’s bed, big, broad, and soft as a cloud, made for the perfect space to do this. You didn’t have to think about it.

“Like this?” you asked him.

Joel stiffened where he stood. The moment you leaned back and set your heels apart on the bed—facing him directly, with nothing but his shirttails keeping you covered then—he scrubbed a hand down his beard.

He stared no lower than your collarbone.

You sat the mirror between your legs.

“Not here,” Joel said, jaw clenched.

The glass was rounded with a handle.

Perfect for holding it an inch away from—

“Baby,” Joel cut in, a little more choked. “I meant alone.”

“Then go.”

You were tired of feeling spineless—something naïve and meek and incapable of doing things on her own. Guilty as Joel may have felt, it didn’t change the fact that you had needs, same as him. If he didn’t want to see this, so be it.

You lifted the ends of your shirt to take a look at yourself.

The mirror was propped up on the comforter, affording you a near-perfect view of what had made you curious.

She was pretty. Plush. Simple.

You’d never gotten a glimpse at her from an angle like this, but with one look, you realized why the female form had held so many captive for as long as the human race existed. You had power—real, tangible power—inside it.

Joel’s mind seemed to mirror your every thought to a T.

His gaze had tripped from your neck to your shoulders, down your stomach and toward your center. Once it landed on open, dripping folds, it was like they froze him.

Rooting the stubborn, stern, frowning old man into place, your pussy worked like a spell. That knowledge alone was enough to send your muscles pulsing for him.

For yourself, you corrected.

Your pleasure came first.

“Baby…” Joel trailed off.

He stared, and he sulked, right as your middle and ring fingers teased a line up your aching slit. You were so wet that the most featherlight of touches got them soaked.

Joel swallowed again, bracing both hands on his hips.

“Darlin’—”

“What did I say about names, Daddy?” you cut in. You teased him with the D-word at the same time you found your clit, and a ripple of pleasure pulsed through you. “Don’t talk sweet if you’re not gonna treat me like it.”

You surprised yourself with just how steady you spoke. Similarly, Joel seemed to be stunned himself. He took a step forward so that he’d be stood at the foot of the bed.

“‘M’always sweet on you,” he mumbled. “…ain’t I?”

“Maybe when you feel like it,” you countered.

You made a messy circle with your fingers.

Then another, and another, and another. Sensations rose sharp and hot, further heightened by eyes on your body.

“When you need it,” Joel rebutted once more.

His voice was stern. Underneath it, though, a tortured man was trying to claw his way out. Fighting for control.

Losing the battle momentarily, he leaned in.

Hands still on his hips, eyes still glued between your legs, in an act that you would’ve deemed crude were it done just about anywhere else, Joel bent forward and spit.

A glob of saliva landed squarely between your fingers, almost too perfect for you to believe after you’d seen it.

But then you felt it: warm moisture mixing with yours, motions circling faster and faster around that little bud, Joel’s gaze growing even more intent as he watched you.

There was a frown on his face, but he was crumbling.

“Want Daddy to be sweet on you, huh? Is that it?”

The answer he received came in the form of your fingers sliding between your desperate, clenching, needy walls.

One inch.

One measly inch, and then they stopped.

That was all you could fit inside. You whimpered, shrill.

“Daddy, ‘s’too tight. Can’t go any deeper.”

“An’ what did I teach you ‘bout squeezin’? ‘Bout keepin’ her nice an’ wet so the stretch ain’t so painful goin’ in?”

That line of questioning was pointless, clearly.

You were drenched. Your legs were spread, revealing a wet, drooling pussy practically soaking straight through his comforter. The fingers you’d tried to push in wriggled

Joel grabbed the mirror.

“What’s this for?”

With your fingertips otherwise occupied, the man was free to thumb at your clit while holding the mirror to it. Your hips bucked instinctively, and it was like you could hear the arousal trickling out of you. Joel’s eyes slid up.

“Well?”

So this was a review, apparently.

You babbled, “My clit’s for—for makin’ me feel good.”

“An’ where else can you do that?”

“Here.”

Again, your fingers tried to slide in to locate your g-spot, but the effort was fruitless. Your hole was as tight as anything, and you simply didn’t have the grit to get it in.

“Here?”

So Joel did it for you.

With one thick, sure finger, he split your digits apart and entered your pussy pushing in between them. Languidly.

He held the mirror with more force, sawing the finger of his other hand back and forth to coax you open. To no one’s surprise, it was an easier go. Though one of Joel’s was almost as thick as the two of your own, this stretch was good. The pleasure it elicited made your jaw slacken.

And, just as a gasp left your lips, Joel put the mirror down. He reached for the back of your neck and, angling your chin to your chest, made you watch your reflection.

With the mirror resting between your legs, you had a front row seat to see it all: Joel’s finger dragging in and out, a tiny, gaping ‘o’ in its wake, your arousal trailing it.

He’d done this before, but it was your first time watching

You loved it.

You loved how lewd it looked with this big, coarse, liver-spotted hand flexing back and forth, making a finger disappear and reappear outside your pussy over and over again. You relished the sight of your juices trickling down his palm and wrist. You adored the grip at the nape of your neck, how Joel kneeled into the bed and lowered his mouth beside your ear, telling you the filthiest of things while he fingered you. ‘Missed her Daddy, didn’t she?’ and ‘That’s it, open f’me’ made you dizziest.

Then Joel told you to strip down.

Your fingers trembled with the buttons of your shirt—luckily, you’d only done three or four—and you got it off. You shrugged the thing behind you while Joel added a second finger, and you spread your thighs even wider.

It was a tight fit without his tongue to help. Whimpering and whining and murmuring, ‘Daddy, please,’ you made the sting evident, and that was when he started petting your g-spot. At the same time, to your surprise, Joel leaned down and took one of your nipples in his mouth.

The pleasure together was mind-numbing. Joel licked and sucked while his fingers drove in relentlessly; his tongue lapped over that hard, pebbled flesh and smeared the skin all over with saliva. He panted.

“This is…another spot,” he managed raggedly.

Another lick. Another loud, wet pop of his lips.

Your pussy clenched so tight around his fingers you feared you might cut off the circulation, and you moaned

Erogenous zones, Joel muttered against you.

And what a gift it was to be told—shown—where to find your pleasure. To have the doors thrown open wide and nudged inside that special, private place with the help of someone else. Perhaps the act wasn’t so much a loss of control on Joel’s part, but simply that: giving. You hoped he didn’t feel guilty again, and could enjoy this with you.

A minute later, you were watching yourself come undone

Trembling, fluttering, pulsing around Joel’s fingers while he sucked your nipple between his teeth, like he was feasting on you, you were inundated with ecstasy.

A shrill, pleasured shriek starved you breathless. Spit leaked and dribbled down your chin. The sight of your pussy getting stuffed with Joel’s fingers, at the same time he practically tongue-bathed your chest within an inch of his life, drove you wild beyond all understanding.

You pawed at him the second that your orgasm receded.

“M-More, Daddy,” you whimpered, greedy. “Please.”

No making sense of it then: you were desperate.

Beside you, Joel was sucking in deep, shuddering breaths and blinking furiously, as if trying to clear his field of vision or shake his head of some ugly thought.

You touched his chest, and he lurched backward.

He was doing it again.

“Joel—” you tried his name, gentle.

“I—I can’t.” He shook his head. “We gotta stop.”

“But you don’t wanna. You’re just sayin’ that now.”

You were out of breath, panting on the bed, and you realized then with some embarrassment that you were completely naked. Joel was clothed. He started to stand.

The old man had a look on his strained, weathered face like he’d witnessed fifteen wars firsthand. He braced a hand against a bedpost, clenching his jaw, and when your hand reached out to touch him again, he balked.

Groaned.

You must’ve nicked him someplace painful, inadvertently

Glancing down, you saw your hand atop a denim mound.

That hadn’t been your intention. You’d meant to grab at his belt loops and pull him close, help him see that he wouldn’t be doing you wrong, but your palm had landed on his crotch instead. You weren’t sure what this meant, but you couldn’t help but recall the noise he’d made when you straddled him early that morning at Tommy’s place. It sounded eerily familiar—and you really hoped you hadn’t fucked things up and hurt Joel in some way.

“I’m sorry!” you squeaked, yanking your hand back. “I’m— I— I didn’t mean to, I promise. Did I hurt you, Daddy?”

“Go—” Joel swallowed. Turned. “Go to your room, baby.”

Your heart sank.

You’d run him off again.

How many times would it take for this to be enough? When would you not be messing things up so pitifully?

You sniffled at the same time Joel took a step away.

His back was facing you, and his gait was unsteady.

Just as you started to slide off the bed, about to scamper off naked and humiliated, you stopped.

Joel halted where he stood, torso folding in slightly.

“Daddy!” you cried.

Before you knew it, you were in front of him. Hugging him. Trying to fit your arms around that thick, sturdy waist and babbling incoherently, something to the effect of, ‘Are you alright?’ and, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’

Something poked your stomach.

The reason that you weren’t able to fit your wrists around his back, you swiftly realized, was that something was standing at a perpendicular angle from Joel’s lower half.

You pulled back. You stared.

Joel was already hastening to shove the appendage away, but you saw it, clear as day: all of that was him.

He must’ve tugged it out of his jeans in the split-second that he’d been turned, hissing through his teeth and saying some words you were half-certain you weren’t allowed to repeat. Now Joel was fisting the thing, all thick and angry and pink, like it were something bad.

For some reason, the sight made your mouth water.

“Daddy?” And it was more a breath than a question.

Joel’s expression hardened, same as it had earlier—only this time, there was a tinge of pain behind it. He grunted.

“Darlin’,” he said, stern. “This is a grown man problem. Don’t want you havin’ to deal with none of it f’me, OK?”

“But I’m grown, too.”

You said it without thinking.

It was like a primal drive cut in, and your mind spun.

Your fingers trembled by your sides, and when you stole a look at Joel, you saw him eyeing you steadily. Chest rising and falling in shallow breaths and teeth grinding.

“Sweetheart—” he started to warn.

“Can I touch him? Just…just a little.”

Your voice was soft as you asked him.

Your movements were slow as you approached—you didn’t touch until Joel had breathed a fierce sound through his nose and jerked his chin once. Assent.

“One touch an’ you’re done. Y’hear that, honey?”

It was as if he were actively trying to deter you.

And it wouldn’t work—you were reaching out.

Your fingers curled around flesh that was hard and warm, and intrigue blossomed from the tips of your toes to the lips that wanted to grin at the feeling. Your eyes peered down, and you saw it, plain as anything: this…thing in your grip was dense. Long. Veiny. Flushed. And rigid.

It amazed you just how big the flesh could swell, and how hard it had gone underneath your touch. Holding him like you might a length of rope, you couldn’t even reach your middle finger to your thumb—that was how thick he was. You probably should’ve been frightened by the size, but instead, you found yourself admiring him. Ogling one small, shiny pearl of moisture sitting atop the rounded end and feeling your mouth start to water again.

Joel let out another rumbling sound.

He pried you off by your wrist.

“There. You touched ‘im.”

“Daddy’s…penis, right?”

You knew that he’d taught you the word before already; you just liked the way his pupils dilated when you said it.

And, sure enough, Joel’s irises were swallowed up.

His throat bobbed. He put a hand on his zipper.

“Yeah. Now Daddy needs to take care of ‘im.”

He took a load off in the easy chair behind him, collapsing with a sigh. You didn’t follow at first.

You just watched, enrapt, while Joel planted his feet wide on the floor and fisted his length, eyeing you close.

A grown man’s problem.

Not yours. Not now.

“Can’t even stay hard,” Joel said suddenly. Humorless. “Takes me more’n an hour on a good day. That’s why I say it’s a problem for me, not a little thing like yourself.”

That made you bristle.

You stepped closer. “‘Little thing’?”

“You know what I mean. Don’t got nothin’ to do with your bein’ a full adult—which you are—but your experience. Years you got under your belt.” And in a semi-ironic gesture, Joel hooked a thumb through a denim loop and tugged his jeans lower, exposing more of himself to you.

Spit burned in your throat going down. It was the most infuriating thing; knowing your body was just as good and ready as his, but because Joel deemed you little…

You walked to where he was and got on your knees. Kneeling, you saw the man tense and sit up taller.

“That wasn’t no invitation, sweetheart—”

“I want you to treat me like I’m grown.”

And really, that was all you could say.

No amount of pleading eyes or pawing, needy hands, fingers curling into fists and demanding in a shrill voice, ‘Treat me as an equal, Joel’ would ever accomplish what you managed with the uttering of those nine little words.

For the first time, Joel looked like he understood.

Leaning forward, squeezing the base of his length in one hand and cupping your face with the other, he hummed.

“That what you want?” Thumbing at your cheek.

You nodded. You softened under that touch.

“C’mere, baby.”

C’mere.

Come to daddy.

The next thing you felt was a set of lips on yours; Joel kissed you gently. His mouth was warm and soft and tender beyond all comprehension, drawing you to him and tasting you by turns. Heat fluttered low in your belly, and before the rest of your body could even fully respond to it, he was pulling back. His lips shone, red and swollen.

Smiling.

“‘S’what I wanted to do this whole time,” he murmured, sounding a little bit sheepish as he said it. “Should’ve been the first thing I did—that’s how real folks do it.”

Frankly, you were too light-headed to reply.

You nodded airily, jaw hanging slack.

“Now where’s my sweet girl?”

That you could answer without words. So you did.

Letting Joel capture your lips again, setting your hands on either one of his denim-clad thighs and rising off your heels. Kissing him, and feeling the vibrations of a groan.

Hearing him stroke himself faster, then pulling from him.

Gaping.

“Y’know what made him so hard, baby?” Joel asked you, expression going a bit more lax while he rubbed himself. Evidently, whatever he was doing felt good. “Tell Daddy.”

So he was still in teaching mode.

Your spit was practically leaking out in strings at either side of your mouth, but you managed to steel yourself.

“A-Arousal,” you stammered. Swallowing. “Your penis gets big whenever you’re aroused, uh, seein’ something.”

“And what did Daddy see?”

Your face heated.

“Well…”

Joel drew closer, eyes bright and glistening.

“You can tell me, darlin’.”

Another beat.

“Me?”

Very good, baby seemed to shine in every blink of that honeyed gaze, and Joel bent forward to kiss the tip of your nose, then your cheek. You preened under his touch.

“That’s right. You made Daddy so hard,” he murmured.

Trapped between wanting to curl up on Joel’s lap and soak in all his praise and actually hoping to learn another lesson, you let him take the lead. You tilted your chin with the beckoning of his forefinger and thumb, and you squeezed his legs harder, toes curling underneath you.

In his fist, Joel’s length was ruddy-looking and flushed. The little bead of liquid at the tip had grown even bigger, but the sight was fleeting. At the next possible opening, Joel slid his palm up and over that end and stroked it rapidly. He smeared the moisture over his dick and, peering down at you with an almost curious look, widened the spread of his legs. He shifted closer.

“I’m an old man,” he said, a little deflated. Shaking his length near your face. “He don’t…stay hard for very long.”

You swallowed.

You watched Joel continue to pump himself, but it was clear those motions were slowing. His member was beginning to soften in his hold, sagging at the tip.

“Daddy…” you whined. You didn’t like to see him sad.

“Couple kisses from your pretty lips might wake ‘im up, though. Could ya…Could ya do that f’me, hon? Kiss ‘im?”

You didn’t think twice—you treated it just like you did with his mouth before. You bent down and kissed him right on the thick, glistening head, all round and pink.

Joel groaned.

He cursed again.

“That’s it, baby,” he praised you, voice strained.

You were starting to get the sense that certain grunts of pain—or what sounded like them to your ears—were really more bound up in pleasure. Because of this, you went on, quietly, ‘That feel OK, Daddy? That…better?’

“Ten times better,” Joel hissed through his teeth. Releasing his hold on your face to grip the armrest. “That—That’s what Daddy likes. Little game of lollipop, huh?”

You cocked a brow at him.

Joel chuckled, “‘S’what it’s like, right? Lickin’ a lollipop.”

Hearing that, you couldn’t keep your lips from twitching.

Okay. Lollipop.

That made it more fun.

When Joel held his big, still partly flaccid length out to you again, you acted even quicker. You kissed his tip, and then, not needing to map it out, you pressed your lips to the side, the base, someplace near the thatch of black of gray hair by his tummy, peppering pecks. It was a game.

And your old man seemed to be enjoying it thoroughly, as his hips jerked with every other movement of your mouth. You stuck out your tongue and licked a stripe, and you heard a low, prolonged growl peel out of him.

“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”

You licked the warm, gummy flesh again and relished the taste. That texture, frustrating as it may have been for Joel, was tantalizing all the same. You reached up and replaced Joel’s hand with yours, and strangely, you loved the feel of his dick all soft and wormy beneath your fist.

Your old man.

You peered up and met with scars, slightly sagging skin, silver-flecked hairs, a wide, bushy trail that spanned all the way to his navel over a heaping mound of muscle and fat. Joel was thick, and he showed his years through every inch of his body. Words couldn’t begin to describe how much you loved that, and how feral it made you feel.

Parting your lips, about to stick out your tongue to give him another long, wet, and tender lick, Joel stopped you.

He twitched in your palm.

“Baby, how ‘bout you put Daddy’s penis in your mouth?”

He said it so soft—so ragged and broken and wanting, by the sound of it—that you almost froze on the spot. Spit smeared your lips and down your chin, falling in little droplets onto his jeans every now and then, and your mouth hovered over the head of him. Your eyes rounded.

“Like…Like this?” you stammered. Lowering.

You took his tip between your lips; it started out with a kiss, just suckling the edge, but then, swiftly, your mouth opened up around him and stretched. Your jaw ached to accommodate his girth, and with just one inch, you felt the sting of what seemed like ten. You gagged, not used to that sensation, and your head jerked back by instinct.

You expected Joel to be put off—irritated, even.

But when you turned a coy look his way, you were surprised to find his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed. Expression as limp as ever—his member stirring stiffer near your lips and between your fingers, simultaneously—he watched you. He nodded. He sucked in half a breath

And when he spoke again, it was like he really was in pain

“Honey…” Dick swelling nearly to full-size in your fist. Hand moving from the armrest to lay flat on the crown of your head, a little shaky. “Darlin’, I’m—I’m— I can’t last.”

You were about to question that, confused as to how one little suck of your mouth could make him so squirmish all of a sudden, but then Joel’s other hand was moving, too.

This one reached lower.

It shoved his pants and boxers down, almost to the point of the fabric pushing past his thighs, and then you saw it.

More squishy stuff.

It wasn’t…part of Joel’s dick per se but rather sat at the base. Hairy and round and plush in a funny-looking duo.

“Y’know what’s in there, baby?” Joel murmured.

You had no idea. You said as much in a shrug.

That made Joel stiffen more, teeth flashing.

A soft chuckle, “Guess we never got to that part, huh?”

For a second, you were puzzled. In the next, you were being lifted to your feet. You might’ve stumbled, except Joel picked you up and carried you all the way to the bed.

You landed with a soft thud and saw Joel undressing before you’d even regained your bearings. As with most things he did, the man was relatively slow-moving and careful, but there was a grit and a resolve just the same.

He unbuttoned his flannel shirt and didn’t unglue his gaze from you once. He kicked off his boots, toed off his socks, and when he got to his boxers and jeans, he put a hand on one of the closest bedposts and paused, briefly.

“Baby.”

You were lying sprawled out over the bedspread, naked, with Joel standing off to the side, eyes as ravenous and wild as you had ever seen them. At the same time, it looked like the man had just swallowed a cup of nails.

He leaned closer, and you did the same, crawling over.

“Yeah? What is it, Da—”

“We don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t wanna do, OK?” Joel cut in over you. Cupping your cheek in one hand. “Hell, we can stop this right now. Save your—your, uh, first time for somebody a little more suited to you in—”

Now it was your turn to interject, eyes rolling at him.

“If you say ‘age’ one more goddamn time, Joel…”

And it made you giggle, partly because you weren’t often in the habit of cussing, but also because of the look that was suffusing Joel’s whole face as you said it: the guilt.

You could tell that it was still tearing him up, knowing how that wide, yawning chasm of decades wedged between you two wouldn’t close no matter what he did. Fingers gripping the bedpost like a vise, eyes studying you by turns, and his underwear and pants all but bursting around the strain of his dick, he looked…

“—scared,” you finished presently. Tugging on his jeans. “Isn’t it my job to be freaking out? This thing’s colossal.”

You’d helped him strip completely nude, watching him kick off the fabric at his feet and climb into bed beside you, and there was a granule of truth to what you said.

What were you going to do with it? Would it even fit?

Then Joel was on top; fear dissolved into laughter.

“Hey!” you hissed around short, gasping shrieks.

“That’s a big word,” Joel mused, barely having to move a muscle against your writhing and squirming. “‘Colossal.’”

“You’ve got a big dick.”

“Baby.”

“Sorry. Penis, I mean.”

Above you, Joel had only to shake his head and scrunch his nose—with his length hard and bobbing between your bodies, there was certainly no sense in denying it.

Still pinning you with his weight, he slid you both up the mattress. He nudged your head onto a pillow. Once comfortable, safe, and secure, and only then, did you feel him start to shift. You glanced between your legs.

His shaft was heavy. It stretched all the way from your pubic bone to your belly button and then well past it by an inch or three-and-a-half. Your presence was like a pebble beside a pillar; this walking, talking wall of fur and muscle couldn’t be outstripped by anything, it seemed.

Joel stroked your cheek with his knuckles, at the same time watching moisture from that tip wet your tummy.

“Y’know…” he trailed off, low. “Y’know how this goes?”

You did, sort of.

Your brain flashed back to the noises stifled behind cabin walls; Joel’s fingers plunging in and out of you; tongue dragging circles, telling you it was best to be wet and stretched, to make sure there was plenty of room for it.

Not a quarter-inch straight chisel, a finger, or a tongue.

Not even just the tip.

“All of it goes in?” you asked him, gaze flickering up.

“All of it.”

Joel’s hips canted once forward, then once going back.

Then again, in a sawing motion, as if to show you.

“Daddy goes in…” Another undulation. “…an’ out.”

Over the course of all your time observing Joel, you’d come to realize that the man reverted to modes of teaching when he was worried; concealing his nerves became a game part-detachment, part-pragmatism.

You saw it now as he shifted his hips in demonstration, simulating sex with his length dragging back and forth across your belly. His brow knit, and he held your gaze.

“‘Fore he can…‘fore he can move, or anything, Daddy’s gotta stretch your little hole out for him. Get her ready.”

“Like you did with your fingers?” you supplied helpfully.

Joel winced.

“Well, a—a little like that.” And he paused to consider his words. “Except, uh…Daddy’s gonna stretch you a bit bigger. Tougher. When he goes in for the first time, he might…well, there’s this stretch of skin he might…rip.”

“Rip?” You raised your head off of the pillow, voice taut.

Joel tried talking you down, both literally and figuratively.

“Ain’t that bad, I-I don’t think. You might not even have it. There’s just this thing inside of some women—a little tissue, I s’pose—called a hymen. Might break the first time you have sex, and—and with everything else… stretchin’, y’know, if it hurts, you just talk to me, OK?”

You nodded, “OK.”

Joel lined himself up.

He gripped his length and angled it. Shifted on his knees.

Swiped the head through your folds a couple of times and made you shiver—was this supposed to be painful? You liked him there, and you tried relishing the feeling. Being wet, and sensitive, and spread with your legs wide open to Joel, you felt as vulnerable as you’d ever been.

You wanted to get the hurt over with.

“Put it in,” you urged, soft. “Go on.”

Joel’s lips twitched overhead. A light chuckle rumbled through him, and he continued the languorous strokes.

“Ain’t that simple,” he mumbled back. “It ain’t…polite.”

For what?

You were about to ask him as much, when Joel slid the flushed, leaking head of his dick from just grazing and bumping your slit to tapping directly—poking your clit. Smearing that pearlescent liquid from the little hole at the end to your throbbing bundle of nerves. You gasped.

Pleasure blossomed from that site. Joel tapped the head again—gentle, but insistent—and sparks ignited across your lower half. Your hips jerked, and you let out a whine.

“That’s why, darlin’,” Joel answered your wordless query. He smiled, sliding his dick back and forth between your thighs, over your trembling, glistening mound. “Only polite to knock on the door before he comes inside.”

And if you weren’t almost shaking in fear, you wouldn’t have hesitated to roll your eyes. Told the old, beaming man with his length poised over your pussy he was corny and not funny at all, y’know that? But instead, you just mirrored his grin, all crooked, soft, and indolent, and you leaned in to kiss him. You wrapped legs around his hips.

You trusted him.

Yet another confirmation of it came when Joel cradled the back of your head and kissed you deeper, sweetly, and then dragged his lips from your mouth to either one of your cheeks, your nose, your chin. Peppering kisses.

Trying to distract from what was forthcoming, maybe.

“Just look at me,” Joel murmured, drawing back and meeting your eyes. “Look at Daddy now, alright, baby?”

You did.

You nodded.

Joel pressed his hips forward, and—

“Fuck!” You swore under your breath.

It stung. No side-stepping the pain, the push of Joel’s length a mere quarter-inch inside stretched the rim of your pussy to what felt like maximum capacity. You dug your heels in his ass, and at the same time it felt like that thrust was going to halt where it was, you grit your teeth.

“Keep going. Please,” you begged him.

Joel groaned. His whole body shook.

“Baby, this pussy’s so fuckin’ tight.”

You must’ve felt like a fist to him—whether that was a good thing or a bad thing was yet to be decided, as the man’s mouth fell open, and a string of curses flew out. His hips stuttered, like he couldn’t bear the feeling, and then his hand lifted to stroke your cheek. His thumb trembled down the cusp of your jaw as his throat bobbed

“Oh…oh, honey. Can’t hurt ya, little one,” he said, choked

“You won’t. I want it,” you murmured back.

As if to affirm that statement, your walls clenched around his tip and sucked him deeper. Maybe a half-inch.

Once sheathed almost past his throbbing, leaking head, Joel seemed to grow even more delirious. He opened and closed his mouth, gray stubble shining from the faint lamplight of his woodworking station across the room, and you thought he’d never looked sweeter. Or needier.

You snaked your arms around his neck just as you felt your body begin to leak more moisture down his length. One soft, minuscule squelch where Joel’s most intimate part and yours molded together, mixing juices, and you could almost taste him on your tongue—feel him swelling bigger and harder pointing in toward your belly.

“Right here, Daddy,” you breathed, voice shrill from how badly you wanted him. “Show—Show me where it goes.”

You should’ve known that tapping into Joel’s pedagogical side would’ve stopped him on a dime.

And it did.

He blinked.

Eyes already clouded with lust and need, he swallowed.

“Y-Yeah?” He leaned closer and blanketed your body.

You nodded at him sweetly, spreading your thighs.

“Please, Daddy. Teach me how to be a big girl.”

Your words might as well have knocked him sideways. The man heaved the longest, lowest groan through his teeth, and muscles ticked on both sides of his mouth.

He liked that a lot.

He’d give you exactly what you needed now.

And, in short order, that was what he did—lowering his head, capturing your lips, kissing you sweetly and savoring your taste, he relished you. Pleasured you. Braced his elbows on either side of your head on the pillow and sucked in a breath and then slid in, finally.

“Open for Daddy,” he said, without pretense or pause.

No equivocation to his movements now, he drove deep. Your body followed as if by instinct, blooming around the intrusion and letting him in. It hurt; like you already knew, there was no sense in pretending as if it wouldn’t sting, but Joel was there through every second of it. Caring for you, kissing you, sawing that big, slippery member of his in and telling you, gently, ‘This is where Daddy belongs.’

“In—In my tummy, Daddy. Can feel ‘im in my tummy.”

“Yeah? Show me where.”

Joel’s hand moved under yours, swiftly guided to your stomach. His gaze shone with pride when you started drawing little circles over your belly button, all while his length was plunging in and out of your wet, needy hole.

You felt a bulge under the skin, and he felt it, too. Whatever hymen you had was probably split in half.

“See Daddy there? All up in your guts?”

You did. You whimpered, “Uh-huh.”

Then, somehow, the man sank even deeper—what once felt like it was teasing at your tummy touched your lungs.

Joel let out a strangled sound.

“Feel—Feel Daddy here?”

As soon as you answered yes, Joel rocked his hips forward to make sure he hit that spot again. It made stars fly before your eyes, not unlike the way you’d felt when he was knuckle-deep stroking your g-spot, but you could tell that this place was different, too. Your toes curled in anticipation, and your walls pulsed around him.

You liked it, not only for the feeling, but the meaning of it.

Something more significant lurked under the surface.

“Your cervix,” Joel said, voice thin and near hoarse.

Another stab of his pelvis, and your mind went dizzy with the pleasure—silly as it was, it also scared you, so you hugged Joel’s neck and nodded your head, ‘Cer-vix.’

“You know where…babies come from, right, hon?”

That question stumped you for a second.

Slowly, you shook your head at him.

And, like the time not long ago when you’d told Joel you wanted to be a big girl, this admission seemed to leave a lasting impression, too. Above you, Joel continued to roll his hips in fast, shallow thrusts and stretch your pussy out with it, prodding at your cervix in every movement.

“Well, this—this is what I was gettin’ at, darlin’.”

Another beat. Another thrust and a groan.

Joel had just managed to steel himself when he went on:

“The birds and the bees, I mean. This is…it. This is…”

Making love.

Making…

Joel didn’t even need to finish his thought, but he reached down anyhow. Feeling for the soft, squishy globes attached to the base of himself, between his legs, he ghosted fingertips over them and stifled a grunt.

“In here, ‘s’where a man stores semen. That’s—”

“The stuff that makes babies, right, Daddy?”

The pieces fell into place without him having to say another thing. The jostling of your body underneath him, pussy taking him deep with every stroke, how Joel would grunt and groan and pant in keening desperation, ‘Oh, sweetheart, that’s just what Daddy likes. Keep goin’,’ it only surprised you how long it had taken for you to see it.

Instinct clouded your sense; you said it without thinking:

“Want it in me, Daddy.”

Joel choked.

Oh.

At the same moment, your walls reflexively clenched, and your fingers wound through the dark, sweat-dampened curls at the nape of his neck. Inhaling a whiff of his aftershave and his natural scent, you felt something stir within you. You couldn’t name it.

You couldn’t place that primal need or why you craved him in you, pulsing out however much of that seed his body could give. It was as simple and as insistent as breathing; your pussy enveloped his length from root to tip and gave it a squeeze like your walls were trying to milk him. Joel’s body responded in kind, and he groaned.

“‘M’sorry, Daddy,” you squeaked. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You want Daddy to make a baby in your belly?”

Joel’s mouth was hovering less than an inch away from your own, and the look on his face was that of a man starved. His thrusts slowed. Hard, hot flesh twitched inside you and sank all the way in until you squirmed.

This gruff man, this tough man, this caretaker and wellspring of kindness and warmth. Protection since the day he’d entered your life. And now he was buried to the hilt, hips digging into yours, and he was smoothing a hand over your cheek. Seeming to be waging an internal war, he swallowed and held your hip with his other hand.

“Don’t—Don’t answer that,” he rejoined, hoarse.

“Please, Daddy. Please,” you whimpered back.

In an exploratory move, you reached to lick at his bottom lip. After that, his chin, down the plane of prickly silver stubble and then around his mouth, like you couldn’t get enough of the man. It felt natural; you lifted your hips and raised your eyes to him at the same time, begging.

You didn’t need to ask. Joel didn’t need to speak again.

But after taking a look deep in your eyes and feeling you hug him—tug him in, both between your arms and your thighs—it became readily apparent his resolve was shot.

His hips drew back and rocked forward.

His tip nudged your special spot, and you both groaned.

No further teaching or talking was needed from that point forward; you and Joel seemed both to operate on instinct, with your bodies making all of the requisite decisions to keep moving. Joel slipped his arms under your body and held you tight, pressed himself as near as he could while he drilled you into the bed and pushed you closer and closer to your peak. His length swelled and throbbed, and the whole time through, he couldn’t take his eyes off your face to watch what his movements were doing. Always ‘my girl,’ ‘my darlin’,’ or ‘my sweet, precious baby’ as his pubic bone bumped your clit and he cradled you to him. The bed creaked underneath the weight of each thrust, and before you knew it, your moans were increasing in pitch. Your body tightened.

Joel’s did the same, and with the tight, wet suction of your pussy all but cutting off the circulation to his dick, neither one of you had much say in what followed after—ropes of warmth coated your walls with every pulsation of his length, and euphoria seized you from head to toe.

How long it lasted, or how long Joel remained buried in your aching heat was anyone’s guess. All you knew was that when you re-opened your eyes on recovering from your pleasure, Joel was watching you. Thick, sticky warmth stuffed you to the brim before starting to leak out—and, evidently, your old man loved that feeling, as he couldn’t keep a grin from spreading across his face.

Cheeks glowing, eyes bright, and smile mirroring your own, it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere this time. Joel held you closer, then pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“So, that’s how you do it.”

[ghostskiss]

How It Happens

Pairing: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x F!Reader WC: 9.6k Summary: Dex keeps using your apartment as a hideout. Warnings: 18+, Stalking, Slow(ish) burn, Service Top!Dex, Controlling!Dex, Let's not forget Dex is manipulative and bad...and hotttt, Mentions of blood, Oral (AFAB receiving), Fingering (AFAB receiving), PIV, UNPROTECTED (wrap it up), Creampie, tiny bit of biting, No use of Y/N, Reader has a praise kink, Reader also has feeling of shame around this, 'This' being having sex with a dangerous man, lol Breaking and entering (should i tag that?), he's obsessive and possessive, calls reader: good girl, baby, sweetheart, dirty girl, He lowkey turns into a whimpering mess at the end

Your hands tremble as the tea kettle on the stove screams. How long had that been going off? Your thoughts are racing, skin cold but sweating, heart still pounding. Blood...you can't even think about the blood.

There's a masked man in your apartment.

You can feel his presence from behind you. It's strong, it's dangerous, it's consuming. His breathing is labored, jagged, like he's in pain. A part of you hopes he's in pain. His blood soaks into your couch that you seriously doubt you'll ever be able to get out. His legs spread out like he's getting comfortable, his hand clutching against the seeping wound. You couldn't tell how bad it was, only the amount of blood dripping gave you an indication it was more than a scratch. You wanted to turn and look at him more but you were frozen, staring at the clock of your oven. 3:03 AM. You were scared to turn and look at him, but you wanted to.

What was that saying, curiosity killed the cat?

"Turn it off." his voice startles you out of your thoughts, jolting your body into action. You pull the screaming kettle off the stove, and go straight into auto pilot. You make tea.

Maybe in a few months from now, if you survive this, you'll laugh at the absurdity of this situation. A masked man, a wanted and dangerous vigilante, had crashed into your apartment through the window. AVTF sirens blared down the street. When he'd crashed into your bedroom through the window, you'd let out a scream, tumbled out of your bed, your foot twisted in your own damn comforter, caught like a hare in a trap. He had the audacity to chuckle as you scrambled for your phone, only to throw your own stuffed animal at your hands, knocking your phone away before he hoisted you up from the ground. His blood smearing against your skin, his rough gloves gripped your wrists together, as he pulled your through your apartment like he knew the layout. He'd set you in front of your stove. Told you to make him a cup of tea. A cup of tea. 

So here you were, pouring the piping hot water into a ridiculous looking cat mug. You didn't have any pets of your own, too much work for you, but that didn't mean you didn't enjoy animals and animal themed things. Why were you being self conscious of a mug? This was for a criminal, a murderer, a psychopath. You shouldn't care what he thinks of your interior or animal themed mugs. You should be tossing the scalding hot water in his face and bolting out the door right now --

Your name comes from the masked man, in low warning. He's reading your thoughts, he has to be. 

You grip the handle of the mug, trying to control your shaking hands. It was a hard feat as you carefully tip toe towards him, hands trying to keep steady. He nods to the coffee table where he's got his dirty boots crossed on top. You set it down and take another careful step back. Steam rises in the dark from the kitten mug, the moonlight illuminating from your windows into the living room. It's just enough to see, but not enough to get a good enough look on him. Not that you can. He's masked. But you can tell how big he is. His broad shoulders rising up and down with labored breaths. His left hand clutched against his side, the dark blood you can see just fine. 

With a dry mouth, you start with a creak, "I...I think you should go."

The man barely shakes his head, making no movement towards the tea. Just sitting there. Bleeding and watching. A flash of irritation shoots through you. 

"Yes." you hiss out firmly, "Listen, I don't know what you're doing here, in my apartment of all places, but I can't help you. I won't...I won't tell anyone you were here. I don't know you, I can't even see your identity -"

"You know who I am." He lets out a breathless laugh and adjusts his posture, his feet coming down to the floor. He leans his back away from the cushions, getting a tad bit closer to you. It makes you take a step back, keeping the coffee table in between you two like that'll protect you.

Huffing, you start again, "Still. I don't have anything to fix you." You gesture to his wound.

"You wanna fix me?"

Shame and embarrassment burn your face, his tone shooting something liquid down your spine. What the hell was his problem? Fear was slowly being replaced with anger.

"No. I don't. Not interested, Bullseye." There, you said it. You knew who he was. There were only so many masked vigilantes in blue suits. Suddenly your heart ached for Daredevil, or even Frank. Not that you'd met either, but you would've felt safer if one of them crashed into your window late at night. Bullseye was a maniac, he was unhinged. Barely contained himself and didn't care who got in the way. He had no morale. 

Fear started up again, the bravery and courage quickly shrinking as his name left your mouth, remembering exactly who you were dealing with.

"Dex."

"Huh?" Shock renders you dumb, your brain firing in so many directions at once.

"Call me Dex." he almost sounds amused, watching you try to keep up with him and your own thoughts, "Listen, I need a place to lie low. AVTF is crawling tonight. I'm hit. I'm beat."

Silence folds into the space as you assess each other. Worry swirls in your eyes, something Dex can see in the low light. 

"I won't hurt you."

Your lower lip trembles, "I don't trust you." You glance at your front door for a moment, still trying to figure a way out of this mess.

"Good. You shouldn't. Go back to your room."

Despite your better judgement, you turn your back to him, awareness prickling into your skin, the weight of his gaze following you. It stays even after you close your bedroom door and lock the handle. You doubt a flimsy door lock could do much against a man his size, but it gives you the illusion of a touch of safety. Trembling limbs carry you back into your bed, burying yourself deep in covers like you used to when you were kid, scared of monsters in the dark. The difference from then and now is that you have one sitting in your living room, eyes glued to your bedroom door. And you hadn't even registered he'd said your name.

Balancing your phone in between your shoulder and ear, you sigh, "Well, no, I don't know what happened, but I just need someone to come by and look at it, please? It's been three days since it's been broken. You're the last company I could get ahold of." A hint of desperation seeps into your voice. Your keys jam into your lock and you groan in frustration. Ever since you'd replaced the locks, the keys have a habit of sticking. Finally, it clicks and your door is open. Tossing your keys on your counter, you hold your phone in a better position.

The window company on the other end explains that your apartment building should be providing a window, that you needed to call your maintenance department. Another groan of frustration escapes you.

"I hear you. I've tried, trust me. They can't get a new window in until next week. I can't sleep knowing I have an open area in my apartment where anyone could get in. Or anything for that matter! What if it starts raining?" 

"I'm sorry ma'am, but legally we can't replace windows on any building without a permit or your apartment complex paying our company as a whole. We could fix your window if you were the owner of your apartment, but because you rent-"

"Forget it. Thank you for your time." You hang up and close your eyes, head tilting up to the ceiling. You knew it wasn't their fault. You weren't trying to be rude, but you could cry with how frustrated you were over the situation. You hadn't had a good night's rest in three days. Bullseye screwed that up for you. Opening your eyes, you immediately cringe at the stained couch. Still had to get rid of it. You had tried your best getting the blood out, but you weren't exactly equipped with blood destroying chemicals. Another thing Bullseye had screwed up. Moving into your bedroom, you assess the almost clear plastic you covered the window up with. It wasn't the best, but it kept enough of the outdoor elements out. Another thing Bullseye screwed up.

Anger stirs in your stomach. You can hardly sleep in your own bed because of the broken window, terrified anyone could get in. You can't sleep on the couch with how stained it is. You haven't been able to call a friend over to help you remove the couch, for fear of having to explain this entire thing. What would you even say?

Bullseye, one of the most wanted men in New York City, smashed your window, bled all over your couch, and left early in the morning? You can imagine the questions. Why didn't you call the Task Force? 

Well, you see, you answer your imaginary detective, I was scared he would kill me before I got to the phone.

Why did you make him a cup of tea?

Because he asked for it.

Why did you just go to bed?

Because he told me to.

You smack your hand against your forehead, cringing at the thought of arguing with yourself and over the events of the other night. Seriously, what had you been thinking? You blame the shock and adrenaline. Rolling your shoulders, you snap yourself out of your thoughts. Something you had some issues with lately, obviously. Staring across your room at the plastic-barricaded window, you let out a breath. A shower sounded nice, but that was another thing you'd been too nervous to do. What if someone came in while you were in there? Chewing your bottom lip, you decide you'll be fast and bring a change of clothes in the bathroom with you. Gathering your stuff, phone included, you step into your bathroom and lock the door. 

The water pelts down onto your skin and you wish with a passion that you could just relax. But you can't, not with what happened a few nights ago and certainly not with that window. You're in and out of the shower in under ten minutes. Clean, but not refreshed. You pull on your sleep shorts and tank top before leaving the barely fogged up bathroom. Stepping into the plush carpet of your bedroom, a slash of fear crosses you. The plastic window has a cut straight down the middle. Your heart crawls up your throat as you freeze at the sight, phone clutched in your hand. Dusk is settling in, the last rays of sun leaving you like the last bit of security and safety before the night.

Trying not to hyperventilate, you press 911 in your phone. Two rings before an operator answers, and you quickly rattle off your emergency, that you think there's an intruder in your house. You step back into the bathroom, trying to be silent as you shut the door and lock it. The operator stays on the line with you, but you can hardly process what she's saying. You're trying to listen to the sounds of your apartment, ear pressing against the wooden door.

"Why is your window not fixed yet?" A deep masculine voice says from right outside, like he's standing the same way you are.

You barely catch a shrill in your throat as you scramble away from bathroom door and in your startle, you drop your phone. You race after your phone, picking it up and almost cry when you see it somehow hung up on the operator. 

You hear him sigh lowly, "Are you going to answer me?"

A multitude of emotions race through you, so many you can't settle on a single one or know how to feel. A part of you feels relieved that it's him, and another is scared. You have no idea what his intentions are with you. The operator had said the police were fifteen minutes out. Fifteen minutes of this, whatever this was. It feels like it'll be eternity. 

"Bullseye-" you start, your voice wobbly with fear and adrenaline.

"Dex." He interrupts you, still right outside the door.

"Dex." You start again, this time a little bit more confident, "The police are on their way."

"So?"

Shock again, renders you speechless. So? You bite your lip in worry and frustration. Oh God. What if he kills them all? And then you? What will the cops do against someone like him? Someone who can't miss a target. They don't even know who they're up against. You hadn't known either so you couldn't warn them.

"I hear your brain working a mile minute, sweetheart."

Gritting your teeth and steeling your nerves, you practically seethe at the door, "What are you doing here? If you wanted to kill me you should’ve done the job the other night.” 

“If I wanted you dead you’d already be. I need a place a lie low again.”

Anger sears through your veins, “My apartment isn’t a damn hotel and if it were you’d owe me a lot! Look at the state of my window and couch!” 

“I’ll buy you a new one.” 

“My window?” You grind out, incredulous at this conversation. You get closer to the door.

”Your apartment complex should take care of that.”

Your brows pinch with frustration. No one can help you with the window. It must be the build up of anger, from lack of care from practically everyone you’ve spoken to about your window, the lack of sleep, the lack of safety, whatever it is, it builds up and pours out in this single moment.

Without thinking, your brain turned off from your anger, you rush through the bathroom door, not registering how you unlocked the knob so quickly or how fast you seem to be moving. Your hand knocks in the wounded side of Bullseye, his shocked and pained groan rushing out of him with the hit. You push against him further, using the momentum, making him stumble back until you shove him hard enough that there’s space between the two of you.

His eyes are filled with surprise and mirth, his scarred face unmasked. A flash of surprise and attraction rush through you as you glare at him, his lips turned up in a mischievous and smug smirk. His smugness quickly squashes your temporary emotions, back to anger you go. You don’t falter.

”It’s your fault that it’s broken! Your fault I can’t sleep at night, I don’t feel safe, I can’t take a shower longer than ten minutes, I’m—“

A hard knock on the door causes panic and doom to shoot down your spine and in your stomach. Worry etches across your features and you rush towards Dex, hands pushing him gentler, towards the plastic window.

”You have to go,” you whisper to him, urgency filling your voice. He’s letting you push him towards the window until you get just right in front of it. 

“NYPD open up!”

You look back towards your bedroom opening, “Just a minute!” Turning back to Dex you gesture to the window hurriedly, “Go!”

You won’t have the lives of these men just doing their job in your hands. Or more blood stains in the apartment. The thought makes you nauseous.

Dex makes a noise of amusement, a smile teasing his lips, “I’ll be right outside. Make sure they don’t get too close to the window.” 

You nod frantically and basically push him out as he climbs through the plastic onto your balcony. Running through your bedroom, you shut the door behind you and rush to the front door, opening it up for the three policemen. They look at you in question, and then past you into your apartment. You stiffen. You hadn’t even thought about the bloodstained couch, adjusting your posture to hide the room behind you.

“I’m so sorry, it was a false alarm.” you start, sweat gathering along your brow as you lie to the officers.

”I thought you said someone had cut into your window? That it was broken?” The first officer starts, his hand resting on his gun at his hip.

With a dry throat, you shake your head. Lying is not your best suit and you try to keep a blank face, “No, I’m so sorry, I checked it and it was just torn from the wind.”

The cop gives you a once over, not buying it. “What wind?” 

"Well regardless," the shorter cop in the back starts with a much calmer demeanor, "We'll need to sweep your apartment. To make sure you're safe, we can't just leave without checking."

You swallow and stare at them before stepping aside. If you argued, you're sure it'd look even worse than how you're acting now. Suspicious. You stay at the front door as the walk cautiously inside, shutting the door behind you. You pray Dex has left the window, that he's still not out there. Trepidation fills you as the officers get to your couch, the one who was more suspicious of you, turning to look at you for an explanation.

Sweat rolls down your back, "Uh, that was my paint. I've been working on a project."

"A project?" He turns and looks back at the stained couch with slight disgust. It was gross. You needed to get rid of it.

"I don't have a shampooer." You try.

"Hm." He returns to sweeping the living room, looking out at the dying light outside your windows. His gaze settles on the bedroom door, "Is that where your broken window is?"

"I, um, yes. It is. In my bedroom. But really, I just came out of there, you don't have to go in. There's nowhere really for anybody to hide in this apartment." It's true, it was small. New York was expensive to live in.

"Why'd you shut the door?"

You surprise yourself with a calm shrug, "Habit. Trying to keep the elements and bugs to one room."

The officer gets closer to the door, looking back to his two coworkers. They nod, hands on their guns as the officer opens the door, and this is when panic really settles in you. You follow him in, trying to stop him suddenly as he starts towards the damned broken window.

"Wait! Really, it's okay, you don't have to check!"

Your words are useless as he nears closer to the window, hand reaching out to part the plastic, you heart beating in your ears. He pokes his head out and you brace yourself, waiting in dread.

He turns back around. "All clear." He steps away and notices how relief sags your entire body. "You really need to get that fixed."

"Tell me about it," you grumble, keeping an eye on the window. Where had he gone?

Moments later, the officers have left after giving you a long talk about calling and wasting time, but to be assured that you were in good hands if something really did happen. You know, the whole mansplaining thing men did in positions of power. You couldn't wait to be rid of them now for more reasons than one. And that one reason, was gone.

You'd checked the window and the small balcony you had that you'd imagined he would have been standing at. The night air met you and you shudder, quickly ducking back into bedroom. Turning to your bed, you grab the big kitchen knife you had grabbed earlier and a pillow. You yank off your comforter and go back into the bathroom, making a not-so comfy makeshift bed in the bathtub. You felt safer this way, with door being able to lock. Sleep hardly comes.

A week later your window's been fixed, giving you a sense of security back. Though something else has been nagging your mind.

You haven't seen Dex since that night the cops came. Haven't heard a thing on the news. A large part of you is worried, which concerns you in itself. Why would you care about someone like him? After all this trouble he's given you.

There was something that had happened, though. To know that he was maybe still alive. A furniture company had come knocking on your door right after you got home from work, the day after the cop incident. They were called to remove your old couch and replaced with an even better one. Something way too expensive for your own accounts. You'd asked who called and the men frowned, confused at your question, answering with an obvious, 'your boyfriend.' That had put color in your cheeks. You didn't doubt who it could have been, knowing you'd never told anyone about the couch. Remembering his words, 'I'll buy you a new one.'

You close your front door, exhausted with the work week. You were glad it was Friday. Reaching up in your kitchen cabinet, you grab a bottle of wine saved for special occasions. It wasn't really special, but you felt like you could relax for once. Your new couch was something you enjoyed sitting on, despite it reminding you of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Showered and in your pajamas, you slink down onto the couch, glass of wine and TV on. You make it about thirty minutes with the glass half full before you're out like a light. 

Something tickles you awake. If you can call it that. You're drifting in between that soft spot of sleep, hardly conscious, fading in and out. It trails along your collarbone, causing you giggle and stir away. You sigh as it moves down your bare arm, back up, tickling your skin into goosebumps. It feels good. It feels overstimulating in this sleep state you're in. You want more. You want it to stop. Your head rolls to the side, the tickling moving to your cheekbone, dusting over your skin, down your face to your lips. It makes you part them, your tongue dipping out to chase the movement. A suck of breath above you jolts you awake. Your eyes part to see a dark figure above you, shrieking, you scramble up on the couch, feet kicking under you.

Dex watches your reaction to him with amusement, staying still, frozen in time. His hand still lingering in the air from where he was touching you. Oh God, you licked him. Embarrassment stains your face. 

"Wh-what the hell are you doing?" you hiss at him, hand pressing against your chest where your heart threatens to burst.

"I see you like the new couch."

You're dumbfounded, really. You hardly know what to do or say with him. You look down at the couch under you and you nod, glancing back up at him. "I was going to say thank you, but it was your fault my couch was ruined in the first place." Speaking of, your gaze trails along him. He seems fine, like he's unharmed, in regular clothes of all things.

Since he hasn't hurt you, yet, you find your confidence. There needs to be some serious boundaries set in place with this man. You stand, a little too close to him, expecting him to move back to accommodate you. He doesn't. Like he likes standing that close to you. You clear your throat and take a small step back, giving yourself some distance from him. He watches you with an unwavering gaze, like he's studying every moment you make. It makes you feel like prey. A shudder racks through you, causing you to look down at your attire, similar to the last time you saw him, you're in small tank top and shorts. You practically feel naked. Crossing your arms over your chest, you look back up at him with a little more conviction.

"You cannot stay here."

"I was just going to ask for some tea." He raises a shoulder in passive shrug.

Pressing your lips together in irritation, you ignore how his gaze flicks down to your lips. "I'm not making you tea."

"Why not? You listened so good last time."

You refuse to acknowledge that.

"You stole my mug. Don't think I didn't notice."

"I wasn't trying to be sneaky about it."

"So, you just stole it without caring?"

"I didn't say that. I cared about it too much, which is why I took it." Dex's smirk comes to life. It makes you want to smack him.

"I liked that mug."

"I know."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing out slowly. Changing the subject, you gesture around the apartment, "How did you even get in? Don't tell me you broke my window again, or I'll be severely upset."

A chuckle releases from him as he shakes his head, "No broken windows. The newer version is much easier to unlock."

You're still. Speechless. 

He uses it to his advantage, stepping closer to you, his hand slowly reaching out to pinch a lock of your hair between his fingers.

"Why are you here?" you whisper, watching him watch you.

"Missed you." Another shrug as he twirls the lock of hair in his fingers, inching closer to you. Unease and...something else you refuse to admit burns in your belly. "It's getting harder to stay away. I didn't mean for all this to happen, not like this."

You wet your lips and Dex watches the movement like a hawk. "How would it happen, if you could change it?" Your curiosity burning inside of you. His darkness calling to you like a moth to an open flame. The consuming way he's staring at you. It makes your skin prickle with a whole different reason, heat beginning to crawl under your skin, spreading through your lower belly. 

"I'd make sure we met in public. Somewhere you like. That café down the street," his fingers drop your hair, moving to your collarbones, trailing lazily against your skin. You shudder. "You'd order your regular. Hot vanilla latte. With whipcream on top. Light cinnamon dusting. I'd get the same. I always do." You don't know how to process all of this as he's touching you. Your brain turning off with his touch, his breath hitting you as he whispers softly, closer and closer to you, until he's close enough to kiss. He doesn't stop. Two hands on you now like he can't help himself. Your skin burns with want. It's wrong but so good. You're entranced.

"I'd say something about it. Spark the conversation. You'd tell me things about you, things I already know. Your name. What you do for work." his head dips to your throat, an inhale of your scent makes him shudder, his breathing getting heavier, "I'd make you tell me where there's a good pizza place. I already know your answer. I'd ask if you wanted to join me. You'd say yes because why would you say no to me?"

You shiver as his nose brushes up to your ear, his hands just barely grazing against your sides. Like he's still testing if you're going to pull away from him or not. When you don't, he presses his hands into you, fingers spreading like he's trying to touch enough of you all at once. He groans lowly at the contact. You're trembling now, not sure if your body is reacting to the fear of his admittance, or to the burning want of him. Perhaps both. 

"How...how is it going to happen now?" your voice is small, breathless. 

Dex takes a long inhale, like he's trying to control himself. He raises his head, away from where he was breathing you in, to catch your gaze. His pupils are wide, his hands squeeze you slightly when you look up at him with need. Something he's been fantasizing seeing on your face for a long time now. 

His voice is rough, husky, full of want and desperation, it rakes up your body hearing it. "I'm going to sit you on the couch I bought you. You're going to take your shorts off." as he's painting the scene, he's turning you back towards the couch, keeping you facing him. Two small steps backwards and the back of your legs are hitting the cushions. You sit. He watches you darkly as he slowly hooks his fingers under the band of your shorts, pleased when you lift your hips to help him take them down. You're blushing now, watching him with bated breaths. 

"You're going to spread your legs and I'm going to kneel." His grip is surprisingly gentle, for such dangerous and calloused hands. It makes you shiver, the contrast of it. The contrast of him. His hands part your thighs, his gaze never leaving yours even as you try to dip away from it as he spreads your legs open. Shame and desire eat at you, the fabric of your underwear doing nothing to hide how wet you are. He kneels.

The sight of this broad shouldered man kneeling in front of you makes you a little light headed. This isn't right, but it feels so good. Dex is reading your expressions, the hitch of your breath, the pink dusted on your cheeks, like he's saving it away. Keeping it in a file in his mind for later. You try not think about it, what he said. Try not to let it talk to you in a way that a part of you likes it, likes that he has an obsession with you, that he's so carnal. That he wants to know everything little thing about you, even the ways you react to him. Especially the ways you react to him. You start to feel yourself want to back out and he knows it already. The palm of his hands petting down your thighs, closer to where you're aching and wanting him to touch. It distracts you again. 

He needs you to not think about what's right or wrong. Like he does. He could be a little bit more like you. But you need to be a little bit more like him right now. 

Dex tilts his head in a way that feels like a predator pinpointing a weakness. You feel weak to this attraction, this want, this need. Good. It's how he's been feeling about you lately. You bite down on your lip as his thumb gently brushes over the waistband of your ruined underwear. Your core clenches. 

"You're going to let me take these off," the way he says it, it's not a demand. It's not even a command. He states it like it's a fact, something that's just going to happen. He isn't reveling in it, he isn't being pushy, he's being honest. And you know that you will. You're going to let him do whatever he wants to do you. You're going to listen to him, because when haven't you? 

You nod and he hums, that familiar smirk coming back to his lips. He mocks your nod back to you. "I know, baby. You're going to let me eat you out. You're going to cum on my mouth. And you're going to make a mess." 

He hooks his fingers under your panties and you lift your hips again, aiding him without a word. What do you even say to that? You're worried anything you say will sound like begging. He does it slow, and you're not sure if he's doing it to torture you or to give you one last chance to back out. Your hands grip the cushions underneath you, breath quickening as he reveals the evidence of your desire. He sucks in a sharp breath as he lays eyes on you for the first time. You bite back a whimper at his reaction, like he's enamored and in disbelief. You're soaking, pussy painfully clenching with want. 

"Fuck." And that's the last you hear from him before he's dipping his head down, latching onto your clit so quickly and precisely that you startle with a cry, hands coming down to grip his head, unsure whether you want to pull him in or push him away from the hard contact. 

You try to squirm, but his large hands hook under your hips, holding you to him. He yanks you down close to him. He’s licking you up like he’s starved, he’s firm and unashamed when he groans loudly against you, the vibration of it adding to the stimulation. You let out a loud moan in response, fingers flexing in his hair. His grip tightens on your hips, your reactions causing him to react in fervor. 

His tongue flattens to lick up as much surface of you as he can, his tongue coming up your clit, circling around before he’s adding a sucking pressure to it. Your gasp comes out sharp and in shock, fingers flexing against the strands of his hair. He doesn’t stay on your clit for long, drifting his mouth to lick a slow and vicious lick along your slickness. He dips his tongue back down, slipping inside you, nose bumping up against your clit while you grind down into his mouth. You fight a whimper, which catches pathetically in your throat as you rock your hips. 

Dex’s dark eyes gaze up at you, the moment causing your thoughts to catch up to you. The weight of his eyes were heavy, you can tell how he's cataloging every moment, every movement, every sound you make. How long has he been watching you? God. What were you doing? 

He seems to notice you falter, his tongue dragging back up slowly to your clit, done with teasing and tasting you. He wants to make you cum. Wants to turn your brain off, defy the logic and the fear still inside of you. He latches back onto your clit so accurately that you almost blank out for moment, your hips coming up to squirm away from him. He lets out a groan deep in his chest, as his arms come up to wrap around your thighs, sealing your fate to him.

"Oh, God-" you let out on a broken moan and that seems to encourage him even further. His mouth keeps the pressure around your clit, his tongue adding a flicking motion, up and down, side to side, until he hears which one you like best. Until you're sitting still in his grasp, letting him consume you. That's when he knows he has you. 

And you have him. You're so close, his mouth hurling you towards the throes of your pleasure, body subconsciously clinging to him, trying to get what it wants. Your hands are tangled in his hair, like a part of you thinks he's going to lift his head and stop. You're ensuring he'll stay there and finish what he started. Your back arches, your moans eating away at the silence, louder, longer, breathier. Your head tips back before it falls forward, catching his never ending gaze again and that's when you fall apart. 

You come hard, vision spotting, the last that you saw clearly was Dex's dark eyes leveling yours right between your thighs. The image burns into your mind as you come down, heart beating through your chest as you heave for air. 

He pulls back from your clit, the missing contact makes you want to cry out. His weighted gaze is still on you, never left. Never will. It makes you shy, starting to close your legs on impulse, causing a quiet but sharp, tsk, from him. Reprimanded, you blush, holding your legs open, letting him see the aftermath of your soul crushing orgasm, pussy still pulsing with the aftershocks of it. 

"Good girl," he breathes quietly and the praise goes straight through your stomach to your core. The pleasure spiking in your blood. He notices and smirks, his lips coated in your shine. Maybe that's all you needed, some encouragement.

His fingers swipe down the core of your pussy and you bite back another cry. He pushes them back up against you slowly, just missing your throbbing and sensitive clit, parting the lips of your cunt. You watch his eyes grow darker at the sight and his jaw clench as he takes the sight of you in. You can feel the slick of your pleasure and want drip out of you, onto the couch. His other hand comes down to barely brush against your fluttering opening. You suck in a breath as you watch him. 

"You made a mess." his fingers coating in your cum as he traces your hole.

Shame paints your face and you fight yourself from shutting your legs again. You start to say something to defend yourself, lips parting, and he shakes his head. He looks happy, lips tipping up in a sharp and dangerous smile. 

"I said you would." His fingers push inside of you, making an obscene squelching noise with how wet you were. 

Your remark dies, whatever it was you were going to say, and he loves watching your brain go blank for all the right reasons. You don't need to talk or think. He'll do all the decision making from here. All you had to do was listen and be good. And you were good, you were so good. You were good like this, like he knew you'd be. His fingers hook up in you, his weapons against the world now turning into extensions of what he wanted to do to you. He fucks them up into you while his thumb swipes your sensitive clit. His fingers stretch you out in a way that you know will do nothing to prepare you for the real thing. His stature is large, you can only imagine what he has down there, something you haven't seen with his kneeling posture.

Your head tips to your shoulder, like you hardly have the energy or care to keep it up, eye lids drooping. Though, you're still looking at him. His chest swells with pride. You're moaning without thought, pleasure drunk eyes on him, nipples poking through the flimsy fabric of your tank top. The sight of you makes him feel crazy. How long has he pictured this exact scene in his head? Imagined the noises you'd make? The way you'd look with his fingers deep inside of you, legs spread open for only him. His fingers fucking up into you with deep thrusts, thumb still swiping gently on your clit. He can feel your wet pussy clenching around him, pulling him back in and he fights a moan, thinking about it wrapped around his cock. His thoughts about you turning darker as he watches you take what he gives. Your perfect lips fall open to tumble out another moan, his free hand going up to cup your chin. Sharp shock rings through him as you dip your chin to catch his thumb in your mouth, cheeks hollowing, tongue slicking against him. The shock turns into straight primal need. 

"You're a dirty girl, aren't you?" his voice is just barely above a whisper, keeping the conversation close, like the two of you are sharing a secret. His other hand still fucking a steady rhythm up into you, each thrust he swipes that thumb harder against your clit. Your hips twitch and you nod, moaning with your tongue and mouth still wrapped around his thumb. His nostrils flare. He didn't expect this. But he likes it. He's corrupting you, he's turning off your logical part of your brain and he's making you into something entirely his. 

He keeps fucking his fingers into you with a steady rhythm, each thrust his thumb delivers a swipe against your sensitive clit. He can feel your cunt clench more and more around him, and he is starting to see the telltale signs of when you’re getting close. A flush in your chest and across your cheeks, your moans getting louder and airier, thighs and hips twitching with the stimulation. Your hot mouth lets his thumb go to breathe out his name in a plead. 

He groans hearing it, almost whimpering back to you. It makes him feel insane, he has to make you stop chanting his name like that or he’s going to yank the waistband of his pants down and give it to you. He has to make this night last, has to study you more, touch you more. He leans forward, catching your mouth to consume his name and your moans. 

You immediately embrace him, something that makes him shudder with need. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, pulling him close to you as your lips part to swipe your tongue against his. He whines into your mouth, the sound going straight to your core, pushing you right to the edge. You cling to him as his fingers keep pushing up into you, hitting a spot that makes a pathetic noise fall from the back of your throat. Dex swallows it, his hand cupping the back of your head to keep your mouth against his as he kisses you senseless while you fall apart. 

Your thighs tremble as you come back to your body and reality, heavily aware of Dex’s mouth on your skin. He gently eases his fingers out of you, causing a loud whine to leave you. 

An airless laugh leaves him in response as his mouth trails down your neck, “It’s okay, baby. I’ll give you more.”

You shiver at that, not sure how much more you can take. You’re weightless, thoughtless, overstimulated. His hands snake under your back and hips, pulling you to him as his mouth latches onto that sensitive spot on your neck. You moan lowly, rolling your head to the side to give him more room, goosebumps ticking on your skin. He’s lifting you up now, arms wrapped around you, keeping you against him as tight as he can as he stands. Your weak legs wrap around his waist, shaking arms around his neck. You feel where you’re moving, back into the bedroom. His lips move back to yours, catching another kiss from you as he gently eases you down to your mattress. 

His fingers grip the hem of your tank top, slowly pulling it up and over your head, exposing you to him fully now. He breathes out, taking you in. Naked and sprawled on the bed just for him, unwound from the orgasms he’d given you. His knees dip onto the bed, and you reach up to touch his shirt.  He shakes his head once and you frown.

”I can’t see you?” you ask in a small voice.

Dex stares down at you, your nipples tight in the exposed air. He wants them in his mouth, wants to make you cry out. His gazes goes back to yours. “Not right now. It’s not about me right now.” You didn’t understand, he didn’t want to be distracted when he still had so much to discover about you. Didn’t want your hands and eyes all over him while he was supposed to be mapping your entire body. He wanted his hands, eyes, and mouth on you instead. 

You’re not used to this intense amount of attention. You’re feeling shy again, almost like a bug under a microscope. His features soften, realizing he’s losing you again to that logic in your brain.

”I need to see you. I need this. Please understand.” His hands move to either side of you, caging you against him and the bed as he hovers over you, his head dipping down close.

You bite your lip, brow dipping in question. You’ve trusted him this far, though the post orgasms and reality of the situation were weighing into you. Especially now, as you lay naked and vulnerable under him, no doubt in your mind where this was going to end. 

You wet your lips, a movement yet again tracked precisely by the man over you. “How’s it going to happen?”

He’s gaze flicks back to your eyes, pleasure and mirth filling his. He knows what you’re doing. Giving him the go ahead while asking for reassurance. He likes this, this game you’re playing, like you were playing earlier. He leans back down to you, mouth just brushing above yours.

"I'm going to kiss you again." His lips capture yours, pulling you in a kiss that leaves you dazed and breathless and wanting him all over again. Your hands come up to grasp his broad shoulders, causing him to shudder. It was strange, he wanted you touching him but it was so distracting. He wanted it too much. So he leans back, breaking the kiss, grabbing your hands gently, easing your hands and arms down over your head. He's got them pinned with one of his. You test his grip, with a pout on your face. He laughs again, want and need making his voice darker, "Later, sweetheart. Later." He likes this too, having you manhandled onto the bed, pinned with nowhere to go, looking up at him with such need. 

"You're going to keep your hands there like a good girl." He watches with slight amusement as your keen with the praise. He hardly has the patience anymore when you buck up your hips to grind against his length. He hisses out at the contact, his own hips twitching in response, rolling forward to grind down into you. You let out a small moan and Dex shudders as he stares down to where you're connected against him. His free hand goes down to cup one of your breasts, earning him a gasp and your back arches, trying to give him more of you. He swipes a thumb over your nipple before he's dipping down to suck into his hot mouth with searing lick. 

Dex's grip on your hands leave you, but you keep them where he left them. For fear of disobeying of him. You hadn't tried it yet, maybe you never would. Listening and obeying him felt so much better. But you did ache to touch him, to pull him into you, to dig your fingers in his hair and keep his mouth against you. You didn't. You were good. 

His hands roam and grope you, mapping your body like he's trying to memorize every inch of your skin. How you feel against him. His mouth switches to your other peaked nipple, giving it the same attention. His fingertips trailing down the sides of your ribs, making you squirm, his clothed and hard length still pressed against your naked and sensitive pussy. The texture of his pants is almost too much, too harsh, but you can't get enough. It's just like his attention on you. He rocks into you, groaning at the stimulation. He's been leaking and throbbing since he first broke into your apartment. Months ago. He remembers the night he finally made contact with you. A miscalculation on his part. He hadn't meant to broke the window. Hadn't meant to scare you. But he liked it. Liked how you trembled in fear and still listened to him. That's when he knew. Knew you were perfect.

He moans against your skin, his mouth trailing down your sternum now, licking, sucking, kissing. His hands roaming still. You feel dizzy with the overstimulation, arms trembling over your head as you grip your own hands together to keep them there. Dex eases up, lips puffy and red, eyes glassy and dark with lust. If he had his camera he'd take a picture of you right now, to remind him of this moment. Skin flushed, hair a mess, sprawled out on your bed just for him. Staying still just for him. He takes a breath to steady himself.

"I'm going to fuck you now."

It's soft, the way he says it, like a part of him can't believe it. Again, like earlier, he delivers it in such a way where it's not demand. Not a threat. Not menacing, or dark. It's a soft fact. Like there's nothing you can do change it, and like he knows there is nothing you'd do to change it. 

But you answer him anyway.

"Please, Dex." you breathe out, the raw unfiltered need for him showing through your tone in such a way that makes his eyes grow dark. 

He makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat before he's tugging his shirt off and over his head. You watch with curiosity and awe, his muscles moving with his body, reminding you of just how dangerous he is. Scars litter across his torso as his muscles flex and move with every moment he makes. The wound that got the two of you in this mess, still healing at his left side. A dark yellow bruise surrounding it. He leans back, his fingers hooking at his waistband, his focus zeroed in on your expressions. He wants to see how you react to him. Wants to see the way you look at him for the first time. The evidence of his desire pressed harshly against the seam of his pants, doing nothing to really show you just how big he is until he peeling away his pants. No underwear. The fact makes your mouth dry and heartbeat quicken. You see a light dusting of his happy trail as your eyes travel down lower, lips parting as you take him in. He's rock hard, thick and throbbing. Precum dripping from his pink tip. You subconsciously wet your lips and Dex makes another pleased sound. He'll get your mouth on him later. 

He doesn't let you take the sight of him in for long, before he's parting your legs and crawling on the bed in between them. Your thighs shake with anticipation, hips jolting when his skilled fingers swipe through your slick once more, like he's still making sure you're ready enough for him. He takes a steady breath, as he looks down at your exposed cunt, catching a groan at the sight of you, cock jumping with need. He hitches his hips up, sliding the tip up against you, teasing the both of you while getting himself wet with you. He groans at the contact, his length spreading you open, dragging his cock against you. You moan, hips raising to meet him as you feel just how long and thick he is. You would shudder at the thought if you weren't aching for him. Dex braces his hands on either side of you, head hanging low so he watch where you two meet. He lifts his hips, catching his tip just barely at your entrance as you rolls your hips down. Your breath catches and he starts to ease in slowly, the stretch and the burn beginning. A whimper escapes you as he keeps pressing, the pressure pulling noises out of you that you didn't know you had. 

"Easy, baby. Relax." his voice is shaking, like he's trying to hold himself back, his gaze coming back up to catch your expression. Your brows are furrowed, mouth parted, chest stuttering with the air you're trying to pull in. He keeps shifting forward. He drops down to his elbows so his upper body is pressed more against you, his mouth coming to catch yours. You let out a whimper into his mouth and suddenly he shoves forward, done being nice about it at all. You let out a shrill, hands coming down to grip his shoulders, nails digging in. He lets out a devastated moan against your mouth, breaking the kiss with pleased hiss.

"Fuck. I'm sorry, sweetheart. Fuck." His hips stutter, his forehead coming down to press against your shoulder as the initial shock and pain turn into burning desire. "I couldn't hold it anymore, you feel so fucking good." his hips roll deep into you, pulling a sharp gasp from you as he hits your cervix, fingers digging into him again.

His mouth bites down into your shoulder, as he whines into your skin. This wasn't going according to plan but he couldn't stop. Your pussy clenching around him so tightly, so slick and warm and perfect. He could cry. He drags his hips back before he's snapping them back up into you, your moans quickly turning into something he needs to hear, to feel. To have. His pelvis grinds against your clit before he's snapping his hips back and forth, his own mouth spilling obscene noises and things he can't believe he's saying to you.

"So good. So good, fuck, I'd never thought - never imagined how good," he whines, mouth leaving kisses and licks across your skin, anywhere he can get as he fucks into you, loving the way your nails dig into him, how you touch him. "How good you'd be."

His words make you moan and clutch to him, hands digging into his hair now as his cock drags inside of you, stretching you out and filling you up. He's heavy on top of you, keeping you pinned against him and the bed, his thrusts taking the air out of you with each push. You can hardly catch up with what happening, how he's talking to you in such a whimpering tone, it makes your skin burn with desire. How long had he thought about this? His mouth catches yours to steal your breath and kiss, before he pulling back, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you down to meet his thrusts. Your vision nearly goes black as your eyes rolls back. 

"So pretty, baby. Taking my cock. God. F-fuck." he growls out into your ear before he's looking down at you, watching you take him. He licks a stripe up your throat, nipping your jaw before he soothes it with a kiss. Hands and mouth and cock branding you in a way that you know you'll never escape the feelings from. Even his words.

You can't say much of anything with the way he's delivering his hips into you, the pleasure ballooning in your belly as he drags you closer and closer to the end. "Dex," you whine, his name the only thing your brain can settle on. 

It spurs him into a furious snap of his hips, the slap of your skin and obscene slick coating him filling the room with your moans and cries. His arms wrap around your torso, pressing you close against him, bear hugging you while he keeps fucking you into oblivion. He's unhinged in the way he fucks you, like he can't stop, can't help himself. His own brain finally turned off, debased into a creature of need. Not a creature with everything under control, you under control. Himself under control. This is his most human form and you've brought it out of him. 

His gaze captures yours, his brown eyes glassy with unshed tears, the sight shocking you before you're pulling him into a kiss. He whimpers into it, hips stuttering. He pulls back with a begging voice, "Tell me you need me." his lips just barely leaving.

You moan out, legs wrapping around his hips to keep him against you. You're so close, the pleasure and pressure building deep inside you with every thrust he delivers.

"Tell me." he whispers again, fingers gripping onto you in a way that you know will bruise later.

"I need you, Dex." you have your own form of whine in your voice now, panting as you get closer, "Dex-"

He interrupts you, "Tell me to never leave. That you won't leave me."

His admittance makes your breath stutter, heart flutter. The obsession he has on you is clear enough to you now, and you don't hate it. You're curious by it. Morbidly so. You know you shouldn't want it, but it makes your blood yearn and want with such force that it turns out the logic and the fear of it out your mind. Your pussy clamps down on him and he almost chokes. 

"I won't-" you gasp, fingers digging into his back, "Dex, don't leave, please don't. Don't stop." 

He revels in your begging, his voice dark, "Good girl. Now give it to me."

It's like he already has your body trained, already knows it's tells. Already knew how close you were. Knew what would send you off the edge. Your body seizes up as you let out a cry, hands gripping him tightly against you as you break on a moan. Pure euphoria rips through your body, cunt convulsing around his thick cock, making his hips stutter with a cry of his own, your orgasm pushing him over the edge. His head drops into the crook of your neck, both your bodies trembling as you come down from the white hot explosion inside of you. Your chest heaves, limbs boneless as you feel his cock pump inside of you. You feel full and peaceful. Not worried about the consequences of your actions just yet. 

Dex lets out a pleased sigh, holding you still against him, making no move to remove his softening cock out of you. He nuzzles his nose up your neck, breathing you in as you both settle into this new time and reality. Your fingers find themselves drawing swirls and meaningless things on his back, earning goosebumps on his skin. He shudders against the stimulation, enjoying the feel of your hand on him. 

You're the first to speak after a few minutes of this bliss, "I want my cat mug back."

"You're not getting it back." He smiles against your skin, "Unless you come back to my place."

"How's that?"

"It'll happen like this..."

[vigilantekisser]

transcendent third

pairing: college!foggy nelson x f!reader x college!matt murdock

summary: you love your boyfriend, but you're not even sure if his best friend likes you. something's got to give. (6.6k wc)

tags/warnings: 18+ only pls! mdni. threesome, spitroasting, double vaginal penetration, sweaty sex. unprotected sex. oral sex f&m receiving, cum eating. matt loses control for a bit but reader likes it and is okay with it. soft dom bf!foggy, jealous subby puppy boy matt <3, mattfoggy propaganda heh...

a/n: completely unedited bc i wrote this with one hand down my pants

Heat addles the mind but heightens sensation—isn't that what they say?

You can't remember the last voluntary movement you made. Time and memory have since become a foreign concept. There's only before the AC died and after, the latter of which stretches long and molten and winding around you, like pulled taffy.

"I'm going to die here," you mumble. "M'gonna die here and— and they're gonna find my body. And it's going to be"—you lift your head, realizing you've been muffling your voice in the pillow—"fused to this mattress."

There's space though, at least. Regarding the mattress in question, the two twin beds—Foggy's and Matt's—have been shoved together since April, a dubious project held in place by the wall on one side and dogged hope on the other. Even the sheets don't match—one's navy and one's a truly tragic shade of beige.

Right now, you're sprawled out and sweating across the seam where they meet, wearing nothing but a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt of Foggy's.

"Aw," Matt remarks from his desk. He's got his earbuds around his neck, one of them plugged in, listening to what you're pretty sure is a contracts textbook. In this heat. For fun. The angle with which he's leaning back in his chair makes you nervous. "Maybe the RA'll put a little memorial up. 'Here she melted. She was okay.'"

"Okay?!"

"Ah, I didn't wanna oversell it."

Oh, Matt.

Even after months of dating Foggy, you can't seem to parse Matt completely. Your boyfriend's best friend has never been fully hostile to you, and you know these little jokes are supposed to be just him teasing, but in actuality—you can never tell with Matt. One moment he's okay, one moment he's provoking you again: joking that you're stealing Foggy from him, teasing you, ignoring you. Bumping into you and crowding you. You're not even sure what you've done to him.

It's not like you can bring it up to Foggy, though. Just thinking of all the little things that've made you come to this conclusion is enough to know that you're going to sound crazy and delusional if you do.

Right now though: if you tease Matt back hard enough, you can ignore the fact that his shirt is off. Not that you're trying hard to not notice too much about his unclothed body. It's just— his skin's faintly sheened in the syrupy light coming through the window.

You'd grumbled about it: how guys always seemed to lose that battle so easily just because they had the option.

But it's okay—you can be normal, right? It's just bodies. It's just bodies.

"Hey," Foggy grunts from beside you. He's shirtless, too, clad only in basketball shorts. "She's more than okay, thank you very much. She's the love of my life and she'll be remembered as such."

You bat your eyes at him exaggeratedly. "Aw, Fog."

"'Here she melted. She was pretty hot.'" He turns his head back to grin at you, eyes crinkling. "Matt's just dramatic."

"You're both dramatic," Matt says.

"Says the man who pointed the single fan at himself," you shoot back.

The oscillating fan has indeed been hogged, rotating by the corner of Matt's desk in agreement. It ruffles the dark hair at his forehead before swiveling away again.

"I'm studying," he says mildly. As if that has anything to do with anything.

"You're hogging the breeze is what you are, Murdock."

Under the thick, stifling comforter of heat, though, it only just then occurs to you that Foggy's hand has been on your thigh, rubbing along the inside of it.

"Hey," he says to you, rolling onto his side to face you. His eyes are half-lidded.

You know this look. You know exactly what it means. It's the one that usually precedes him kissing your neck hotly and talking you out of whatever you were doing.

And the thing is, there's actually nothing you'd want more than to pull Foggy's shorts down now and ride him, but fuck. Matt's right there.

"Foggy. No."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your hand's saying plenty." You grab his wrist and lift it off your leg, depositing it back on his own chest. "It's a thousand degrees," you say, and then lower your voice in warning, "Matt's right there."

Foggy makes a sound like a deflating balloon. "Matt doesn't care. He's basically furniture right now. He's a lamp." And louder, he calls, "No offense, buddy."

"None taken." And then lighter, "I've endured worse from him."

"See?" Foggy's hand migrates back, and this time it lands on your hip, squeezing through the fabric of your shorts. "Lamp says it's fine."

"Yeah. You deal with the wandering hands for a few hours. I've had years of this."

Ignoring Matt, you swat at Foggy again, harder, trying for propriety, and he retreats with a dramatic wince.

"You are so— it's too hot, Fog. I'll literally melt. Do you wanna lose your girlfriend to, um— entropy?"

"Thermodynamics," Matt contributes from the distance, needling.

"Thank you, Lamp."

He shrugs. Foggy flops onto his back with a theatrical groan, arms thrown wide.

For a while, there's nothing but the faint whirring off the fan, and the muffled sounds of the dormitory drifting through the open window. Someone's playing Ke$ha downstairs.

You close your eyes. It's so, so hot. Your thoughts go slow and syrupy, circling into the ever-perilous drain of sleep.

"...anyway," Foggy's saying. And you realize that you missed the start of some conversation he and Matt have drifted into. "I'm just saying, you can't cite that for that proposition."

"But you're thinking of the Seventh Circuit dissent, not the—"

"Oh, the dissent, he says—"

"It's a famous one, Foggy."

"Famous doesn't mean right."

"Neither does loud."

You crack one eye open and find that they're grinning at each other. Jesus. It's your favorite thing about them, at least: the way they bicker like an old married couple that secretly enjoy it. Foggy catches you looking and winks.

"Back me up here, babe."

You shudder at the name. "I have no idea what you're talking about." Planting a kiss on his cheek, you say, "And I refuse to learn."

Matt barks a laugh at that. "Good, you know Foggy's a worse influence than he lets on."

"Oh, I'm the bad influence? That's rich coming from—" Foggy cuts himself off, waving a hand. "You know what, no. I'm not taking that bait."

"What bait?" you ask.

"Matt-bait. He does this thing where, you know, he says something provocative then he sits back and lets you—"

"Oh, come on, man. I don't do 'a thing.'"

"—crash and burn and flail. You know what this reminds me of?" Foggy rolls his head toward you, conspiratorial. "There was a time sophomore year— wait, was it sophomore year? Matt, was it sophomore year when the power went out in Carman the whole heatwave?"

"Yeah, uh," Matt taps his fingers on the table, licking his lips, "freshman year, I think?"

"Right, right. And we had to sleep with the door open and there was this guy from down the hall who kept walking by in his boxers—"

"I don't think he was even wearing boxers."

"Wow, I blocked that part out, thanks for that." Foggy waves a hand. "Anyway, we drank endless shots because Matt kept saying, you know, I don't even think you can handle it, over and over, so I kept doing it and he kept doing it, over and over, and then we ended up—" Foggy stops. "Uh. Anyway, it was a weird night."

Matt's fingers have stopped drumming on the desk.

"Ended up what?" you ask lazily, only half-listening.

"Nothing. Just— just talking. We stayed up talking."

You look between them, and find Matt grinning, like the cat who ate the canary.

"What?" you say, and now you're propping up on your elbow, curious. "What happened?"

"Nothing! Matt's just being— Man, you're being weird."

"I'm not being anything!" Matt leans back in his chair and tips it back onto two legs. His mouth's curled at the corners. "I'm just saying. It was a good night."

"It was a normal night—"

Matt scoffs.

"—that we don't need to—"

"Wait," you say. Something's assembling itself in your head, puzzle pieces slowly clicking into place. Foggy's blush. Matt's smirk. Even the conspicuous way Foggy derailed his own anecdote. Ended up—? "Wait. Hold on. Matt. What happened freshman year?"

Matt turns to face you. Without his glasses, those unfocused eyes are warm and brown, with flecks of pretty amber.

"We kissed," he says simply.

The fan clicks. Clicks. Clicks.

"You—" You sit up fully. "What?"

"MATT." Foggy jackknifes upright on the bed beside you, so fast the whole mattress-island wobbles, as if he's only just woken up from some dreamlike trance. "We had a pact!"

"That was two years ago!"

"What— When was—" You can't even gather your thoughts up quick enough to substantiate anything you're saying. Matt's kissed Foggy? Foggy's kissed Matt? "Sorry, what happened exactly?"

"It was— It was before you," Matt says, all quickly, like he's had that at the ready. "Obviously."

"Obviously," you echo, looking at Foggy. He's rubbing the back of his neck, not meeting your eyes. The flush is spreading from his cheeks down to his freckled chest.

"We were drunk," Foggy says. He drags both hands down his face. "It was one time— It was stupid, it didn't mean— I mean, it meant something, but not like— not like you mean something—"

"It was more than one time," Matt says pleasantly.

Foggy falters, losing his words. Meanwhile, something's happening in your chest. It's a mix of intrigue and jealousy, though decidedly not betrayal, not any of the things you should probably be feeling upon learning your boyfriend's kissed his best friend. What it is is more like a door opening, a window thrown wide in a room already hot, flushed with heat. Electric.

"More than once," you say.

Your boyfriend's blue eyes are so, so wide and worried, brow crumpled, looking so guilty. You can practically see the gears grinding behind his eyes.

"Was it good?"

Matt's eyebrows lift and Foggy's mouth opens, closes, and opens again.

"I—" He blinks. "What?"

"Was it good?" You cross your legs on the bed, your shorts riding up. "The kiss. Was it good?"

There's only silence.

And then Matt says, "It wasn't bad."

Foggy makes an indignant noise. "Wasn't bad? I'll have you know—" He sighs, giving up, and turns back to you. "Why aren't you mad?"

You consider this honestly. "I don't know. I don't know," you say. Your voice sounds different. "I think it's... It's actually kind of hot?"

Matt's chair comes down on all four legs with a soft thud.

Foggy's staring at you. "You— I, uh, what?"

"I get it. Matt's not hard on the eyes," you say. You drag your thumb along the ridge of his knuckles, feeling each soft dip and indentation. "So how many times? Three? Four?"

Foggy glances at Matt, then back at you. "I— Yeah? Why are you asking me this...?"

"Because I want you to do again."

Matt hasn't moved, but you can see the shift in his posture.

"Do it again," Foggy repeats.

"Yeah. Kiss him again. If you want."

"In front of—"

"Yeah."

He rubs his face again with both hands. "This is— Okay, this is insane. Matt?"

"I mean," Matt's tongue darts across his lower lip, quick and unconscious, "I'm not opposed."

"Oh, you're not opposed? Come on, back me up here—"

"Come on, Fog." Matt stands from the desk. He pads across the tiny room barefoot, and the orange-white sun from the window catches the planes of his stomach, the dark trail of hair below his navel. He stops at the edge of the pushed-together beds, standing over both of you. "She did ask nicely."

For a second, there's a beat where Foggy just looks up at him. You see something pass between them, some well-worn frequency that predates you. A contemplative look of shared history. Then Foggy exhales, long and slow, and tilts his chin up.

"If this is weird after," he warns, pointing a finger at Matt, "that's on you."

"Everything's on me," Matt says, and he leans down and kisses him.

It's careful at first. Almost... Chaste? Respectful. Matt's hand finds the curve of Foggy's jaw, and they press their mouths together so softly, so easily that it makes you stomach flip. Very clearly having done this before.

Then Matt makes a sound—quiet, like a suppressed groan—and kisses deeper, and Foggy's lips part, and suddenly it isn't chaste at all.

Your breath catches. Watching them from inches away, it's all close enough to see the way Matt's hand comes down to caress Foggy's neck. Foggy, in seeming retaliation, reaches up to grip the back of Matt's neck, pulling him closer.

Matt's on one knee on the mattress now, half-bracing himself over Foggy. The way their mouths are moving together makes you feel like you can't breathe. Foggy kisses the way you know, the way he does everything. Warm and generous, open-mouthed and giving. Matt's rougher, though. Like he's taking.

You press your thighs together. It's as if the heat in the room has narrowed to a single, pulsing point low in your belly.

Matt pulls back just enough to breathe, and his lower lip drags against Foggy's. And then he's kissing him again, much deeper this time. His tongue slides into Foggy's mouth. Your boyfriend makes a muffled sound, and from Matt's neck, his hand slides up into his hair, gripping. Matt shivers, and you watch the muscles in his shoulders flex.

"Don't stop," you breathe.

Matt smiles smugly against Foggy's mouth, and you suddenly know it for what it is: he's performing at least a little, and you don't mind at all. His hand plants itself on Foggy's bare chest, fingers spread wide over his pecs. Then it slides lower, palm dragging through the sheen of sweat, the downy blond hair of Foggy's soft stomach—

"Okay," Foggy breathes. He breaks the kiss and turns his head, eyes finding yours. They're dark. Heavy-lidded. Unmistakably turned on. "You— Come here."

You're lost in the daze, though, and Foggy knows you enough to not wait for you to obey. As Matt makes room for you, Foggy reaches out to hook the back of your neck and pull you in, and then his mouth's on yours. Hot and slick and tastes faintly of lemonade, of salty spit. Matt's spit, you think hazily. His tongue pushes past your lips and you make a sound into his mouth, only for him to deepen it. Kissing you like he's claiming you back. Like he needs to know the difference.

You slide your own hands up your boyfriend's chest, over his nipples and his stomach. His skin's so sticky under your palms and you love it, how alive he feels between the two of you.

But even as Foggy's tongue slides against yours, you feel Matt. His hands are on your hips from behind, chest pressing against your back, palms skimming up your sides beneath the oversized t-shirt. His fingers are long, longer than Foggy's, and they leave trails of heat across your ribs. He's so warm. Skin-on-skin where your top's ridden up, and you can feel his cock pressing against your ass through the thin layers between you.

"Easy, easy," Foggy mumbles into your mouth, directed past you. But Matt doesn't listen: his hands coast up higher, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts, and you jolt, gasping against Foggy's mouth.

"Not fair," Matt mutters behind you. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, open and hot, teeth dragging, and you shudder between them. "Share."

You break from Foggy—who chases your mouth with a lazy, half-lidded look to him—and turn your head. Matt must sense the movement, because he stops his groping and fondling, and tilts his head toward you.

"Hi," Matt says hoarsely, close enough that you feel the word on your mouth.

"Hi."

"You wanna?"

You do. Fuck, you do.

You tip your head and kiss Matt Murdock for the first time. It's absolutely nothing like kissing your boyfriend. Matt is teeth and tongue immediately, sharp and searching. Hot. Hypnotizing. A little mean about it, too. He bites your bottom lip and you make a startled sound, and feel Foggy laugh weakly between you.

"Yeah," Foggy says. "Yeah, he's like that."

"Mm-hmm," you mumble, having lost all language, and then Matt's back to kissing you.

When you break apart, you're panting. Foggy's turned his face to you and you kiss him again. It's easier. Home. He sighs into your mouth the way he does when you're alone. But even as he kisses you his hips are rocking forward into Matt's hand, which has snaked around from behind you.

Matt's other hand slides up your stomach again, and between the two of them your shirt gets tugged up over your head. And like that, you're bare from the waist up, sweaty and breathless. The feeling of being freed from your clothes is almost as good as the feeling of Foggy's eyes on you.

"Jesus Christ," Foggy breathes, so clearly ogling your tits.

Matt's hands drag across your nipples, pinching firmly just to see what noise you make. From the front, Foggy's mouth drops to your chest, tongue darting out to lick at one peaked bud. You cry out, hand fisting in his long hair.

Everything's slippery. Matt's chest against your bare back. Foggy's mouth on your skin. Hands, everywhere—you lose track of whose is whose.

You slide one hand down the front of Foggy's body—down, past the trail of hair at his navel—until your fingers bump the back of Matt's wrist where it's still under the waistband of Foggy's shorts. Matt stills. You can feel Foggy's thick cock under his hand, hot and heavy and straining, and the angle's awkward but you slip your fingers under alongside Matt's and feel your boyfriend twitch hard against both of you at once.

"Oh God," Foggy says hoarsely.

Matt pulls his hand out first, fingers bumping yours as he goes. You get off Foggy, and then Matt's hooking both thumbs into the waistband of Foggy's shorts and tugging.

"Up," he says. "C'mon. C'mon."

"Fuck, I can't believe this is happening," Foggy mutters, but he plants his hands on the mattress and lifts his hips anyway. Matt drags the shorts down his thighs in one pull, and Foggy's cock springs up against his stomach. Leaking already at the tip.

Matt's hand goes right back to where it was, working Foggy's cock so loosely, slick with precome and sweat, pulling pained groans from your boyfriend's pretty, pretty mouth. He turns his face toward yours and grins.

"You want a turn?" he asks you sweetly. Insufferably smug.

"Don't be rude," you spit at him, even as you're reaching.

Your hand closes over Matt's, closes over Foggy, who's making these tiny helpless hitches of breath, eyes squeezed shut. And when you grip him a little harder, he whimpers.

"See," Matt says to you, "he likes this sound."

"I know, Matt."

"Yeah? Do you know how to get five of 'em in a row?"

"Matt, stop— Stop being mean," Foggy says through gritted teeth. You laugh, and you can't help the little squirm you do. You're so turned on you're lightheaded. You want out of your shorts, out of your panties, now.

You wriggle out of them in an undignified sort of shimmy, and your bare thighs stick instantly to the beige sheet. God, it's so hot in here you're going to combust. Seeing you're naked, Foggy reaches back and shoves Matt aside, grabbing your thigh and hauling it over his hip. Hooking you around him, and making you fit yourself against his hardness. You grind down once and cry out.

"Matt," you rasp. "Come back."

He crawls back in, a long lean creature stalking up the seam of the sheets, and when he gets close enough, you grab the waistband of his shorts yourself and tug. Like a cat being lifted out of a lap, he lifts up obligingly and you drag down his hips and he kicks out of them and then he's bare too, all three of you bare. The head of Matt's cock is flushed an angry pink. He's leaking onto himself.

"What a mess," you say teasingly. "All for us, huh?"

But your teasing's barely potent: Matt's smirking, and you kind of want to slap him and also kind of want to climb him.

"Here," Foggy says, pushing you off again to gentle you down against the mattress. "I'm gonna move you, okay?"

You go where he puts you—with him behind you, cradling your body. Another round of kisses with your face turned to him: deep and slow, the way he kisses you when he's about to fuck you.

You expect Matt to crawl up in front of you, ostensibly to fuck you, or kiss you too. Instead, he's between your thighs and nudges your legs open with his shoulders. You suck in a breath so hard you make yourself dizzy.

"Wait, wait, wait..."

"Mm?" Matt tips his head up, all puppy-like. "I can stop."

You look down your body and there he is. His cheek almost on your thigh, and he's waiting. For you; your permission.

"Don't stop," you say. Twice now you've said that—you're starting to think it might be your permanent answer from here on out.

Matt smiles and drops his face to you.

You don't get much more than one swipe of his tongue, though, before Foggy's mouth is back on yours, catching all your noise. Your hand flies out to grab Matt's hair and hold him there.

"Mm, oh my God," you gasp. "Foggy, he's—"

"I know, I know. He's showing off, huh?"

"A little, a little..." Matt keeps at it, and he's good at it. The worst part, you think, is that he knows he's good at it. You can feel him smiling smugly against your cunt every time your thighs twitch around his ears. Foggy's got his hand in your hair, petting you, stroking you, whispering sweet, dumb things in your face—that's it, no, I know, he's being such a show-off, isn't he? you're doing so, so good, sweetheart—and you don't even feel real anymore. Swimming in heat.

Matt pulls off, and you make a noise in protest.

"Don't be selfish," he says. Mouth slick and eyes glassy. "Save some for Foggy."

"Matt, don't be an asshole."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Come here."

Matt obeys. He crawls up your body, heavy over you, and Foggy drags him into a kiss so filthy right from the jump. You lie there with your chest heaving and watch two men who have known each other longer than they've known you eat each other's mouths above your face. Matt's tongue flicks out and there's a smear of you on his chin. Foggy licks it off him.

"Jesus," you breathe.

They break apart and Matt sinks back on his heels. Foggy leans down and gives you a peck, almost apologetically, and then he's sliding back. Adjusting you until you're on all fours on wrinkled sheets. And just like that, he's lining himself up with you and you're so wet it's embarrassing. He slides against you twice just to coat himself, and you whimper.

"Please, Foggy..."

"I got you, baby." He pushes himself in, one slow slide and you push yourself back onto him, feeling him stretch you out. "Jesus fuck," he curses loudly, as he starts to move. "You're so wet, babe."

"S'Matt..." you mumble. "S'all Matt..."

Kneeling by your hip, Matt's still there, stroking himself slowly to the sound of Foggy fucking you. Little wet catches of sound, your panting, Foggy's groaning. The bed squeaks under you, creaking every time Foggy thrusts into you, and you don't even care if the whole thing collapses, as long as Foggy's using you to feel good.

"Matt," Foggy pants, not looking away from you. "Get up there."

"Hmm?"

"Her— Her mouth." He palms your ass, gripping it as he fucks you. "Okay, right, baby? You want—?"

You nod so fast, and drop your head against the pillow. "Yes, yes please—!"

"Mm, I don't know," Matt says, tugging at your hair to lift your head back up. He's fucking smiling. "Should I? Do you want it?"

"Uhuh, uhuh, please..."

"Say it, then. 'Matt, I want you to fuck my mouth.'"

Behind you, Foggy groans, his rhythm faltering for half a second before recovering. You swallow, peering up at Matt with big, wet eyes. "I— I want you t— Please..." Matt laughs as you falter and stutter, smiling at you so coyly. "I want you to fuck my mouth—!" you finally yelp, as Foggy drives into you especially deep.

Matt doesn't say anything more, though. He kneels in front of you, cock bobbing above your mouth. You open for him immediately. Tongue out, hungry—and you must look wild. Must look half-gone already. Matt breathes out hard above you, and slaps his cock on your lips once, twice, before feeding himself into your mouth.

"Open up," he grunts. "Suck. Yeah, just like that—"

Your eyes sting at the stretch of him. He's big, but not as thick as Foggy. Still, he's long, and doesn't give you a lot of warning before he's nudging the back of your throat. You breathe through your nose and fist the sheets, letting him set the pace, and his hand comes down to cup your cheek.

"Taking me so well, Jesus," Matt hisses. "So good at this, huh?"

Foggy's fucking you harder now, like Matt's praise has him wound up. The angle changes and he hits that place inside you that makes your throat close up, and you try to moan around Matt's cock and end up just making a gurgled sound that's got Matt swearing above you.

"Do it again," he pants.

"Working on it."

Foggy does it again. And again. And Matt rocks down to meet your mouth and the three of you find a rhythm for about thirty seconds before it devolves into something messier. More animal and desperate. With Foggy's hips slapping against your thighs, and Matt's balls brushing your chin, your hands grope blindly for any purchase you can find: Matt's hip, the bunched-up sheet beneath you.

And Matt— Matt who's been holding himself in careful check, at least, loses it. His hand tightens in your hair and his thrusts go shorter, sharper. He stops pulling back far enough for you to catch your breath.

"Matt," Foggy warns. "Hey. Easy."

"I'm being easy," he lies, voice ragged, and rocks forward again so deep your eyes water. Your fingers scratch at his thighs and you gag, and instead of pulling back he shudders and pushes deeper.

Your eyes sting and you're making sounds you can't control—high, broken things—and you feel yourself starting to slip, the world going hazy at the edges, too much heat and too much Matt and—

Foggy snaps at him. "Matt. Hey. Off."

"I'm fine, she's fine—"

"Off. Now." It's the voice Foggy uses when he means it. Not Foggy being silly or Foggy being sweet, but the one who'll go to the mat for you without thinking twice. Matt goes still above you, breath heaving, and then reluctantly pulls out of your mouth.

You gasp, spluttering. Coughing. Your jaw aches and there's spit all down your chin. Matt sits back on his heels, his cock bobbing wet against his stomach, and he looks—chastened. Pouting, like a kid who's had his favorite toy taken away.

"She was fine," he mutters.

"She was crying."

"She liked it." You did.

"Not for you to decide, buddy." Foggy's slowed inside you but he hasn't pulled out, and his hand comes to your back, stroking affectionately. So gentle that it's at odds with the filthy state of you. "Hey. You okay, baby?"

You nod, still catching your breath. "M'okay. M'good. Really good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Fog, I promise."

Foggy looks down at you so tenderly, and he pulls out and the sudden emptiness makes you whine.

"C'mere," he says, shifting onto his back. "Come up here, baby. You ride me."

Yes. God, yes.

You crawl over him on shaky limbs—your knees are shot, thighs trembling—and Foggy's hands find your hips and guide you down. You sink down onto him and oh, oh— you always forget how thick he is until you're taking him from this angle, feeling yourself stretch and spread around the fat head of him.

"There you go," Foggy murmurs, stroking your sides lovingly. "You set the pace, okay? There you go, that's it. Take your time."

You don't though. With an impulsiveness you realize is more aligned with Matt, actually— you bottom out in one slow slide and Foggy groans beneath you, hands clamping down. You plant your palms on his chest and start to move.

The pace you set is filthy, almost punishing. You roll your hips and lift up until he almost slips out, before slamming back down. The two beds are definitely drifting apart beneath you, the gap at the seam widening with every bounce, and Foggy's hands are everywhere. Waist, your tits, your thighs.

"Fuck!" he says. "Fuck, baby, you feel so—"

Foggy's eyes are so dark they're almost black, and his hips start to rock up into you, hard.

You glance over your shoulder and find Matt where you left him—and he's got one hand wrapped around himself, working himself fast and rough. His lips are parted, brows drawn up, and he's making these soft little whimpers, as if he can't stand being excluded.

"Fog," he says, and his voice cracks.

So that's what Matt sounds like when he's desperate.

"Matt," Foggy says, not unkindly. Watching him.

Matt's hand drops from himself, shifting forward on his knees until he's pressing up against Foggy's leg, straddling it. Cock dragging against the sweaty muscle of Foggy's calf, and he starts to rut. Grinding himself into Foggy's leg like a dog, whining so reedily. You clench so hard around Foggy that he chokes.

"Jesus," Foggy breathes, watching Matt rub himself off on his leg. "Matt. Matt, hey, come here—"

"Wanna—" Matt's voice is barely there. He's flushed from his ears down to his strong stomach, and there's precome smeared all along Foggy's leg. "Foggy, I wanna—"

"I know you do, puppy. C'mere. Come up here."

Matt crawls up behind you again, and you feel his chest against your back. Bare and scorching skin. His cock presses into the curve of your ass, and he's so hard it must hurt. His mouth finds the crook of your neck and he whimpers against your pulse point.

And then he shifts, adjusting his angle. His cock slides down and nudges against where Foggy's already inside you.

You freeze.

"—Oh," you whimper.

"Mm," Matt mumbles against your throat, rubbing his cock along your entrance, right alongside Foggy's shaft.

"Matt, mm!"

"Please." It doesn't even sound like Matt anymore. "Please, I need—"

Foggy's looking up at you, and then past you, at Matt's face over your shoulder.

"Baby," he groans, "You could— You could let him in too."

Your heart's pounding in your chest. You can barely even think. "Both of— both of you?"

"Mm-hmm. Both of us."

"At the same... time...?"

"We'll—" Foggy's chest heaves. "We'll go slow. I promise. We'll go so slow, baby. What do you think?" He glances at Matt again. "I think you can take it. Can you take it for me, baby?"

You should say no. You're already stretched around Foggy and he's thick, and Matt isn't small—

"Yes," you say.

"Yeah?" His voice drops, so sweetly. "Okay?"

"Mm-hmm. Okay."

"Good girl." Foggy licks at his lips, and turns to Matt. "Okay, Matt. Slow, okay? You hear me? Slow and easy."

"I know, I know."

"She tells you to stop, stop."

"I'll stop. I'll stop." Matt's forehead drops to the back of your neck. You feel his breath shuddering out. "I promise, Foggy. I promise."

"Good boy."

Feeling him twitch hard against you, the blunt head of his cock nudges insistently at where you're already full. You breathe out. Trying to relax, to let yourself go soft— but it's hard. Every instinct's telling you there isn't room, there can't possibly.

Matt pushes in anyway.

Just the head, just the very tip of him. Pressing in alongside Foggy.

"Oh God—" Your nails dig into Foggy's shoulders. "Oh my God, oh fuck!"

"Breathe, baby. Breathe for me. It's a lot, huh?"

"Mmm..."

"Mmm. I know. I know it is, you're doing so good, huh? So brave."

Matt's hips push forward another inch and you cry out. Almost pained.

"Sorry, sorry—" Matt grits out, trembling against your back. You can feel the effort it takes him to not rut the way he was rutting before. "Sorry. I'll wait. I'm waiting."

You breathe. In, out, in, out. Foggy's still whispering to you, so good, Jesus, I'm so proud of you, baby—and you feel yourself softening. The stretch going from painfully full to something warm. You press your forehead against Foggy's collarbone and nod.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay, I can take more."

Slowly, Matt slides all the way in, and all three of you stop breathing.

Full. You're so full it's like you can feel them everywhere. Foggy's cock and Matt's cock and the way they're pressed together inside you. Separated by nothing. Skin on skin through the slick squeezing of your body, feeling them against each other. They're so close together inside you that every movement's shared.

"Fog," Matt breathes into your shoulder. "Can feel you."

"I know, man. Can feel you too."

Matt presses a kiss into your cheek, more into your hair, really. "Can I move?"

You nod.

They don't coordinate, and they can't, you think—it feels too new and strange and overwhelmingly good. So what happens instead is a kind of stuttered rhythm. Matt pulls back and Foggy pushes up; Foggy drops, Matt thrusts forward—so that you're never empty. Never not full. One of them's always bottomed out inside you while the other slides against him.

The friction of them moving against each other in your cunt is—

You can't think anymore.

You're dripping. Around them, between them, all over Foggy's thighs. Every thrust pushes more out of you, slick and warm and running down your skin. They're both losing it. Foggy's hands bruise at your hips, pulling you down onto them both, and Matt's arms are locked around your waist from behind, his face buried in your hair.

"You're so good," Foggy pants up at you. This awful sticking melting heat's turned you fully stupid, and sweat is dripping from your chin onto Foggy's chest and he doesn't care. "You're so good, baby, you're taking both of us, you're perfect, you're—"

"Harder," you cry.

Matt answers; it seems he always answers when you tell him to be worse. His hips snap forward and Foggy's eyes fly wide because he can feel it—Matt's cock shoving alongside his own, the friction and the pressure doubling—and both of them groan in unison.

They find it, then. The rhythm. Not staggered anymore but together, both of them thrusting up into you at the same time, splitting you open on every upstroke, and you're not bouncing anymore, you're being fucked, held in place between their bodies and fucked open by two cocks that slide and press and rub against each other inside you with every stroke.

"I'm—" Matt's voice is wrecked, bitten-off. "Foggy, I'm close, I'm gonna—"

"Me too, buddy. Hold on. Baby—" Foggy grabs your chin and makes you look at him and his eyes are blown wide and desperate. "You close? Can you come for us?"

"Yeah—yes—please, Fog, please—"

"Come on, then. Let go for me. Let go."

So you do.

Like a wave. A wall. Like the floor dropping out from under you. It's these you feel, clenching so hard around both of them that Matt groans and Foggy's hips bow off the mattress as your cunt spasms around them, milking them, squeezing them together inside you.

"Fuck—fuck, baby, I'm—"

You can't tell anymore who comes first. At once, they're both pulsing inside you at almost the same time, filling you up from both sides. There's so much of it, and you sob against Foggy's chest and feel them throb as they empty into you.

And then it's very quiet after.

Quiet except for breathing.

Matt pulls out first, and you feel a rush of warmth follow him out. It drips down over Foggy where he's still inside you. Matt collapses beside you both like a marionette with its strings cut, spent arms splayed out, chest heaving.

"Holy shit," he pants to the ceiling.

Foggy lifts you gently, so gently and slips out of you himself, and another gush of warmth follows. It's running out of you in thick, lazy rivulets of white, pooling on the sheets and on Foggy's thighs.

"Oh my God," you mumble into the pillow. You genuinely can't move. Ruined and leaking cum onto the tragic beige sheet; you're never getting up again.

Maybe you were right; this is where they'll find your body after all.

Foggy tucks you against his side, his hand strokes up and down your arm. Your eyelids are already dragging shut.

"Hey, Matt?" Foggy says, after a minute. Matt lifts his head. "Wanna clean her up?"

There's a pause. A long one. Matt blinks, and wordlessly—he shifts down the bed.

You feel his hands on your thighs, parting them carefully. You shiver; you're so oversensitive you think a strong breeze could finish you off. He settles between your legs and you feel his hot breath ghost over you and you twitch.

"It's okay," Foggy murmurs into your hair. "Just let him. He's gonna take care of you."

Matt's mouth starts on you and you whimper. He's gentle this time, at least. There's none of the earlier show-off bravado, only slow, careful licks, cleaning you up, lapping at the mess of cum leaking out of your swollen, fucked-open cunt. His tongue dips inside you and you jerk, and Foggy's arm tightens around your shoulders. Holding you still.

"Good boy," Foggy says quietly, and it's directed at Matt.

You lie there and shake. Matt eats you out until there's nothing left to clean, and then he keeps going, just enough that a second orgasm catches you by surprise. It's just a soft, warming thing that barely makes you gasp, a slow tightening and release. Foggy presses a kiss to your forehead as you come down from it.

Matt crawls back up the mattress and collapses on Foggy's other side. He throws an arm across Foggy's chest and his fingertips brush your shoulder. The three of you lie there in the terrible heat, sweating and sticky and wrecked, breathing together.

"I can't believe," Foggy says slowly, staring at the ceiling, "that we just did that."

Matt grins, loose and lazy and entirely too pleased with himself, and you watch his hand find Foggy's on the mattress. Their fingers lace together. You drape your arm over Foggy's stomach and let your hand rest on top of theirs and nobody says anything about it.

"Hey, Matt," you say, drowsy.

"Hm."

"You're more than okay, you know."

A pause. Matt's fingers twitch against yours. He barks a laugh and says, "Yeah, you too."

a/n: average college dorm activities be like...

tagging ppl that have shown interest! @moth-murdock @sunshine-daydreams0809 @foxmurdock @lambmurdock @angelmurdock

[brunchable]

𝙈𝙮 𝘿𝙧𝙪𝙜 𝙄𝙨 𝙈𝙮 𝘽𝙖𝙗𝙮. [ 1 ]

 ݈݇— pairs: ddba!dex poindexter x super-soldier!female reader.  ݈݇— themes: Morally gray FMC, Age-gap, Love-Bombing, Obsessive/Possessive Love, Dark Romance & Toxic Codependency, Emotional Manipulation, Violence as foreplay/love language, Identity & Moral Corruption, Control vs Chaos, Graphic Violence & Gore, Explicit Sexual Content (blood tasting, degradation, choking, hair pulling), Gun Violence, Murder (AVTF agents welp.), Mentions of blood, “I can fix him” mentality, FMC who keeps trying to Dom him but failing spectacularly. Post-Prison Dex, No use of Y/N, reader will be portrayed as physically fit (literally a super-soldier), apart from that no other physical adjectives are included...i hope.

Author’s Note: Again, this is NOT what a healthy relationship looks like. Dex will be toxic/yandere and both characters enable the worst in each other. Take care of yourself and do not read if this is not your cup of tea.

Prologue - Masterlist

Dex slammed the apartment door behind him, the cheap frame rattling the single photo on the wall. He didn’t bother with the lights. The sickly orange glow from the city outside was enough. He preferred it that way now.

But your voice wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone.

If you want to keep me, you’re gonna need to love me harder than that.

It looped in his head, louder than the dried blood still crusted under his nails from the two agents he’d taken care of for you. He’d scrubbed every surface, wiped every print, bagged the bodies, and left your place spotless—just like you asked. And what did he get? A reluctant little “I’ll see what I can do” and that bullshit about laying low.

He wanted everything. Every second of your time. Every flicker of your attention. Every inch of that super-soldier body that used to press against him like it was built for his rituals. He wanted your image, your career, the careful little life you’d rebuilt—all of it twisted around him. Not the version of him you kept trying to leash with your rules.

He paced the narrow hallway, fists clenching and unclenching. Back when he was still FBI, before Fisk turned the whole world into a blood-soaked game, he’d done it right. Coffee exactly how you liked it. Memorized your shifts so he could “bump into” you. Took you to the range and let you win half the time because that’s what normal boyfriends did. He’d studied other couples, copied their touches, their smiles, their easy little lies. He’d given you stability. Security.

And you still wanted harder.

He stopped at the kitchen counter, eyes narrowing at the neat row of knives. His breathing was too fast, too loud. He could still hear the way your voice dropped softly when you told him he was incapable of love. Right before you dangled yourself like bait and then ripped it away.

His hand snapped out. One of the knives left the counter in a blur and buried itself hilt-deep in the drywall with a satisfying thud.

“Fuck you,” he snarled into the empty room, chest heaving.

You’d let him bleed devotion all over your floor and then tried to send him away like some stray you could forget about.

He closed his eyes and forced the old breathing pattern. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Dr. Mercer’s voice floated up from somewhere deep—those sessions he’d burned the tapes for, back when he still pretended he could be fixed.

How would you define love, Dex?

Love was taking every single piece of someone until nothing was left for anyone else. He’d never given her the real answer.

That’s what he’d tried to give you. And you threw it back in his face because of Julie. Because he’d needed a stabilizer for a little while, and somehow that made him incapable in your eyes.

His eyes snapped open.

He wanted to punish you for that. The old Dex wanted to kick your door down right now and make you understand exactly who you belonged to. But that would just scare you off. Push you deeper into that perfect Sergeant armor you loved so much.

A slow, cold smile spread across his face as the new plan clicked into place.

Fine.

He was going to love you so hard you’d never get free again.

Dex pulled the knife from the wall with one calm tug, wiped the plaster dust off the blade, and set it back exactly where it belonged. Then he sat down at the table, fingers steepled, already turning the pieces over in his mind.

You were going to learn what harder really felt like…but first he needed to balance some scales.

× × × ×

The Department of Damage Control never slept. Even at this ungodly hour the bullpen ran like a machine that couldn’t afford to stop. You sat at your desk near the back, one leg crossed neatly over the other, your coffee steaming beside you like a prop. The wall-mounted TV played the same blurry New York chaos on loop for the fifteenth time.

“Jesus Christ,” someone muttered by the printer. “You hear that guy used a fucking oyster claw as a weapon?”

Another agent snorted. “Bullseye’s a goddamn animal.”

“Guy’s completely off the rails.”

Your eyes flicked to your phone. The tiny blinking dot on the tracker app was moving. Slowly at first… then picking up speed, heading somewhere it definitely shouldn’t be.

What the fuck are you doing, Dex?

You’d told him to lay low. You’d given him clear instructions. And here he was, already drifting off course like a dog that couldn’t stay on the porch.

A heavy hand landed on your shoulder.

You jolted hard enough that coffee nearly spilled. For one razor-sharp second your brain supplied Dex’s face—his hand, his grip, his presence—before reality snapped back in.

“Whoa, easy,” Deputy Director Mason said, lifting his hand immediately. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You forced a tight, professional smile, heart still hammering. “You’re fine, sir.”

He studied you a beat too long. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.” His voice dropped. “The two AVTF agents sent for your welfare check the other night. Did they ever make contact?”

Your stomach plummeted, but your face stayed perfectly composed—the same mask you’d worn standing over Julie’s apartment, feeling that cold rush of relief that someone else had handled the mess.

You could lie a dozen different ways.

“I wouldn’t know,” you said smoothly, tilting your head with just the right touch of puzzled worry. “I came home really late… crashed hard after shift. Didn’t hear a knock.”

Mason’s brow furrowed. “So they didn’t?”

You shook your head, widening your eyes just enough. “Is everything okay?”

He hesitated. Bullpen chatter swelled behind him: “You think Bullseye got them too?” and you felt it like a gift.

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice to that soft, intimate register you knew worked on men who wanted to feel useful. “God, I hope they’re alright. I would’ve told you if they’d come by. You know that.”

The lie tasted sweet.

Because the truth—that Dex had killed them—didn’t serve your image. It didn’t serve the careful life you’d rebuilt. And if protecting that meant feeding Mason exactly what he needed to hear, you’d keep feeding him until he choked on it.

Mason’s gaze flicked to your phone, lingering on the cracked screen. You kept your expression open and concerned.

He exhaled. “We’ll keep looking. If you hear anything—”

“Of course,” you said softly, reaching up to briefly touch his arm. “Anything at all. Just let me know how I can help.”

He nodded and walked off. The second his back was turned, your polite smile dropped.

You picked up your phone again. The blinking dot was still hauling ass across the map, moving way too fast. 

Where the fuck are you going?

The TV caught your attention next.

“…and in tonight’s local news, Wilson Fisk is hosting an exclusive charity boxing match at the old arena. Sources say it’s part of his ongoing community outreach, but with recent tensions—”

Your head snapped toward the screen. The camera panned across the venue, flashing Fisk ringside like a king on his throne.

You pressed your lips together. Of course.

The tracker kept moving. Straight toward the arena.

Don’t do this, Dex. Not tonight.

Your thumb hovered over the screen. Part of you wanted to grab your coat and go right now—drag him back by the scruff of his neck before he could blow everything up. But another part of you whispered that chasing him would only make it worse. He’d see it as proof you cared. Proof you were still his. And once Dex got even a taste of that, he never let go.

For a long second you debated, thumb twitching between calling him and throwing the phone across the room. Then you set it face-down on the desk, exhaled slowly, and reached for your coffee like nothing was wrong.

× × × ×

The arena was a screaming, flashing hellhole, and Dex moved through it like he was born for exactly this kind of noise.

He’d come here to settle the scales. One clean good deed. Fisk had to die since the Devil clearly didn’t have the balls to finish it and maybe if Dex put the bastard down, the static in his head would finally shut the fuck up.

He was on the floor, cutting through panicked spectators and flying chairs, hurling anything sharp he could grab. Broken champagne flute. Metal railing spike. A goddamn serving knife. Each one found its mark with surgical cruelty—throats, shoulders, knees, eyes—clearing a path straight toward the ring.

Every throw landed perfect. Every wet impact scratched that deep itch behind his eyes.

Fisk loomed near the ring like a goddamn king, security swarming him, Vanessa tucked close in white like she wasn’t married to the rot at the center of everything.

Two AVTF agents rounded the corner ahead, rifles up. Dex pivoted, arm already cocked back with a jagged shard of glass pinched between his fingers—

POP. POP.

Both agents’ heads snapped sideways before they dropped.

Dex froze mid-throw. That wasn’t his shot.

His eyes sliced through the smoke and strobing lights until they locked on a figure half-hidden by the east exit ramp.

Black cap low. Black neck gaiter hiding the lower half of her face. Leather jacket. Silenced pistol still raised.

He knew that stance. Knew the exact angle of those shoulders. The way she steadied her breath right before the shot. The little tilt of her head afterward, scanning for the next threat.

A slow, manic grin spread across Dex’s face beneath his mask.

Another agent charged his blindside. You dropped him with two suppressed shots before Dex even finished turning. Blood sprayed across concrete.

Jesus Christ.

Heat crawled down his spine, thick and vicious. You looked so fucking beautiful like this; mask on, no polished Damage Control bullshit, no pretending. Just cold, precise death moving through the chaos. 

His blood rushed south so fast it almost distracted him from the knife flying at his head. He snatched it out of the air and whipped it back. The blade buried to the hilt in the attacker’s throat.

His eyes found you again instantly. You lowered the pistol after another clean kill, and your gaze locked with his across the arena. Even from this distance he could see the fury burning in your eyes.

You were pissed he’d ignored your orders. Pissed he’d come here at all.

And you were still helping him anyway.

Dex felt invincible—until he spotted the heavy commemorative glass ornament on the ground beside the ring. Sharp edges. Perfect weight.

He kicked it up, everything slowing around him.

He could already see it: Fisk’s skull splitting open, blood painting the ring, the noise in his head finally going quiet.

Balance.

Dex hurled it with everything he had. It cut through the air like a missile.

At the last second Fisk’s hand jerked his belt up, deflecting it. The ornament shattered against Vanessa’s head just as a bullet punched into Dex’s side.

He stumbled back into the chairs, hot blood soaking his shirt. Security surged. Somewhere across the arena he heard you shout his name.

Fisk was already raising his own gun, eyes promising slow death. Your silenced shot caught Fisk’s hand, jerking the barrel sideways. The bullet meant for Dex shattered glass somewhere behind him.

Then Daredevil (who finally caught up) slammed into him like a freight train, hauling him toward the nearest window. They exploded through it in a storm of shattering glass and cold night air.

You cursed viciously under your breath, blood trickling down the side of your face from a cut you hadn’t even felt. No time to deal with it. You melted back into the shadows, slipping through the panicked crowd, dodging AVTF and Fisk’s men as you sprinted for the exit you’d scouted earlier.

Your motorcycle waited two blocks away. You ran flat out, leather jacket flapping, cap low, gaiter still hiding the lower half of your face.

By the time you reached the rooftop across from the arena’s service exit, heart hammering and temple stinging, the street below was swarming with sirens and flashing lights. You scanned rooftops, alleys, the broken window they’d crashed through.

Nothing.

Dex and Daredevil were gone. Vanished into the night like they’d never been there.

You stood on the rooftop with the cold wind whipping at your jacket, blood cooling sticky on your cheek. The tracker on your phone flickered once… then went dark.

“FUCK!”

The shout ripped out of you, echoing across the empty roof. You cocked your arm back, ready to smash the phone into the concrete, but stopped at the last second, fingers tight around it. You still needed the damn thing.

Instead you spun and slammed your boot into the metal exhaust vent beside you with everything you had. The steel caved with a deafening clang, leaving a jagged crater like something had exploded.

You stood there panting, chest heaving, hands shaking with adrenaline and fury.

He’d promised he’d lay low. He’d looked you in the eye and said he’d listen. But the second your back was turned he’d gone charging into Fisk’s arena like a goddamn missile, forcing you to burn your own cover just to keep him breathing.

And now Daredevil had him.

That sick, twisting worry clawed its way up your throat. The one man in this city more relentless than Dex. What if Daredevil decided the only way to end Bullseye was to finish what Fisk couldn’t?

You dragged a bloody hand down your face, smearing red across your skin, and stared at the blank tracker screen like it might magically light up again.

“You stupid, reckless bastard,” you whispered, voice cracking. “When I find you… I swear to God…”

× × × × 

Dex woke up standing in the middle of the old FBI bullpen, feet rooted to the linoleum like a ghost watching his own life on replay.

Across the room, the memory unfolded.

Past-Dex sat at his desk, sharpening a pencil with the same four precise spins he always used. The elevator doors opened. You stepped out beside one of the Assistant Directors, nodding politely as he spoke.

His head turned without thinking and spun one-eighty on his chair just so he could keep looking. You must have felt it, because your eyes flicked over and locked with his for a beat longer than necessary before you looked away.

He watched his past self straighten a little taller in his chair.

As soon as you disappeared around the corner with the deputy, Dex turned to the nearest agent leaning against a desk.

“Nadeem,” he called out quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the hallway you’d vanished down.“Who the hell was that?”

Nadeem followed his line of sight and immediately smirked. “Oh, her?” He gave a low whistle. “That’s the government’s latest headache.”

Past-Dex finally looked over at him.

“She’s one of the new generation super soldiers,” Nadeem explained. “In-between agencies right now. DoDC, FBI, counterterrorism. Everybody wants a piece of her.”

Dex listened silently and Nadeem continued, “She used to run with the Flag Smashers.”

Dex’s past self raised an eyebrow. “The ones who hit the GRC Headquarters?”

“Yeah.” Nadeem nodded. “From what I heard, she walked away after the whole thing collapsed and took a deal with the Government rehab program. Now they parade her around as one of the success stories.” He shrugged. “Guess they figured it’s easier to point her at monsters than lock her in a box somewhere.”

Dex looked back toward the hallway again. You’d laughed softly at something the AD said.

It echoed strangely in his chest.

Nadeem noticed the staring immediately and barked out a laugh, “Holy—” He pointed at him. “No way.”

Dex frowned slightly. “What?”

“You’re interested.”

“I only asked a question, how is that being interested?”

“Yeah, and you never ask questions about people.” Nadeem grinned wider. “You thinking about asking her out, Poindexter?”

Past-Dex immediately looked away again, jaw tightening slightly.

“No.” 

Nadeem’s grin turned knowing instantly, “Oh, you absolutely are.”

“I don’t date. Especially not coworkers. And definitely not someone her age.”

“She’s not technically a coworker,” Nadeem said, still smirking.

The dream shifted again, pulling him deeper.

Now he stood at the back of the elevator like a silent shadow, watching the memory play out in crisp detail.

Past-Dex stood rigid in his dark suit, hands clasped behind his back, trying to hold himself together. You were right beside him. Alone.

He remembered this ride perfectly.

Three weeks of stolen glances in hallways. Three weeks of catching fragments of your voice through closed doors. Three weeks of staying up until 3 a.m. in his dark apartment, reading every classified file he could access on the Flag Smashers—old NGO records, photos of you smiling while helping kids in refugee camps, the way the Blip had shattered everything and pushed you toward them. How you’d become their medic and logistics backbone. How you’d survived Zemo’s bombing.

Dex kept reading long after he should’ve stopped and Dex latched onto every word because you weren’t a monster in those pages—you were good, just a misled young adult, just broken by the same world that broke him. And if anyone could understand the rot under his skin…it had to be you.

The elevator dinged softly as it passed another floor.

In the memory, Dex glanced sideways again, unable to stop like his eyes were magnetised. Your head turned at the exact same moment, and your eyes met.

He looked forward immediately.

Too late.

A small, amused smile tugged at your mouth.

“Well,” you started lightly and teasing in the quiet space, “I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to keep stealing glances at someone without at least saying hello.”

Past-Dex’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t staring.”

You snorted softly. “No but what's crazy is, I counted at least five stolen glances.”

His eyes flicked toward you again before he could stop it.

Six.

You caught that one too and let out a soft laugh that did something strange to his chest.

“You did it again,” you said, clearly enjoying yourself.

Past-Dex straightened like his own body had betrayed him. “You always notice everything?”

“You don’t survive with enhanced senses if you’re not paying attention,” you replied, leaning lightly against the wall. “Especially not when someone’s staring like they’re trying to memorize me.”

He nodded once, then added, “Like the Flag Smashers?”

The words slipped out before he could pull them back. Most people shut down. You didn’t. You studied him, curious instead of defensive.

“You did your research.”

“I profile people.”

“That sounds creepier when you say it out loud,” you teased, but there was no real bite in it.

A tiny, reluctant smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. You noticed that too, of course.

“You know,” you said more quietly, “people always focus on the violence. Nobody ever asks why we got desperate enough to burn everything down.”

The elevator lights caught your face as you spoke, and Dex remembered thinking how tired you looked under all that strength—like someone who’d been carrying something too heavy for too long.

“We weren’t trying to conquer the world—okay maybe Karli tried but…” you trailed off, trying to choose the right words in front of him. “Most of us were just trying to stop people from being abandoned.”

Dex stared at you openly now. He understood that feeling better than he’d ever admit out loud. The bone-deep fear of being discarded. 

The elevator slowed to your floor.

You stepped out, then paused halfway into the hallway and looked back at him over your shoulder.

“You gonna keep staring at me tomorrow too, Agent Poindexter?”

Past-Dex felt his throat tighten because you knew his name. “…Probably.”

Your grin widened, warm and a little wicked. “Good. Wouldn’t want to break tradition.”

The doors slid shut between you, and the memory began to fade at the edges, bleeding back into darkness.

× × × ×

Twelve hours later.

Dex’s eyes snapped open to the sound of Karen Page’s voice cutting through the haze.

“Get up.”

He forced himself upright with a low grunt, the sharp sting in his left side flaring hot and vicious where the staples pulled tight. Handcuffs bit into his wrists. The room was dim, concrete, somewhere underground. Pain radiated with every breath, but he pushed through it, sitting up on the edge of the cot like the hurt didn’t matter.

Karen sat a few feet away, watching him with that cold, unreadable stare she’d perfected.

“Staples hurt?” she asked.

Dex let out a low, rasping chuckle that sent another spike of pain through his ribs. 

“Good,” Karen said flatly, like she was glad.

He looked up at her, eyes glassy with exhaustion, “You gonna shoot me, Page?”

“Probably,” she answered without hesitation.

Dex’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Go ahead. Vanessa opened a window and I went through it. Your friend Foggy paid the price. Foggy for my freedom… me for Foggy. It’s just an equation.”

Karen’s expression didn’t change. She smiled to herself, small and decisive because she’d finally made peace with something ugly. She raised the gun, steady and sure, and pressed the barrel to his forehead. The hammer clicked back with a cold, metallic sound.

“Thank you.” Dex’s forehead pressed harder into the barrel, eyes half-lidded like he was already tasting the end. Karen’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Before she could finish it, one arm snakes around her throat from behind in a brutal headlock, your bicep flexing hard against her windpipe as you yank her backward. Your other hand clamps over hers on the gun, shoving the barrel upward just in time.

Karen’s eyes go wide. She pulls the trigger anyway.

BANG!

The shot cracks through the concrete room like thunder, bullet slamming into the ceiling and raining down dust and chips. Dex flinches but doesn’t look away, that glassy stare locked on you now.

You don’t give Karen a second to recover. With a grunt you spin and hurl her across the room like she weighs nothing (because to you, she doesn’t). She hits the far wall hard enough to knock the breath out of her, sliding down in a heap, gun still clutched in her hand.

You stalk over, boots echoing, and grab a fistful of her blonde hair, yanking her head back so she’s forced to look up at you. 

“Damn, Karen. You’ve got some balls.” you chuckled.

She’s gasping, eyes blazing with fury and shock, but you just smirk and pry the gun from her fingers with zero effort. 

You start walking back toward Dex, popping the magazine out with a smooth flick of your thumb, then racking the slide to eject the chambered round. Bullets spill across the floor one by one as you move, clinking like tiny bells while you toss the empty gun nonchalantly to the side.

Dex watches you the whole time, that rasping chuckle starting up again even through the pain. “Didn’t know I had a guardian angel tonight.”

You stop right in front of him and give him that pissed-off fake smile as you lowered onto the cot where Karen had been sitting, knees straddling his lap as you settled in close, the heat of your body pressing against his.

You draw your own gun, press the cold barrel right under his chin, and tilt his head back with it, hard.

“You stupid, reckless, cocky son of a bitch,” you growl quietly, eyes locked on his. “I told you to stay the fuck down. But nooo, you just had to get yourself stapled back together like a discount Frankenstein.”

You dig the gun in a little harder, eyes locked on his glassy ones, that fake smile never wavering. “Next time…I’ll just make sure the bullet hits somewhere way more interesting.”

Dex’s breath catches, pupils blown wide. That rasping chuckle turns into a low, turned-on groan as he twitches and hardens beneath you like your threats are the best foreplay he’s ever had.

But then your super-soldier senses ping—soft shift of boots on concrete, the faint click of a slide being racked. Karen’s already back on her feet, moving faster than you expected, and she’s got a backup piece aimed right at the center of your skull.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Karen snaps, voice shaking with rage but steady on the trigger. “He killed Foggy! You know that. Foggy and Matt got you your second chance. And now you’re protecting this piece of shit!?”

You slowly glance over your shoulder at her, gun still firm under Dex’s jaw, your body still straddling him like you own every inch.

“I know,” you say, voice low and even. “I’m sorry for your loss, Karen. Foggy didn’t deserve that—but Poindexter is mine. So lower that peashooter before I have to take it from you again… and this time I won’t be nice about it.”

Karen’s eyes are blazing, finger twitching on the trigger, torn between grief and the raw shock of seeing you like this—someone she thought she knew, now riding the man who caused so much grief.

“If you pull that trigger, you’d better not miss… because I won’t.” you taunted.

Two batons come flying out of nowhere and crack hard across Karen’s wrist. The backup piece clatters to the floor as she yelps, grip completely busted for the second time today.

Matt steps into the dim room, no mask, heaving like he ran here. His blank eyes somehow still manage to look concerned as hell.

“I can’t let you do that, Karen,” he says, voice low and final, already moving between you and her.

Karen crashes out; voice cracking, tears mixing with pure rage as she screams at him, gesturing wildly at Dex, at you, at the whole bloody mess. Matt’s trying to calm her, trying to pull her back, but she’s not having it. Their argument fills the concrete space like a storm, words flying so fast you can barely track them.

You and Dex just… look at each other and he gives you the tiniest clueless shrug.

The argument reaches its peak. Karen rips herself away from Matt with one last broken shout, storms past the both of you without another glance, and slams the door so hard the hinges rattle.

You swing your leg off Dex and stand up slowly, gun loose in your hand. The adrenaline’s still buzzing through your veins as you turn to face Matt Murdock head-on. He’s standing there in the dim light, sightless eyes somehow still tracking every shift in the room.

“I did not expect this…” you mutter, shaking your head, a stunned little laugh slipping out. “All this time…you’re daredevil?”

“I know. This is not the reunion I was expecting either.” He exhales as he takes a small step closer, head tilted like he’s listening to your heartbeat, your breathing, everything. “I don’t know how you crossed paths with Poindexter…but this is not who you are. You know you’re better than this—better than what he pulls out of you. Don't throw away what you built for someone like him.” 

Your eyes burned suddenly, and you hated that Matt could read you. Dex lets out a low chuckle from behind you, but you don’t turn around yet. Matt’s words hit harder than you want to admit, hanging heavy in the dusty air.

“If you know me so well… then who am I, Matt? The final girl? The survivor?” A bitter laugh escapes you. “Yeah, I survived Zemo’s attack on the transport to the Raft. I watched the rest of my—my…friends get burned to hell while I crawled out of the wreckage with nothing but scars and a target on my back. And for what? So the government can parade me around as their shiny little success story? Meanwhile I’m walking on eggshells every damn day, waiting for the next time they decide to finish the job because they can never really trust an ex-terrorist can they? So tell me, counselor… if that’s who I am, then maybe Dex is exactly what I deserve.”

Matt’s face softens, that blind gaze somehow full of the kind of gentle worry only he can pull off. “You’re more than the worst thing that happened to you, and you don’t have to settle for—”

“Nope—save it, Matt.” Your voice cracks but you force steel into it. “Poindexter is coming with me. Right now.”

Matt stares at you for a second, mouth pressed into a tight line like he’s biting back a whole sermon. Then he just sighs and lifts his hands in surrender.

“Okay…” Matt glanced toward Dex’s direction, who was watching the whole thing with that maniacal smile plastered on his face. “But I need five minutes with him. Alone. I have something he wants. After that… I’ll release him. You have my word.”

You stared at him for a long, heavy beat, jaw tight, the cold calculation still burning behind your eyes. Finally you gave one sharp nod, stepping back but not lowering your guard.

“Fine.”

Matt nodded once, already turning toward Dex as you moved to wait outside the room. Matt’s five minutes felt like forever, but eventually the door opened and Dex stepped out wearing a black shirt, uncuffed and now moving under his own power. His side was freshly bandaged, face pale but eyes bright with that dangerous, satisfied sparkle.

Whatever Murdock had said to him, it looked like he’d finally gotten it.

The early evening air hit cold when you reached your motorcycle parked in the alley shadows. You yanked the spare helmet from the saddlebag and shoved it hard into Dex’s chest. He caught it with a grunt, the impact pulling at his staples. A familiar dark smirk tugging at his mouth even through the pain.

“Can I drive?”

You don’t even dignify it with an answer and just swing your leg over the seat and fire up the engine with a deep, pissed-off roar.

Dex chuckled low, the sound wet from the blood in his lungs and put the helmet on. 

“I’ll take that as a no.” He climbed on behind you anyway, arms sliding around your waist a little too possessively, and pressed his chest against your back.

You rev the throttle harder than you need to, tires screaming as you peel out of the alley and tear into the empty streets. The wind whips cold against your face while you head back toward your apartment—whether he deserves it or not.

You can feel every shallow breath he takes against you, every tiny flinch when the road bumps pull at his wounds. Half of you wants to slam the brakes and dump his reckless ass on the curb for all the chaos he dragged you through. But the other half… knows he’s yours to deal with. Yours to break. Yours to keep.

× × × ×

You barely get the door locked before Dex is on you from behind, his hand sliding around your waist like he just can’t help himself.

You spin fast, trapping his injured arm and twisting it hard while your other hand slams into his throat. You drive him straight back into the wall with a solid thud. The impact knocks a rough grunt out of him, but instead of fighting, Dex lets out this low, wrecked chuckle that you feel vibrating against your palm.

Your grip tightened on his throat immediately.

“What the fuck did I tell you?” you hiss, eyes burning into his.

Dex’s head knocks against the wall as you shove him harder against it. His breathing is ragged, fresh blood already soaking through the bandages, pain flashing across his face with every inhale. But he’s still smiling like this is heaven.

“You told me to lay low,” he rasps, voice strained under your grip.

“And what did you do?”

“I improvised.” His eyes glittered up at you with that same dangerous, obsessive brightness from the arena.

You squeeze harder, cutting off more of his air. Another pleased, broken sound slips out of him.

“You ignored every single warning I gave you,” you snarled, voice shaking with pure fury. “You got half the city gunning for you, nearly got yourself killed, and dragged me into your shitshow. All because you can’t sit still for one goddamn night.”

Dex swallowed carefully beneath your palm, never breaking eye contact.

“You really gonna stand there and act like I forced you into any of this?” he whispered, each word chosen so precisely. “Sweetheart… I never asked you to come find me. You did all of that on your own, you were able to track me. You put a bullet in Fisk’s hand and nearly crushed Karen on the wall—You did all that because losing me made you crazy.”

He leaned into your grip, letting the pressure on his throat turn the words intimate and almost loving.

“And now you’re angry at me for it?” His voice dropped lower, warm and coaxing, “I’m the one who’s supposed to be the monster here… but look at you. Holding my life in your hands, covered in blood you spilled for me, and still pretending this wasn’t exactly what you wanted.”

Dex’s eyes softened just enough to look wounded and vulnerable, like he was the one being hurt by your accusations.

“I only ever gave you the chance to be exactly who you are,” he murmured. “The rest… that was all you. And I loved every second of it.”

That does it.

You shove him off the wall with a violent push, letting go of his throat like it burned you. Dex stumbles, coughing once, then rubs his neck slowly, fingers tracing the marks you left like he’s proud of them.

“Goddamn,” he rasps, voice hoarse. His eyes rake down your body and back up, dark and hungry. “I can’t be around you when you get like this. That strength… fucks me up every time.”

You turn away from him with a sharp scoff. “Shut your mouth, Dex.”

He laughs under his breath, the sound following you as you storm toward the bathroom. You rip open the cabinet, grab the first aid kit and a towel, and slam them on the counter.

“Clean yourself up,” you snap, cold and flat. “I’m not dealing with your horny death-wish bullshit tonight.”

Dex just chuckles again, low and satisfied, already peeling off his shirt as he follows you into the bathroom like he owns the damn place. His eyes never leave you.

× × × ×

You barely hear the bathroom door click before Dex steps out, hair damp and messy, water still dripping down his neck. He’s got one hand hovering near the ugly line of staples along his side, wincing every time his fingers accidentally brush the raw skin.

You’re parked on the couch, remote clenched in your fist, staring at the grainy news footage. That’s you on the screen. The chyron at the bottom read: Authorities seek mysterious masked vigilante believed to be working with Daredevil and Bullseye.

“…possibly a new player or accomplice in last night’s chaos. Law enforcement is asking anyone with information—”

Dex plucks the remote from your hand, clicks the TV off, and drops it on the coffee table with a loud clack.

Your eyes follow him as he stands there in front of you—broad shoulders, droplets sliding down his chest, that fresh bandage already starting to peek red at the edges. You stood up without a word, pointing at the spot on the couch where you’d been sitting.

“Sit.”

Dex didn’t argue. He lowered himself onto the cushion with a tight grunt, one hand still hovering near his injury, trying not to touch it this time.

You grab the fresh supplies from the side table, drag the coffee table closer, and perch on the edge like it’s your personal stool. Then you start cleaning around the staples, jaw locked, shoulders tight.

Dex watches you the whole time, hazel eyes soft and burning. He can see the storm you’re barely holding back.

You press the fresh gauze down a little harder than necessary. Dex jerks hard, a muffled “Motherfucker—” slipping through his teeth. 

You don’t apologize.

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop the tiny, satisfied smirk from breaking free. Good. After he put you through nearly twenty-four hours of no rest, he can take a little sting.

He catches the twitch at the corner of your mouth anyway. “You think this is funny?” he rasps, voice still rough.

“Hold still,” you answer sweetly, pressing the tape down extra slow just to hear that gravelly grunt again.

Dex exhaled through his nose, watching you fuss about taping it neatly. After a moment he spoke again, serious this time. “You shouldn’t watch the news. Not if it’s going to put that look on your face.”

You didn’t answer. Instead you busied yourself gathering the bloody gauze, the discarded wrappers, bundling everything into a tight little ball. If you didn’t throw this out immediately, Dex would start twitching and get all icky about it. You weren’t in the mood to manage one of his episodes on top of everything else.

You stood, turning your back to him as you headed for the trash can in the kitchen, shoulders still tight. The movement gave you a second to breathe, to push down the knot of panic and anger still lodged in your chest.

Dex’s eyes followed you the whole way, tracking every movement, “I mean it,” he added quietly. “Turn it off and leave it off.” 

You stayed silent and rinsed your hands at the sink instead, letting the water run longer than needed while you tried to push the grainy image of yourself out of your mind. 

When the sink was finally off, you walked back over and pushed the coffee table back into its exact original position with a little more force than necessary, the legs scraping against the floor.

Before you can straighten up, Dex’s hand shoots out and catches your wrist. He tugs you down fast, swapping your places so you’re on the couch and he’s crouched between your knees, looking up at you.

“Look at me.”

You don’t right away, so he cups your chin and turns your face to his, thumb stroking along your jaw like he’s memorizing you.

“I’d burn this whole world down before I let it touch you,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours with that terrifying, all-consuming fire. “You know that, right? You’re mine to protect.”

“Actions speak louder than words, Benjamin.” you remind him, “You’re not off the hook about your stalking.”

Dex’s jaw tightens for a split second, that familiar flicker of anger flashing behind his eyes. He fights it hard and swallows it down, forcing his expression to stay soft even though his fingers press just a fraction harder against your jaw.

“Can we… not talk about her right now?” The words come out almost gentle, but there’s that tight strain underneath, “I’ll get there,” he promises, nudging the tip of your nose with his, breathing you in. “Don’t worry.”

He’s so close now. You can feel his breath mixing with yours. His gaze drops to your lips, lingers, then drags back up.

“I told you already… you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense in my fucking head.” he whispered, lips brushing yours as he spoke. “The only person who sees exactly what I am, you know that, don’t you? So stop pretending you need all that control. It's sweeter when you hand it over to me.”

He tilted his head just slightly, a crooked, knowing smile ghosting across his lips. He hovered there, lips barely a breath away, waiting for the sharp retort he knew was coming. When it didn’t—when you stayed silent and trembling under his hands, a satisfied smile widened.

He kisses you slowly at first, almost mocking how gentle he can be. But the second your lips part, it turns hungry. Dex groans low in his throat, fist twisting tight in your hair as he yanks your head back roughly with open-mouth led kisses and licks into your mouth like he’s trying to climb inside you.

He pushes you down onto the couch, settling heavy between your legs, grinding against you even though his staples have to be on fire. Pain was nothing compared to this.

You shove at his chest. “Your staples—” 

He doesn’t even let you finish by chasing your mouth and bites your bottom lip, voice rough and amused against you.

“I don’t give a fuck about the staples.” He rolls his hips again, letting you feel exactly how hard and heavy he is. “You choking me out earlier? Slamming me into the wall? That’s what gets me going. So stop fighting it and let me fuck the anger out of you already.” 

Every nerve in his body lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree the moment you were under him again. The pain in his side was irrelevant. All that mattered was the way you tasted, the way you felt, and the way you made the static in his head go quiet.

“I’ve been wanting to fuck you since I saw you in that arena,” he growled against your mouth, biting your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. “All masked up and killing for me.”

His fist tightens in your hair and yanks your head back, exposing your throat. The sharp sting pulls a little gasp out of you, and Dex’s cock twitches hard against your thigh at the sound.

“Fuck, I love that noise,” he growled against your throat, the sound vibrating through your bones. His hot tongue dragged up the exposed column of your neck in one long lick, tasting every inch of his property. A deep, hungry hum rolled out of his chest as he savored you.

He slammed his mouth back onto yours, sinking his teeth into your bottom lip until the delicate skin splits. Copper bloomed across your tongue, metallic and sweet. A low, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest as he licked it up slowly, then sucked on the fresh bite, easing the sting. Before you could catch your breath he was kissing you again, drunk on the taste.

For a second you lose yourself too; hips rolling up to meet his, fingers digging into his shoulders as heat swallows everything else.

Then the next second there was a soft knock knock knock at the door. 

Dex ripped his mouth off yours with a vicious snarl, head snapping toward the door like he could set it on fire with his eyes. His chest was heaving, lips swollen and shiny with your blood, hair a total mess from your fingers.

“I’m gonna to skin whoever that is and wear their face as a mask.” he growled, low and murderous.

He hovers over you another second, breathing hard, seriously debating just ignoring the knock and burying himself inside you anyway. The pure sexual frustration on his face is almost funny.

Another polite knock comes. You let out a tiny, breathless laugh while Dex huffs this unhinged little chuckle that sounds halfway feral.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” he mutters against your lips, giving your hair one last possessive yank.

He presses one more bruising kiss to your mouth, then pushes off the couch with a sharp wince. Topless, sweatpants doing nothing to hide how hard he still is, he stalks to the door like he’s heading to a kill.

Dex ripped the door open with way too much force, and a cute college girl in oversized hoodie and bunny slippers stood there, holding a half-empty bag of chips. Her eyes went wide as saucers when she took in the sight of a very tall, very shirtless, very aroused Dex glaring down at her.

“Uh… hi? I-I heard a loud thud earlier and swearing and I just wanted to make sure everything’s—”

Dex forced the fakest smile which looked more like he was baring his teeth.

“Yeah. She’s fine,” he says, voice completely flat. “Everything’s great. Thanks.”

He shuts the door in her face with a firm click before she can even blink.

When he turns back around, expecting to find you right where he left you, you’re already off the couch with your phone pressed to your ear.

“Yeah… no, I’m on my way. Fifteen minutes,” you say, all business as you head toward the bedroom to change. You glance back at him and mute the call. “Work emergency. Gotta go in.”

Dex’s face goes through about five stages of disbelief in two seconds flat.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he rasps, “You’re just gonna leave me like this?”

You were already peeling off your shirt, tossing it toward the hamper while balancing the phone between your ear and shoulder. “Just jerk off or something,” you called out casually. “I’ll be back when I can.”

He stares at you, jaw tight, looking genuinely betrayed for a second. You grab a fresh top, throw on your jacket, and give his chest a quick, almost condescending pat as you pass.

“Try not to kill anyone while I’m gone.”

Then you’re out the door.

Dex stands there in the middle of the living room for a long beat, jaw ticking, cock still throbbing painfully against his sweats.

“Work emergency,” he mutters to the empty apartment, voice dripping with acid. “Sure.”

Bullshit.

This was punishment. It had to be.

His eyes flicked across the room and landed on the small, jagged hole in the drywall where your butter knife had buried itself a few nights prior. A tiny imperfection staring back at him like a scream in an otherwise quiet room.

His fingers twitched.

The itch started low in his spine and crawled up his neck. He knew exactly how many times he’d have to run his thumb along the edge to smooth it. How many precise little pushes it would take to make the hole disappear. He could fix it right now. Grab some spackle from under the sink, sand it down perfectly, paint over it so no one would ever know it was there.

Speaking of punishments…

He dragged a hand down his face, then stalked back to the bedroom. He grabbed his phone and two burner apps and a voice modulator later, he was just another pissed-off New York nobody.

He hit the dial on the Department of Damage Control public tip line he’d memorized months ago and a tired-sounding woman picked up on the second ring. “DoDC tip line, how can I help you?”

“Yeah, hi,” Dex said, thickening his accent just enough to sound like a Queens local who’d had three beers too many. “Look, I live in the building over on 48th and 9th—you know, the nice one with the new lobby? Look…I pay my taxes, I mind my own business, but what the hell is going on with all the tactical vans and agents showing up at all hours lately? Two of ’em came banging on my neighbor’s door the other night, middle of the damn night, woke up half the floor. Scared the hell outta my girlfriend. She thought it was a raid or some shit.”

He let the complaint roll out easy, sounding genuinely irritated.

The agent who sounded tired suddenly sounded more sharp. “Sir, can you give me the apartment number or the resident’s name? We can look into—”

“Nah, nah, I-I don’t wanna get involved like that,” Dex cut in, smirking at the ceiling. “I’m just a concerned citizen—you guys sending armed babysitters to her place now or what? ‘Cause if she’s dangerous enough to need that kind of protection, maybe this building ain’t safe.”

He could hear typing on the other end. Good. “I’ll pass this up the chain, sir. Can I get your name and—”

“John. Just John,” Dex lied smoothly, voice still in that nasal civilian tone. “Look, I’m not trying to cause drama. I just want to know if my building’s safe. That’s all. Thanks.”

He hung up before they could ask anything else, tossed the burner onto the bedside table, and let the slow, satisfied grin stretch across his face.

“Round two, baby,” he muttered to himself, “You’re gonna be so fucking busy putting out fires… you won’t have time for anything except come running back to me.”

Dex looked down at the very obvious tent in his sweatpants, then towards the bedroom door, where the hole in the living room is out of sight.

He let out a long, suffering groan. 

“Fuck it, it’s just you and me, hand.” he muttered. Right now he needed to handle this before he lost his goddamn mind. He could deal with the hole on the wall after.

tags: @notsochillnerd @tallaennatargaryen @spectralexiletrace @yyiikes @n1n1c

@vesseltodd8z @avengersinitiative2012 @mewmew222 @starlitflora @sgreer123

@weclassygirl @misplacedorphan @lazyreadergirl @avidreader73 @lostfallenangelsblog

@diegoshako @veralovesanimeplusmanga @snowwythegloww @ @

[metal-armed-muse]

SAFEST PLACE TO BLEED

BENJAMIN POINDEXTER X DOCTOR! F!READER

SUMMARY. Bullseye shows up bleeding in Matt Murdock’s arms. You have a clinic, a locked door, and a terrible habit of letting wounded things crawl into your hands.

WORD COUNT. 8.4K WARNINGS. canon adjacent, wounded dex, mentions of blood, minor injury details and treatment, doctor/patient setup, emotional dependency, jealousy (dex is a jealous bitch), possessiveness, morally messy dynamics, matt murdock cameo, platonic matt, set after the events of episode 5 of DDBA S2, references to foggy’s and vanessa’s death, suicidal ideation/passive death wish from dex (canon😭), MDNI, explicit sexual content, praise, possessive language, riding, groping, tit play, unprotected pnv, creampie, soft aftercare, needy!dex, dex being a feral wounded dog of a man, no use of y/n. KIE’S NOTES. I’ve been writing this on and off since episode 5 aired, and this is by far one of the hardest things I’ve ever written. Dex is such a complex character to write for holy fuck 😭 there are so many analogies to stray dog, like he just wants to be a good boy, you’ll see 🫩

READ ON AO3

A wounded dog will decide who counts as safe long before anyone else understands why it bites. 

You learned that before medical school, before emergency rotations and back-alley sutures that made men in masks limp to you and bleed all over your tile at 3 AM. You learned it at eleven, crouched near an alley behind your old apartment, palm full of deli turkey your mother told you was for lunch, watching a stray with a torn ear bare his teeth at every adult who tried to corner him. Animal control had come with poles. A neighbor had come with a towel. Your mother came with her worried mouth pressed thin and her hands hovering near your shoulders, ready to snatch you back if the dog lunged. The dog had lunged at everyone except you. He had stared at you with yellow-brown eyes, ribs moving under filthy fur, every part of him made of pain and suspicion, and he had taken the turkey from your hand so gently that you cried on the spot. Full ugly tears, snot and all, as if tenderness from a ruined thing was the saddest miracle in the world.

Benjamin Poindexter reminds you of that dog every time he appears at your door.

Which is insane, clinically. Dex is a man. Dex is a killer. Dex is precise, lethal, too calm in ways that make the hairs on the back of your neck lift even when he is sitting on your exam stool with his shirt off and three cracked ribs under your palm. Dex looked at you with blood in his teeth and asked if you keep the good suture scissors in the second drawer or if you hide them from your 'less charming clients,' and he smiled when you stared at him too long. He is six feet of bad decisions and worse coping mechanisms, and yet the first thing your mind gives you when you think of Dex is that stray dog taking turkey from your fingers.

That knock at this time is unexpected. Matt.

Matt knocks like a man who hates needing help. Two firm taps, a pause, one more. Spiderman kncoks like he's not allowed to come in. Jessica once kicked the door and yelled your name until you opened. Dex, on his own, never knocks at all. He appears. He waits. Sometimes he bleeds on the mat. Sometimes he makes a small, polite comment about your hallway light going out.

You are across the room before the kettle finishes screaming. Your clinic is technically a closed flower shop with a fake lease and a drain installed under the center table, which makes you look deranged. Until someone comes in with a knife wound and then everyone suddenly appreciates plumbing. The place smells like antiseptic, old brick damp from rain, black tea, and the faint copper ghost that never fully leaves, because blood is part of everything. You unlock the deadbolt, undo the chain, tug the door open, and Matt Murdock nearly falls into you with Bullseye hanging off him like a corpse.

For one bright, stupid second, all your thoughts empty out into his name.

Dex.

His face is a mess. Blood has dried under one nostril and smeared across his mouth in a dark shine. His lower lip is split. One eye is swollen enough that it changes his whole expression, turning him younger in the ugliest way, all that sharpness buried under bruising and exhaustion. His suit is torn at the side, tactical fabric shredded into strips. When Matt adjusts his grip, Dex makes a sound so small you feel it under your bones.

Matt's mouth tightens. Blood mats his dark hair near his temple. Only consolation is that he looks a little better than Dex. "He needs help."

You stare at Dex. Dex stares back, or tries to. His good eye drags over your face with the slow, stunned relief of a man who expected darkness and got a porch light. The part of you with a medical license starts counting injuries in a list that stacks too fast. Facial trauma. Rib involvement. Possible abdominal injury. Scalp laceration. Possible pneumothorax. The part of you that has made the mistake of caring about him too much, looks at his lashes stuck together with rain and blood and wants to put his head in your lap.

With a gentleness reserved for skittish animals, you reach for his jaw, two fingers under his chin to angle his face toward the light. "Dex, can you hear me?"

Blood shines over his teeth, as his mouth twitches. "Hey, Doc."

Matt shifts him higher with a grunt, muscles in his forearms cording from the effort. Dex makes another small sound, angrier this time, as if the pain is just now surfacing. "He took the worst of it. I did what I could, but he kept telling me to leave him."

"Balanced the scales," Dex mumbles, head tipping back against Matt's shoulder. Rainwater slides from his hair down the side of his neck. "You had a city to save."

"Ma — you should come in." You catch yourself at the last second. It rises right up, soft from habit, and catches at the back of your teeth as Dex's good eye opens again.

He smiles at you through the blood. Barely. A broken curve of recognition, jealous even while half-dead, which is so Dex that something in you aches. "I know who he is, doc. You can call him Matt."

You close your eyes, breathe through your nose once, a fond sigh, which also is deeply annoying. "Of course you do."

Dex's smile widens enough to make the split in his lip bleed again. "Smart boy."

No. Nope.

"Table. Keep his neck aligned." You tell Matt, stepping back and sweeping one arm toward the center of the room. "If either of you tracked glass in here, I'm making you both sweep before sunrise." You add, not wanting to sound too soft.

Matt obeys with a silence that says he has learned, through years of being injured in your presence, that arguing only rises blood pressure. Dex tries to help. That is the horrible part. His fingers grip the edge of the exam table once Matt lowers him, knuckles white, body shaking with the effort of being useful. His legs drag a fraction of a second behind the rest of him. Your mind sees it, circles it, hates it. You pull trauma shears from the tray and cut through what remains of the suit before any panic can bloom large enough to slow your hands.

"Eyes on me," you tell Dex, softer than you mean to. "You do exactly what I say for the next hour. That's the deal."

His lashes flutter, and his ruined mouth quirks. "I'm always good for you."

Matt turns his head slightly, lips tugging on a frown half formed. 

You feel it. Dex feels it too. They are both bleeding and somehow still measuring each other. Matt's face gives almost nothing away, but you have known him long enough to read the pauses, even the slight angle of his chin. He hears Dex's pulse change around you. He hears your answer. He hears the rotten little truth of it, warm and embarrassing under all the antiseptic.

You press two fingers to Dex's carotid and pretend the pulse under your skin is purely clinical. "That depends on your definition of good."

"Flexible," Dex breathes.

"Try alive."

"That's less flexible."

When you shoot him a look, he settles. It happens so fast Matt's brow pulls in, and despite the blood running down the side of his own face, despite the exhaustion in every line of him, you see him file it away. Dex does that for you. Dex, who would rather spit teeth than accept help from almost anyone, quiets under your hand like you found a switch under his skin.

You hate how much that means to you.

The shears bite up the side of Dex's suit. Rain-wet fabric peels away from him, exposing bruises already darkening over his ribs, long shallow cuts crossing his abdomen, a deeper gash near his left flank with slow, steady bleeding. You talk while you work, partly for him, partly for Matt, mostly for your own sanity. "Breath sounds normal. No deep lacerations. Two tiny blessings. Dex, if you lie about pain severity, I will find out and I will be extremely annoying about it."

His good eye trails over your face. "You already are."

"Funny. You get one joke per liter of blood loss."

Matt huffs through his nose, almost a laugh, then winces. You point at the chair by the wall without looking up. "Sit."

"I can take care of myself."

The room goes quiet enough for the kettle to click off in the corner.

You turn your head slowly, gloved fingers still pressed to Dex's side. Matt is standing near the exam table, one shoulder lower than the other, blood sliding past his ear, jaw set in that martyr shape you have wanted to smack off his face for years. "Sit down, Matthew."

Dex makes a low sound, a grunt, or an attemp at it. "Matthew."

Matt's eyes go over Dex, jaw clenching and unclenching. "This is a bad time."

"For you, maybe," Dex says, and then coughs hard enough that the joke breaks.

You lean over him fast, one hand at his shoulder, the other bracing his ribs. "Small breaths. Look at me." His eye finds yours again, frantic for a second. He would kill anyone else for witnessing this, but not now. Your voice drops even further. "That's it. You can hate me after."

He breathes the way you tell him to. Obedient.

When Matt sits, some ridiculous, childish part of you wants to clap. Another part wants to cry. You do neither, since your hands are full of a man who has decided your voice is a leash he can tolerate.

The first twenty minutes disappear into work. Blood pressure readings, pupils, pulses, lung sounds again, neuro checks, wound depth, rib stability. You listen to Dex's chest and feel him try to keep still under the stethoscope, sweat shining at his hairline while his fingers curl over the table edge. When you clean his lip, he keeps his eyes on you as if the room might vanish if he looks away. When you probe near the gash at his side, his breathing goes jagged, but he bites down on the inside of his cheek instead of jerking away.

"Hey." You catch his face in your hand before he can sink his teeth deeper. "Open."

He opens his mouth, shaking while he does it. 

You can feel Matt's head turn again. You ignore it, cheeks heating as you slide gauze between Dex's teeth to keep him from chewing himself bloody. "Better. Bite this if you need to. No hero teeth."

Dex's gaze moves over you, half-lidded, feverish, words coming out mumbled over the piece of gauze. "Do you treat all your patients like dogs?"

You secure a dressing against his side and let the pressure hold under your palm. "Only my favourite strays."

His eye softens like he cannot control himself. It is small. A tiny failure of the mask. A starved thing hearing a bowl set down.

Matt hears that too. You can tell from his silence, from the careful stillness in his chair. When you finish with Dex, you cross the room with a suture kit for the cut at his temple. Matt turns his face towards you before your knees touch the edge of the chair. He smells like rain, blood, city smoke, and that faint soap he uses which you have always found unfairly comforting. You have stitched Matt under worse circumstances. You have dug glass out of his shoulder while he spit blood into your sink. You have fed him soup with one hand while keeping pressure on his dressing with another. That comfort is old. It sits between you now.

Dex watches it like it is a blade aimed at him.

You dab antiseptic at Matt's temple. "This is shallow. You are lucky."

Matt's mouth curves in that tired, self-punishing way. "People keep telling me that."

"Maybe try believing them once in a while."

Ignoring that, he dips his chin towards Dex. "How bad is he?"

You glance back at Dex. He has his head turned toward the ceiling now, but his eye is still angled in your direction. Watching. Always listening. "Bad enough that moving him tonight would be stupid. He's stable enough. But I need imaging he will never agree to. Possible rib fractures, soft tissue trauma, no obvious neuro deficit from what I can assess here, but I want repeat checks every hour. He needs observation."

"He wanted me to leave him," Matt says quietly, like his voice won't carry in the small room. 

Dex speaks from the table, voice rough around the gauze and dried blood. "You should've. Still think you should."

You thread the needle through Matt's skin with more force than strictly needed, anger showing up in a different place. Matt says nothing, but his mouth pinches.

"No one dies in my clinic unless I say so," you call over your shoulder.

Dex exhales, a soft sigh followed by a start of a complaint. "You really —"

"Please lie down and stop talking."

Matt's hand closes around your wrist after you finish the last stitch. He does it carefully, fingers warm, thumb pressing once against your radius as if he is asking permission through touch. Comfort. Familiar, heavy with years of people trying to survive horrible nights. "Fisk is still moving," he says. "Karen..." His voice thins for half a breath. "Karen may kill him if I bring him anywhere near her."

Dex smiles at the ceiling. "Smart woman."

You look from Matt to Dex, then down at the blood-speckled gauze piled near your knee. "You want to leave him here."

"I think he is safer here than anywhere else tonight." Matt's mouth tightens, next words dragging through his teeth. "I think everyone else is safer too."

Your laugh comes out dry and humorless. "So I get custody of the homicidal puppy while you go deal with the rest of the apocalypse."

Dex turns his head toward you. Even wrecked, even pale, even with gauze stuffed in his mouth and bruises swallowing half his face, the look he gives you has teeth in it. Offended by the word puppy. Pleased by the word custody. Matt catches every ugly shade of it.

"He listens to you," Matt says.

"He has limited hobbies."

Dex murmurs, "You."

The word drops into the room with a wet little thud. One syllable dragged over broken lips, and still it finds some secret place under your ribs and presses. You hate him a little for that. You hate Matt a little for hearing it. You hate yourself most of all for wanting to go back to the table and touch Dex's hair until his eyes close.

Matt rises slowly. You stand with him, suddenly aware of how small the clinic is with three people and so many things no one should say. He reaches for the cowl, then stops. "Call me if he gets worse. If he loses consciousness, if he starts vomiting, if he says anything about numbness or weakness."

"I went to med school, Matt."

His mouth tilts, a small smile, the first real one from him tonight. 

You can feel Dex watching you, clear enough to hurt. Pain pulls his face tight, yet jealousy sits in him like a second pulse, stubborn and alive. He has killed for balance tonight. He has decided dying would be neat, fair. Still, your hand on Matt's wrist bothers him. Your voice saying Matt's name bothers him. The fact that you can tease the Devil of Hell's Kitchen into sitting down while Dex lies cut open on your table bothers him so much that he has dragged himself back from the edge purely to be petty about it.

Trying to ignore him, you walk Matt to the door and keep your voice low. "You owe me."

"I do."

"No, you really do. This is beyond the usual owe me. This is pay my fake flower shop's electric bill for six months owe me."

His hand finds the doorframe. "Send the amount."

You blink at him, at his audacity. "I was making a point."

"I heard the point." His face softens toward yours, bruised and tired, but warmth nonetheless. "Thank you."

You almost touch his arm. You stop yourself, which is silly, since Matt would sense the hesitation anyway and Dex would read the shape of it from across the room. "Go. Try to keep your skull intact."

Before the door closes, Matt turns his head toward Dex. "If you hurt her, I will hear it."

Dex laughs once, and the sound turns into a wince. "If I hurt her, you can have what's left."

The clinic holds the echo of Matt's footsteps after he leaves. Rain ticks against the front window. Dex's breath is slow but uneven, the gauze in his mouth damp with blood and spit. You stand with your hand on the lock and try to make sense of this situation. A murderer on your table. A city outside eating itself alive. A man who wants to die looking at you like he would crawl back through hell if you asked him to stay.

You lock the door.

Dex watches the motion, tracking you. "You're awfully close."

You cross to the sink and strip off your gloves. The snap of latex feels too loud. "You were actively bleeding out fifteen minutes ago. Pick a smarter topic."

"Answer."

Water runs pink down the drain. Your hands shake only after the gloves are off. "Matt and I have history."

Dex's jaw works around the gauze. "So do we."

"You show up here, bleed on my furniture, say alarming things, refuse hospital transfer, and once asked if I had a membership program after your fifth visit." You shut the water off and look at him. His face makes you angry. But only a little. That hungry stare from a man who has no right to demand any part of you after deciding twenty minutes ago that death sounded fine. Yet under it is the dog with the torn ear. The animal watching every hand, every doorway, every flick of attention, trying to figure out who belongs to him, who might leave, who might choose some other dog with a clean fur.

You walk back to the table and take the gauze gently from his mouth. "You are exhausting."

Dex's throat move with effort, swallowing, saliva wetting his mouth. "Do you look at him like this?"

The question is quieter than the others. Worse. It has no blade in it. Only a man lying open under fluorescent light, too hurt to hide the wound he actually cares about.

Your fingers hover near his cheek. You let them settle at his jaw, light enough that he can turn away if he wants. He does no such thing. He leans into the touch so fast it ruins you.

"Dex."

His lashes lower, tickling your palm when he seeks the warmth. 

"I am going to clean you up, give you fluids, keep you awake for neuro checks, and cuff you to the bed in the back room so you avoid doing some noble-suicidal assassin bullshit the second I blink." Your thumb moves once along the unmarred edge of his jaw. His skin is cold. "After that, you can interrogate me about Matt Murdock until I regret saving your life."

A sad smile curves his lips. "You already regret it."

"No." The word comes out so soft. "I really, really do not."

The clinic's back room used to serve as a supply closet, then you stopped having supplies. Now it holds a narrow bed bolted to the wall, clean sheets, a cabinet of emergency meds, and a chain you bought after a masked idiot with a concussion tried to wander into traffic with three fresh staples in his scalp. 

Dex sees the cuff and laughs until pain takes the laugh away from him. You roll your eyes while helping him shift down onto the mattress, every inch a negotiation with his battered ribs.

"You chain all your favourite patients?" He asks once his uninjured ankle is secured with a padded restraint and the chain runs through the bedframe.

You tug the blanket over his waist. "Only the flight risks."

"Matt ever get the chain?"

Your hands pause, which already gives him a lot without meaning to. 

Dex smiles without opening his eyes. "Interesting."

You secure the IV line, check the dressing at his side, and sit on the small chair beside the bed with your back against the cabinet. "Go to sleep, Dex."

"Can't."

"Then lie still and pretend. You're talented."

His fingers slide over the edge of the mattress until they find your sleeve. He grips the soft cotton near your wrist, clumsy but careful. He has enough strength left to hurt you if he wanted. He holds the fabric instead.

You let him.

Near dawn, after the third neuro check, after he has told you the year, the president, your clinic address, and the exact number of tiles in the ceiling section above him like an asshole, his voice comes out thin and drugged by exhaustion rather than meds. "I did it."

You sit up straighter. Hearing him talk through pain is something you don't want to go through, but have to. "Did what?"

"Balanced it. Vanessa for Foggy."

A chill moves through you so slowly it feels like a hand closing around your heart. Foggy. Matt's grief. Karen's rage. Dex's worst crime. The city's endless appetite for payment. You look at him and see, for one horrible second, a man lying at the bottom of a ledger with a red line drawn under his own name. "And now?" 

Dex's fingers tighten in your sleeve, holding you closer. "Now I'm tired."

You reach up and press your hand over his. He looks at the place where your skin covers his knuckles. His expression is too human for the man the papers called Bullseye, and you hate every person who helped turn him into a weapon, including Dex himself. He leans toward the comfort like he never learned how to ask.

"Then be tired here," you whisper. "I can handle tired."

He studies you for a long moment. "Can you handle me?"

You should say something clinical. Something careful. Something with the kind of boundaries you teach medical students when they come through your legitimate daytime job, wide-eyed and terrified of liability. But, you tell the truth. "I keep opening the door, don't I?"

Dex's eye closes. His fingers stay wrapped in your sleeve until sleep finally drags him under.

By late morning, the rain has stopped. The city has that scrubbed-clean look it gets after a night of lying through its teeth. Pale sunlight presses through the frosted glass in the back room, turning the sheets gold where Dex's hand rests on top of them. You wake in the chair with your neck bent at an angle that will punish you for days, hair coming loose from its clip. For one muzzy second, you forget the night. Then the chain gives a soft metallic scrape, and you remember every part of it at once.

Dex is awake.

He is lying still, which is encouraging. Too still, which is irritating. His good eye follows you as you straighten. He looks better, at least in the way people look better when they are still severely injured but no longer actively trying to bleed into the afterlife. Less gray. More focused. The swelling around his eye has deepened purple. His mouth is still split and tender. Stubble darkens his jaw. His bare chest is bandaged in three places, bruises blooming under the tape like ugly weather.

"You stayed," he says.

Your back cracks when you shift, a grunt escaping you. "I live here during disasters now, apparently."

His gaze drops to your wrinkled shirt, the blanket you must have pulled over yourself at some point. "You slept in a chair."

"I have made worse choices." Liking him was one. 

His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but the split in his lip stops him. "Name one."

"You, repeatedly." Apparently early morning you has no filter. 

That pleases him far more than it should. He watches you stand, and when you come over to check his pupils, he tilts his face up before you ask. Trying to be good again. It is awful to your chest, that easy offering. Dex, who fights everyone, lets you put your fingers under his jaw and angle him towards the light, eyes tracking your face more than the penlight. 

"Headache?" you ask.

"Not really."

"Nausea?"

"No."

"Vision changes?"

"Ugly curtains."

"Those are original to the building, and they have seen too much to be insulted by you."

Ignoring that, he looks toward the ankle cuff. "Am I still a flight risk?"

"You murdered someone last night, tried to die at least twice by my count, and keep making jealous comments about a blind lawyer. So, Id say yes."

Dex's eye comes back to you. Slower now. "You're bringing him up."

The audacity if this stupid, beautiful, injured man. "You were going to."

"I was waiting."

"That must have been hard for you."

His fingers flex against the sheet, head dipping once towards his ankle. "Take it off."

You fold your arms, and his gaze moves briefly over your chest before he makes himself look back at your face. The tiny effort, the discipline of it, should not be as intimate as it is. "Tell me why."

"So I can leave if I want."

"Wrong answer."

The old Dex sits up under the wounded one for a second, teeth showing in spirit, even if his mouth is too sore for the full shape. He exhales, irritated. "So I can stop feeling like you expect me to run."

That one is a better answer. He sees that getting to you, which is annoying. Your mouth softening by degrees, fingers loosening against your arms, he sees all of it. You crouch near the bed and unlock the cuff with the key on your necklace. His eyes follow it, the little brass thing sliding from between your breasts, then the lock, then your hand closing around his ankle to ease the padding away from skin.

The chain falls with a dull clink.

Half of you, the pessimistic half, expects him to lunge. But he just lies there and looks at you with wonder in his eyes, as if you have handed him a weapon and he has chosen, for this one morning, to set it down.

"If you run, I will find you and sedate you in public," you say.

"You promise?"

"Dex."

With effort, his hand lifts. The tremor is subtle, visible only because you have spent too many nights learning his tells. He reaches for your wrist and stops halfway, waiting.

You wouldn't have thought more about this if he'd just reached. The waiting is what burrows under your ribs. 

When you give him your wrist, his fingers close around it with almost no pressure, thumb restinh over your pulse like he wants to feel proof you are still here, flesh and warmth, no trick. "Does he get this?" 

He should feel your pulse jump under his thumb, as you sigh and look at him. "Matt gets stitches. Lectures. Soup if he looks starved."

Dex studies your face, eyes tracking every one of your features, scanning. "And me?"

"You get the chain."

He huffs out something close to a laugh, with whatever energy that's left in him.

"You get me missing sleep, changing your dressings while you say upsetting things. You get me pretending I don't worry when you vanish for weeks and then show up with half your side open like a wounded dog dragging itself under a porch."

His hand tightens around the hold, eyes darkening. They are fixed on you with concentration, feeling more like a touch than his actual hands. 

Dex has always looked at targets with focus. You have seen him do it through security footage Matt once brought you, body still, gaze calm, all the world narrowed into distance and outcome. This is different. Messier. He looks at you like he wants to crawl into the space behind your ribs and sleep there where no one can reach him.

"Do you want him?" The question comes out blunt. Too wounded. Subtlety has been stripped from him. What remains is one battered man, waiting to hear if he has already lost something he never properly held.

You sit on the edge of the mattress, careful near his ribs. The warmth of his body seeps into yours. "Matt is my friend."

"He touches you like he has rights."

"He touches me like he trusts me."

Dex's eyes looks pained, his jaw tightening. When you lean closer, his gaze drops to your mouth. Your eyes cleanly capture that small betrayal. His thumb strokes once over your pulse, helplessly possessive. You could still walk away. Probably change his dressing, make tea, text Matt an update, maybe contact someone with imaging access who asks fewer questions than the hospital would. Your brain produces tasks in a neat row. Your body knocks the row over like dominoes.

"He doesn't get this look," you sigh. Hazel eye lifts to yours, stripped clean. You almost laugh at yourself for what you're about to say, too honest for this setting. "No one else gets this look."

His breathing changes. Shallow for a second, then controlled since his ribs hurt. He has to choose restraint with every inhale. It makes the want on his face worse. A man who can hit a target precisely even in motion, is trying to keep still under your hand. The effort has sweat gathering at his temples. His hand closed around your wrist tugs you towards him, wordless, but you don't think words are needed. 

"You have bruised ribs, multiple lacerations, and an ego wound the size of Manhattan," you say, but lean towards him anyway. 

"Your bedside manner was better last night."

"Last night you were closer to death."

His mouth curves faintly, the split lip threatening to open with themotion. "I'm improving. Reward me."

The nerve of him. The absurd, devastating nerve of him, lying in your bed bandaged to hell, asking for you like he has any right, like he has every right. He has learned the existence of a spot in you where affection, fear and desire knot together, and has decided to press his thumb there. This is medically stupid, ethically worse, emotionally catastrophic. 

But his hand on your wrist makes you feel chosen by a creature who has bitten everyone else, torn ear flashing before your eyes once more. 

You bend down and kiss him. You mean to make it careful. A little thing. A test. Dex makes a sound into your mouth, and the kiss opens wider before you can organize your thoughts. His lips are split, so you keep the pressure light, but he chases you anyway, hungry in a ruined, restrained way that sends a wave of heat through your skin. His hand rises to the back of your neck. You expect him to pull your closer, but he just holds you there, that being somehow worse. His palm is warm, fingers trembling slightly against your hairline, whole body focusing on the point where your mouth meets his.

You pull back first, breathing hard, sharing oxygen. "Pain?" 

His eyes open slowly, hazel swallowed by black. "Yes."

"From the kiss?"

"No." 

"Dex."

"Everything hurts," he says, voice rough, like he's holding on by a thread. "That felt better."

The thread is thin. Your forehead lowers to his temple for one second. Just one. But it's enough to smell antiseptic on his skin, blood in his mouth, rain still caught somewhere in his hair. Enough to feel him exhale like the thread has finally snapped.

"This stays slow," you whisper against his mouth. "You tell me if I need to stop."

His thumb moves along your jaw, soft, so soft. "I'll behave."

That word is so gentle, that he has no practice giving, and you kiss him again before you can lose your nerve. Dex kisses like survival has always been a contact sport. Even injured, even careful, his mouth has a desperate steadiness to it, as if he is memorizing the limits of what he can take from you without breaking the spell. His hand slides from your neck to your waist, then stops. Waiting again.

You place his hand over your hip.

A sound leaves him, too soft to be a groan, too hungry to be a sigh, and his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. Your thighs press together, his eye tracking the movement with a precision that makes your skin prickle. "Doc," he murmurs against your mouth.

"Mm?"

"You're shaking."

"So are you."

"I have an excuse."

A laugh from your mouth, but it comes out breathy and uneven, not nearly as cool as you need it to be. "Shut up."

You don't have a comeback, no sharp thing to say. You're letting Ben Poindexter slide his hand up under your shirt. There's an awful tenderness in being wanted by someone who rarely wants anything without destroying it. So, no. No sharp comeback. 

His palm spreads over your waist, careful of his taped fingers, of the bruises on his own knuckles, careful with you in a way that feels learned from watching rather than experience. His thumb brushes the lower curve of your breast through your bra, and your breath goes thin.

His gaze locks on that reaction. "Can I?" 

When you nod, his hand moves higher, cupping you with an aching slowness that makes your hips shift on the mattress. Dex's eyelid lowers, mouth parting slightly as if the feel of you under his palm is enough to daze him more than his injuries. He squeezes once, gentle at first, then firmer when your fingers curl into the sheet.

"Tell me," he says.

"Half-dead, but still you demand."

He ignores your words. "Tell me what you like."

The command, irritating from any other mouth, only drags heat through every inch of you now. You cover his hand with yours and guide him, showing him the pressure, the spot, how your nipple tightens when his thumb rubs over it through cotton. His attention is unbearable. "Like that," you breathe. "A little harder. Yeah, like that."

"He ever hear you sound like that?"

You kiss him harder, stealing those words from his mouth. He absorbs it with a shudder, hand tightening around your breast while his other reaches for your thigh. 

The position is so awkward, you help him a little to sit up. Two bodies learning each other in the small space of a spare room cot.

Jealousy is still there, you can feel it threaded through every question, but now it has heat behind it, a wounded need that makes him cling and challenge at once. You swing one leg over his hips before he can try to move too much, settling carefully over his thighs, your palms braced on either side of his shoulders so none of your weight hits his ribs.

For once, Bullseye looks struck.

You look down at him, at the swelling, the bruises, the blood cleaned from his mouth, the bandages you placed over skin you are now aching to touch. 

A man who tried to die last night is now staring at you like your thighs around him might be a reason to reconsider.

"This okay?" you ask, voice soft, not to startle him.

Dex swallows as he nuzzles closer, as if it was even possible. "Better than okay."

"Hands stay where they won't pull stitches."

A faint smile, soft enough to pull your heartstrings, looks up at you as if you have given him an order he would follow through fire. "Yes, doctor."

Your fingers tighten in the sheet beside his hip at his words. His thumb keeps moving on the bare strip of your stomach like he has found a place warm enough to keep him, palm heavy with feverish want and restraint that looks painful on him. 

When you reach for your shirt, his hand tightens at your thigh. "Slow… let me see."

You almost laugh at the nerve of him. When the shirt drags up your ribs, his eyes follow every inch as if the fabric itself has offended him by hiding you this long. You pull it over your head and toss it to your back. Your bra is plain, worn from too many overnight shifts, and the fact that he looks at it like lace from some altar makes heat crawl over your cheeks. "Say something," you murmur, fingers hovering near the clasp.

Dex's mouth parts, then closes again. The split along the lower one shines where he has worried it open with every kiss. "I'm trying to think like a man with blood left in his head."

"That bad?"

His thumb brushes under the curve of your breast, barely grazing the band of your bra. "Worse."

You unhook it before the embarrassment can make you hesitate. The straps slip down your arms, and Dex goes still. Your breasts fall free, nipples already tight from his earlier touch, and the look on his face makes you feel naked in a deeper place than skin. He reaches up with both hands, then winces at the pull across his ribs. His frustration flashes sharp in his jaw.

"Let me come to you," you offer.

He gives a tiny shake of his head, annoyed at himself. "I hate this."

"You hate being cared for."

"I hate having hands and not able to use them."

That almost makes you smile. You shift closer, one hand cupping the back of his head, other hand cupping your breast and guiding him towards it. "Then use your mouth."

Dex groans like that instruction broke him. His lips close around your nipple, careful for all of two seconds before the pull turns needy. His tongue works over you, slow at first, then firmer when your hips shift against his. He makes a sound into your skin, less like hunger, more comfort, like he has found some impossible warmth in you and intends to live there now. 

One of his hands finds your waist. The other slides around to your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh he can reach. He cannot pull you hard without hurting himself, so he holds you in place and sucks like he needs the taste of you to steady him.

"Dex," you breathe, your hand tightening in his hair. His eye lifts without his mouth leaving you. "That's... yeah. Keep doing that."

He answers by drawing you deeper into his mouth, cheeks hollowing with a careful pull that sends a wet, aching spark down between your legs. The sound you make embarrasses you, and he hears it. Feels it. His hand slides lower, greedy over the curve of your ass. When you rock against him, his cock presses thick and hard under the loose pants you put on him hours earlier.

He releases your nipple with a soft sound, mouth shining. "Take these off me."

"Demanding, are we?"

His gaze drags up to meet yours. "Please. I need you closer, and these are in my way."

That is worse than anything filthy he could have said. Your fingers go to his waistband, tugging carefully, your focus split between wanting him and watching the tight pinch around his mouth whenever his ribs object. He helps as much as he can, lifting his hips an inch, hissing through his teeth. His cock slips free against his stomach, hard, already wet at the tip.

You stare for half a second too long. Even when he's injured, Dex notices everything. "Still want to scold me?"

"Constantly," you say, hating the softness in it, and wrap your hand around him.

His laugh turns into a groan, head dropping back against the wall while your thumb spreads the wetness at his tip down his shaft. He is warm in your hand, heavy, alive. The thought makes your throat ache, so you lean in and kiss him instead, messy and careful at once, your bare chest pressed near his bandages, your fingers stroking him until his hips twitch. "Stop moving," you whisper against his mouth.

"I barely moved."

"You moved enough." Your fingers don't stop their graze on his cock. 

"I missed you." His voice comes apart on the last word. "Grant me a little mercy."

You rise onto your knees instead of answering the smarter way, tugging at your pants with one impatient hand while the other stays braced near his shoulder. The fabric catches at your knees, and for one stupid second you almost laugh. This is so ungraceful, far from the kind of fantasy you would have let yourself have about him. Dex does not laugh. His gaze follows the slow drag of your pants down your thighs like he is watching something holy and obscene at once. By the time you kick them off near the foot of the cot, your underwear is damp enough to cling, and his fingers flex against your hips like he is fighting the urge to help. "Those too."

"You're very annoying for a man who can barely sit upright, you know?"

"Please." There's just desperation. 

You push your underwear down just enough at first, suddenly shy under his gaze, then give up and pull them off completely. Your slick coats your fingers when you touch yourself, and Dex's mouth parts like the sight has taken the last good thought from his head.

He watches entranced while you drag that wetness over his cock, making the slide easier, making a filthy shine of both of you. His hands flex against your hips, then still when you lower yourself over him.

The first stretch steals the words from both of you. You sink slowly, one hand braced on the wall over his shoulder, the other gripping his upper arm where the muscle tenses under your palm. Dex looks wrecked before you are even halfway down. His mouth hangs open, eyes fixed on your face, then dropping to where his cock disappears into you, then come back up as if he needs to see you take him more than he needs air. "Too much?" he asks.

Lowering anothet inch, you shake your head, thighs already trembling from the angle. "Just — just let me take my time."

"I'm yours," he says. "Take all of it."

The words do terrible things to you. You sink the rest of the way, cunt closing around him in hot, slick pulses. 

Dex's hands clamp down on your ass with a force that almost breaks through his weakness. His forehead falls against your sternum. He breathes there, mouth brushing your skin, then he turns his face and sucks one breast back between his lips while you start to ride him.

The cot creaks under. Your thighs burn almost immediately, cramped from sleep in the chair and the span of his hips beneath yours. Still, you lift and sink, taking him deeper each time. 

Dex tries to stay still. You feel the fight in him. His palms keep sliding under your ass, helping you rise, helping you drop, giving you just enough strength to keep moving without letting his ribs tear at him.

Then he thrusts up like he can't stop himself. A sharp little cry leaves you, pleasure striking so deep your knees almost give. Dex makes a pained sound in the same second, and your hand flies to his shoulder "Do that again and I swear I'll chain you back to the bed."

His face is tight, sweat shining at his temple. "I can take this."

"You are actively proving the opposite."

"Please." He says it into your breast, lips brushing the skin as he speaks, hands still cupping your ass. "Let me help. Sitting still while you do everything hurts worse."

Your scolding dies half-formed. If there's a tease, you could've gone through with it. But there's only need. Nodding your head against him, you let his hands guide you again. 

He lifts as much as he can with his arms, careful of his side, and you ride the motion, cunt sliding down his cock with a wet sound that makes both of you shudder. His mouth finds your nipple again, sucking harder, and you feel him everywhere, under your skin, in your thighs, between your ribs. "I'm close," you tell him.

His hand leaves your ass, searching between your bodies. But when he twists wrong, pain catches him. You grab his wrist and press it back to your hip. "No. I'll do it."

"I want to make you cum."

"You are." You touch your clit with slick fingers and circle it the way you need, riding him in short, deep rolls. "Just stay with me. That's what I need."

His head drops back against the wall, watching your hand move, watching his cock fill you, then watches your face break open around pleasure. "Look at me. P-please. Let me see you."

When your eyes find his, your orgasm hits you you hard enough to turn your thighs useless, cunt clenching around him in tight, wet pulls. 

Dex curses softly, hands locking on your ass as he spills inside you, hot and endless, body going rigid beneath yours while he tries to keep from thrusting. You keep your mouth against his, breathing into him until the shaking eases.

He says something too low for you to catch.

"What?"

His eye opens, glassy and spent. "Mine."

Your fingers slide along his jaw, careful around the bruising. "You don't get to say that unless you stay alive."

"I'll stay alive." The answer comes fast, hoarse, almost angry with how badly he means it.

Before you can respond, he catches the wrist of the hand you used on your clit and brings your fingers to his mouth. His lips close around them, sucking you off your own skin with a slow hunger that makes you clench again around his softening cock. 

Like he cannot bear another second apart, he pulls you down and kisses you, your taste on his tongue, his hand weak but certain at the back of your neck. His pulse slams under your palm where it's holding onto his neck. Alive. Alive. Alive.

Getting off him is slow and messy. His cum slides down your thigh while you stand naked beside the cot. 

Dex watches with a dazed, almost helpless look that follows you even when you grab a warm cloth. You sit beside him and clean his cock first, gentle around oversensitive skin, and he inhales like this care is harder to take than the sex. "I can do that," he mutters.

"You are injured. Shut up." You continue your path down his thighs. 

"You like telling me what to do."

"I like keeping you alive." You check the bandage at his side next, still naked, still dripping, fingers clinical even while his gaze keeps dropping to the mess he left between your thighs. "Looks okay. Nothing opened."

When you clean yourself, he watches your hand move between your thighs with a frown that is almost offended. "That should be me."

"You can do that when you aren't fighting for your life."

His eye lifts to yours, begging, exhausted. "Next time?"

"Next time." Next time means he's planning on staying. 

Your phone buzzes, the sound cutting through the moment. One small vibration against the metal cabinet, and Dex already knows. His eye shifts before yours does, tired and sharp at the same time, like the rest of him is sinking under but that sharp little blade in him still knows how to lift its head. "Matt," he says.

Offering him a bottle of water, you pick up your phone. Sure enough it is Matt.

"Tell him I didn't vanish." The bottle is unopened at his hands.

Sighing, you grab it from him, uncap and press it to his lips. Dex looks at you stunned, almost offended that you're holding a bottle to his mouth. "Drink."

Whatever response that was about to spill from his lips is interrupted by another buzz of your phone, currently on the cot beside him.

Dex's eyes drop to the screen. Bruised, naked under the too-thin blanket, barely keeping himself awake, and still he finds the one thing in the room pulling your attention away from him. "Persistent," he rasps.

"You're one to talk." The bottle stays at his mouth until he takes one grudging swallow, then another. His throat works, lashes lowering for a second.

The phone buzzes again.

Dex's mouth leaves the bottle. "Just — just reply him."

You pick up the phone with a sigh, and type back a response. 

Still here. Stable. 

Dex's eye tracks every letter. "That's all?"

"You want a performance review?"

His almost-smile tugs at the torn corner of his mouth. "Five stars. Charming. Didn't vanish."

You set the phone facedown beside his hip and lift the bottle again. "One more sip."

He groans, but drinks. This time he doesn't look offended. When a drop slips from the corner of his mouth, you wipe it with your thumb before thinking better of it. Dex catches your wrist before you can pull back. His grip has almost no strength left, but he holds you like letting go is the worst thing that could happen. "I behaved." 

Just two words, like that wounded dog setting its head down because it has run out of places, but has finally found home. Your eyes sting so fast it's embarrassing. You settle your palm against his cheek. "Yes, you did."

Matt's reply comes through, unseen and ignored.

Dex's eyes close as he nuzzles deeper into your palm, your wrist still trapped in his loose hold. And all you can think is, stay.

EXTRAS. you can tell i almost gave up in the end. also… my man is so puppy dog. prove me wrong…

[coffee-with-bucky]

Shades of Blue

Summary: You melted into him, binding together a piece of shattered cobalt who was trying to hold himself together. The warm blues and purples of you, coalescing with the cool ceruleans of him, both complementary and clashing. Or the different chapters of Dex’s life bookmarked by different blue hues. 

Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x gn!reader

Words: 7.5k

Content/Warnings: Violence, dark themes, suicidal thoughts from Dex, murder, assassin!reader, morally grey reader, mentions of knives and guns, possessiveness/obsession, unhealthy relationships, angst, slight freak4freak, some making out, a pinch of fluff

A/N: Life's been kinda a mess, but I'm doing my best to power through it and I'm here with a new fic :) This was heavily inspired by the blue lighting they imposed in Dex's scenes in DDBA. I wanted to dive into his character and understand him more because to the surprise of no one, he has me in a chokehold. Just like how Matt had a chokehold on him. So please bear with me as I try to examine the many complex layers of this man.

Sky blue

It was the only thing Dex could reliably remember as being a constant in the background of his childhood, or rather above him. 

He doesn’t reminisce about his parents. The yelling and screaming were once a memory, snuffed into silence and now so far removed from his mind that nothing reminds him of them.

But Dex could recall at one point in time, playing baseball mattered to him, and while pitching under a bright blue sky, he truly believed his perfect aim and record of a game could bring them back. And the sky continued to canopy him the moment his rage boiled over, channeling into the baseball in his hand. All it took was a simple angle and a ricochet. His coach laid dead on the field.

Everywhere he went the sky was always there, even at Dr. Mercer’s office during their sessions. One look out her window and Dex could see the horizon, bright and sunny days illuminating the office he came to rely on. Other days it seemed like the sky would disappear, dissolving into muddied greys that brought in the rain, splattering against the glass. 

But the color of the sky always came back, abided with him as he endured different motions of his life.

It soon became a blur, a gradient of systems where the hues barely shifted. All cut from the same cloth, pigmented in the same blue dye lots. 

The logos of the air force, marines, and the navy entered his vision the day he decided to enlist. Like what Dr. Mercer advised, find structure, Search for something to sustain and guide him.

Instead of the sky or the sea, it was the greens of the army that caught his sharp eye. An analogous colour and a friend of blue, sitting right beside it on a colour wheel. It didn’t give Dex a peace of mind, but it was a system nonetheless, and it was a system that allowed him to do what he did best. 

Despite his choice of joining the military, he always came back to the colour blue, whether he knew it or not. The banner of the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center, the logo of the FBI — Dex needed that framework, needed that sense of control. But as Dex desperately tried to have a tight hold of his mind and life, little did he know it would begin to slip, like water running through his fingers and there was only so much he could cup in his hands. 

A whirlpool began to surround him, trapping and sinking him, filling water up to his neck. It was like pipes bursting one by one, and Dex thought that the people he knew in his life could fix it. Ray Nadeem kept him afloat, Julie Barnes became his northern star and tried to guide him out of the deep end. 

And throughout this, he truly believed Wilson Fisk was building a dam to stop him from drowning, yet it was all built on complete lies. Fisk poisoned him, planted the rust on the pipes the moment they met and weakened what kept Dex together. He was the one who made Dex turn on Nadeem, the man who tried to warn him before it was too late. He was the one who ripped Julie away, only to pretend to fill that void of a guiding light for Dex. 

It all crashed and burned. The vertebrae in his spine shattered. 

The plug was pulled, and the blues drained away. A sterile white operating room and a dull room of a mental institute awaited him. 

Dex’s world was devoid of colour, all thanks to the Kingpin himself. 

Slate

Dex didn’t remember much while he was institutionalized. 

The faded walls, while mostly grey, had the faintest tint of blue in the paint. He could recall, however, that his autonomy was stifled, mind and body constantly medicated to the point where any thoughts of his suffocated in his head, and the sharpness in his eyes had glazed over, turning dull. 

If he focused hard enough, he could walk over to the windows and see the sky again through the blinds. For all the people Dex tried to depend on, it seemed like the vast skies outside were the only thing he could come back to. An inkling pricked in the back of his mind, vaguely recalling an office window he used to peer through. 

Dex had let out a sluggish laugh under his breath, the guttural sound rumbling from the back of his throat.

Maybe he did drown after all, leaving him stuck at the bottom of the ocean where his mouth felt like cotton and only a fraction of his mind was his to bear. But instead of embracing the darkness and being taken away in its clutches, these were the consequences he would endure for the rest of his life. Here, locked inside this facility for perpetuity with the shells of patients’ former selves barely living. He wished he really did drown.

But then someone came to visit. 

No one ever visited him.

A Fisk ruined his life, and now another was there to puppeteer him, dangling his freedom in front of him like a carrot on a stick and he was a horse desperately trying to chase it. His autonomy could be his again, all in exchange to serve under Vanessa Fisk’s order. She had control over the entire situation, and all Dex could do was sit there and have no choice but to accept it. 

Dex couldn’t handle it any longer. He needed an out. He needed to escape this place. He wanted to see the sky again and this time, with his mind back.

He signed his name, barely legible on paper. 

The moment the drugs were out of his system and took a step outside, slowly but surely, the greater picture was clearer than ever. Dex could finally see his world again, and he can envision a narrow path once more. 

A new version of himself was in order, he decided.

The blues came back stronger than ever, flooding his vision as his fingers twitched for the urge of blades.

A tactical navy suit called to him. He chose the dark blue shade of his own volition, reclaiming who he was and regaining his sense of control. He added holsters, belts and sheaths galore, all practical for his needs. It was at the expense of Vanessa Fisk’s demands, yet he felt more like himself than he ever was. Dex could hear his thoughts again and it was buzzing like a raging swarm of bees. 

He carried out her order and the people he killed at Josie’s Bar were just part of the steps to get his freedom. 

And Dex didn’t regret a single thing.

Cobalt

Incarceration allowed him to stew in his thoughts, mostly because he couldn’t do anything else while his arms and hands were bound to his body. A chip, or rather two of them, sat on his shoulders, morphing into the monsters Dex saw them as. The Fisks chewed him up and spat him out, viewing him as an insignificant cog that was no longer needed in the machine of their empire. He wanted them gone.  

Dex stood near the tiny window of his cell, the sky being his welcoming friend once again. As his hatred for the Fisks grew, the blue skies he fixated on slowly marinated into a deep and intense hue, chilling the walls of the concrete box he temporarily resided in. He knew he wasn’t going to stay long. 

Observe the guards, track their shifts, memorize the layout of the facility. Dex studied with cold and calculated hazel eyes.

Call Matthew Murdock. Poke the devil. Blood and broken skin. 

A single tooth. 

Dex escaped prison with ease, the air around him collected while his thoughts crowded inside his head. The Fisks were in his sights and he could finally put them six feet under where they belonged. 

Except Matthew Murdock jumped into the line of fire, stopping Dex’s mission in its tracks. The shock coursed through his veins as he watched a man protect his worst enemy. But he wasn’t going to let Murdock’s heroics set him back. 

Regroup and rework — refine himself like the edges of the copious knives he had at his disposal. 

Another navy suit. With a crack of his wrists and a stretch of his fingers, he stitched and embossed his own moniker on his balaclava. 

Bullseye. 

It sat on his forehead like it was made just for him. His own third eye, opening and seeing his new path forward that was cut and carved out for him. Wilson Fisk declared him as a vigilante, therefore that’s who he must attempt to become. 

He’s going to be one of the good guys now. Right the wrongs and balance the scales.

Sapphire

It was always amusing to Dex how the anti-vigilante task force was so easy to take out. Their tactics were expected and incredibly predictable, which made displaying his work optimal for everyone to see.

A quick scan of the objects around him and Dex was smiling at the arsenal inside the diner. Why use the knives he had on his person when he had bundles of cutlery right beside him? And the lobsters? He was a kid in a candy store. 

A scatter of bodies slumped dead behind him as he exited with a pep in his step.

Dex felt his spirit being invigorated, his identity as Bullseye out in full force to its full potential. And this was all in service to taking out Wilson Fisk. If the Kingpin eroded away what kept him whole, he was going to serve the same poison back, break down and eat away the wall of defence that lined his empire. 

After returning to his apartment for a quick break, Dex walked through the city, whistling to himself as the daylight above him slowly morphed into moonlight. He took note of the AVTF units and which streets they posted at, keeping tabs of their whereabouts as he peered around corners.

Dex could have gone after more units if he wanted to, putting a significant dent in Fisk’s army, but then there would be less officers to kill. Too little or too many of the task force would ruin the morning routine he had perfectly built for himself. He couldn’t stray away from it.

With a slight chill in the night air, he decided to head back to his place, wanting to wind down and try to get some decent sleep. He walked down the dim streets, the sickly yellow street lamps illuminating his path. A small smirk lifted on his lips as he spotted another unit posted at a quiet corner. They were staking out for the night, serving their duty to scour blocks for vigilantes during curfews. Before he could take another step, a gun shot rang, followed by consecutive shots firing through the night.

Dex halted, combat boots planted into the sidewalk. He automatically reached for one of his knives, eyes surveilling around him. His look was inquisitive, eyebrows slightly furrowed as he watched the AVTF officers proceed to yell out pointless warnings before dropping to the ground.

A barking dog could be heard a few blocks away, but besides that, the street was dead and silent. 

The takedown was… impressive. Very efficient. 

Dex raised his head. Out of the corner of his eye, his gaze spotted a shadow quickly moving on a nearby apartment roof. Whoever the assailant was, Dex happened to share a common enemy with them, so it seemed, as many people had an out for Fisk. From Dex’s knowledge, this was obviously far from Daredevil’s doing. And someone who was violent as Frank Castle could have done this, yet he hasn’t been heard from for a while now. So who was this? 

Running towards the nearest alley way, he climbed up a fire escape with hurried movements. Reaching the top of the building, Dex jumped across rooftops until he landed on the correct building. He spotted the figure hunched over , rifle quickly stuffed into a duffle bag. 

Before Dex could get a good look, the sound of a cocking gun and a ruffle of a holster made him instinctively grab the handle of one of his knives. He paused, not wanting to scare whoever hid behind the darkness near the corner edge of the roof.

Out from the shadows, you stepped out with a pistol in your hands, aimed directly at Dex’s forehead. 

Dex tilted his head, immediately analyzing you. 

Normally, most people would panic, run away, or turn to violence at the sight of him, yet you didn’t do any of that.

You were composed, hands steady and not a lick of fear in your gaze. If anything, you had a slight curiosity in your eye. It was your turn to analyze him, your stare raking over his suit and focused on the hand that was gripping his blade. A slight raise of your eyebrows, not in surprise, but recognition perhaps? 

With the slowest of movements, Dex released his grip, displaying his open hands in front of him. Good guys show that they’re not a threat, right?

Your energy felt familiar, something that Dex felt compelled to gravitate towards. 

The trigger could have been pulled at any moment and end his life right there and then, but instead, you quickly flipped the safety on and holstered your gun back. Throwing the straps of the bag over your shoulder, you adjusted it with the slightest bounce of your feet. Your stare continued to linger, sweeping over Dex from the blonde hair that sat on his head, to the bottom of his dusty combat boots.

And just like that, you strolled right by him, barely brushing against his jacket and heading towards the door of the stairwell of the building. Whatever job you had for tonight seemed to be completed as Dex watched you dashed down the stairs.

Dex suddenly forgot how to move.

From what he could gather, you were a skilled sniper, quick and practiced with a trigger. You had already done a reconnaissance of the area and scoped out the best vantage point, something that he’s done plenty of times during the army and at the FBI. The AVTF was on your target list, just like his. You were calculating just like him. The way you carried yourself was something Dex recognized — a reflection of himself when he looked at you, someone who embodied parts of his identity and ambition. 

Dex was fascinated, and he wanted to unearth what was beneath that composure of yours.

Instead of a diamond in the rough, he stumbled upon a sapphire hidden within the shadows of the city, a rich blue gem to the rugged edges of his cobalt metal mind. You emanated a shade of blue that was similar to his, and Dex wanted to examine and pick apart your mind, know everything there is to know about you. 

For weeks on end, Dex divided his attention into two — following his own agenda and finding out who you were. He monitored the task force’s nightly patrols, perching on top of apartments in hopes of catching a glimpse of you again. His scope became his best friend as he brought it with him every night, zeroing in on the darkest parts of the roofs. Dex focused on the vantage points that he would personally choose himself, predicting where you might make an appearance for the sake of your assignments.

For a while, the blurs of shadows became figments of his imagination, momentarily believing he caught a fraction of you wading through the murkiness of evenings. Until one night, he finally found you.

Twisting his scope to zoom in, Dex chuckled. He finally spotted you, except instead of seeing your face, he was met with the end of a rifle half a block away. Looking straight back at him was you, peering through your own scope and viewing Dex through your crosshairs. 

You remained stationed, not a shift or twitch in your body as you continued to monitor him. Dex eyed your grip, noting how your finger didn’t curl around the trigger. In fact, you had it resting against the side of it. You had no intention of killing him. 

Dex smirked. He held up his hand, giving a wave in your direction. 

You leaned back, your sight adjusting to the long distance that was in between you and him. Your features were neutral, not a hint of a reaction that Dex could pinpoint to.

That was when he caught the roll of your eyes and the slightest shake of your head. What surprised Dex the most was that you saluted back to him, the fingers that were on the trigger gestured into a reluctant yet pointed wave. You then turned away from him, readjusting your stance and re-aiming your scope at the task force standing in the streets below. Not killing, but surveilling.  

The smile on his face widened.

From there out, Dex would watch you complete area reconnaissances — observe your observations. He would catch glimpses of you, hoping you would look in his direction to greet him again. You gave off a glimmer sometimes, a flash of a smirk on your face like a light quickly reflecting off your sapphire edges. You knew he was tracking you, and Dex was intrigued that you continued to let him do so. 

After every assignment, you were gone like the wind, preventing Dex from taking the initiation to talk to you. It was a weird game of vultures circling one another, not with preying eyes but rather an appreciation of each other before one took off to the skies. While it excited him, he still yearned about who you were.

However, his worries would soon be quelled.

It was another night and another lookout for Dex. He expected the obvious — either you weren’t on assignment, or that you were out and about as usual. But what he didn’t expect was you shoving the distance to the curb.

His ears picked up the sound of footsteps, reverberating against the fire escape ladders. The steps were deliberate, not even an attempt to be cunning in the slightest. Turning around, Dex watched as you climbed up the last ladder, plopping yourself onto the rooftop. 

Dex remained where he stood, hands in his pockets and a smug grin on his face. 

You didn’t have your gear with you, except for your pistol holstered at your hip. Judging by the dark tactical clothing you wore, you liked to remain hidden as much as you could. He eyed you, that smirk that he would view from afar was on your face, now up close and personal. You stayed near the fire escape ladder, crossing your arms over your chest.

“So, what’s your deal?” You cut to the chase, your words not accusatory, but full of amusement. “Been stalking me for what, about a month now? There’s got to be a reason why the one and only Bullseye has me on his radar.”

Hearing you say his moniker and addressing him with it made Dex’s pulse spike. 

Dex gave a shrug, “Just liked watching how you operate.” 

You raised an eyebrow, not fully convinced, “Really?”

He nodded. 

“You always figure out where squads are stationed and monitor their shifts before choosing the most optimal angle and vantage point. Your reaction time is impeccable and your shots are proficient. Haven’t seen anyone move as efficiently as you in a long time.”

You blinked, briefly biting the inside of your cheek, “Is that so?”

Dex lightly chuckled, “You know, when someone compliments you, it’s nice to say ‘thank you’.” A piece of advice he learned from Dr. Mercer, reciting it from his memory.

“Thanks… I guess.” You acknowledged, a sprinkle of skepticism in your words. “Didn’t think I would ever garner any fans in my lifetime. But I suppose you can be the first.” 

The corner of his lip twitched, lifting into a lop-sided grin before dropping. He needed confirmation.

“That night when we first met — you didn’t shoot me.” He stated. “Why?”

You shrugged, uncrossing your arms, “You didn’t give me a reason to.” 

Dex tilted his head, “And… You’re not afraid of me?” He wanted to keep prying, break into your sapphire thoughts and take a closer look at the cross-sections inside.

“I probably should,” You let out a quiet yet jaded laugh, “But then something told me that you weren’t there to kill me either. You would have done so already if that was the case.”

He hummed, confirming your assumption. “So you let me watch you?”

You lifted your shoulders into another shrug, “After that… You caught my attention. Made my nights a little more interesting.”

The Cogmium in his spine shifted as Dex stood up straighter. There was a glint in his hazel eyes, fervor swimming underneath after hearing your admission. He piqued your interest and knowing you were fascinated made his heart quickly sputter in his chest. 

“I haven’t gotten the chance to see your work, but from what I’ve heard, your skills are certainly impressive. Fuck, you killed a guy with a lobster.” You laughed, taking a few steps closer towards him. “That’s batshit insane but kinda incredible at the same time.”

That magnetic pull he felt during the first time you met him returned, this time after hearing you laugh. God, your laugh sounded wonderful. 

“Is that so?”

“You know, when someone compliments you, it’s nice to say ‘thank you’.” You repeated verbatim, that smirk he’s grown to know was on your face again. 

Dex shook his head, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest as his smile broadened, “Thanks.”

He couldn’t quite place what he was feeling. It felt lighter, maybe even warm. It was the type of feeling that made him momentarily forget that the two of you were talking on top of a random apartment complex in the middle of the night.

A comfortable silence was in the air as a frigid wind blew by the both of you, ruffling his blonde hair. Dex noticed how you tensed, the cold night air permeating through your tactical clothes. 

“Well, it’s nice to know where your head is at. I better get going... Gotta rest up and be alert for my next call.” 

Dex had the urge to give you his jacket, wanting to place it on your shoulder to protect you from the cold. But he restrained himself. It was too soon to do that type of gesture. This thread of a connection was rare and just began to form. He couldn’t risk the chance of his eagerness unraveling everything.

“I understand.” A bit of disappointment poked through, and you seemed to pick that up.

“But I’ll see you around, Poindexter. Or I guess you’ll find me first—”

“Dex. Call me Dex.” 

You nodded, a softer grin resting on your features. 

“Alright, Dex.”

It was simple. All you did was say his name, and somehow it made his night even better. 

As you headed towards the fire escape, Dex’s mind finally caught up to him, jolting at the realization.

“Wait, you never gave me your name.”

You turned back around, the gentle smile on your face still there as you threw your name out. 

“See you soon.”

Tanzanite

After you bridged the gap between the two of you, Dex finally stepped into your world, which had all the familiar hallmarks of scouting operations and target eliminations he was used to. 

Dex began to join your sessions, shadowing you as you jotted down intel on your phone and relayed it to your boss. If you were given the go-ahead, you proceeded to kill your marks.

And Dex got the privilege to see you in your element firsthand, witnessing how poised your stance was, your position always ready from muscle memory. You drew in slow breath, letting out a long exhale through your lips before pulling the trigger, your aim adjusting accordingly with your following shots. 

Over the course of many nights, Dex learned that you were an assassin for hire, and worked for a variety of organizations. You were connected with many associations, having a short time with S.H.I.E.L.D. and the latest with the Ten Rings and O.X.E. Right now, you were being hired to take out the AVTF from a man who had a nonchalant way of giving orders. 

He was planning an alternative path to smuggle weapons through the city, which meant he wanted specific streets cleared of these officers. You couldn’t care less about who you were killing. To you, as long as your payment was wired to you, that’s all that mattered. It’s all you’ve ever known. 

Dex eventually shared bits of his life with you, talking about his days playing baseball and the ops he did during the FBI. You and Dex compared experiences, laying out pieces of personal information like cards, flipping them up on a table one by one. 

You and Dex preferred distance — same method, different fonts. Dex said killing was just part of who he is, that it was his normalcy. You said you were desensitized to your work. He told you people entered and quickly left his circle like revolving doors. You mentioned how you never shared your experience to this extent with anyone before. You said you’ve always wanted to talk to someone within the same “industry”.

He avoided mentioning Fisk. And you noticed. 

As the evening shifted into the night, Dex noted how the temperature continued to drop, the chill reminding him of how cold you got before and how much he wanted to remedy it. Instead of continuing to hide out on the roof, Dex took it upon himself to break into a vacant apartment unit below.

Taking a paper clip out of his pocket, Dex picklocked with ease, allowing the two of you to hunker down as you continued to monitor by the window. 

You and Dex stood close to the glass, peering past the sides of the window frame. Your duffle bag sat by your feet, while you had set your rifle up against the window sill, waiting to be used as soon as you were given the order. Dex grabbed a quarter from his pocket, rolling it across his fingers to keep his hands nimble and sharp to pass the time.

From the corner of his eye, he could see you glance at him every once in a while, a slight hesitancy in your body language. You opened your mouth to say something but you quickly shut your lips, words seemingly weighted on your tongue. It took a moment, but you finally broke the lull, asking him, “You’re after Fisk, right?”

Dex could see the premise you built in your head. You knew Dex was targeting the AVTF, albeit with his own goals in mind compared to your objective. But with his past connections to the mayor, one that was very known to the public, and the fact that Fisk founded the force himself, it didn’t take much for you to put two and two together.

Flicking the quarter with his thumb and index finger, Dex launched it towards an empty wall, watching it bounce straight back before he caught it with a tight grip. Blue tinted his vision. 

“He fucked up my life.”

Your eyes lingered where the quarter hit the drywall, slightly stunned at seeing his skills in person for the first time. The throw was so fast that you barely had time to register it. 

You turned your focus back to Dex. “He’ll get what he deserves.”

Dex stuffed the coin back in his pocket before leaning his shoulder against the wall, facing you directly in his sights. His hand clenched into a fist, knuckles whitening from the strain. 

“Him and his wife. The only way to ensure the scales are balanced is to kill them.” 

You furrowed your brows, puzzled at Dex’s assertion, one that he genuinely believed to be true. He overlooked your confusion. To him, it was sound logic. All it took was one good deed to right the wrongs of his actions. 

“For now, I'll just send a message by killing these assholes.” Dex gestured with a cock of his head towards the window. The unit outside was talking amongst each other, barely doing their job since everyone avoided that street corner like the plague. 

Shaking your head, you, exhaled a quiet sigh.

“Good thing my boss has been contributing to it. Or I guess I am, technically. Although my approach is probably boring compared to yours.” 

“Concise? Yes. Boring? No, not to me at least.”

A grin lifted on your lips, shoulders slightly rolled back as you looked away from him, finding the AVTF outside suddenly interesting.

Suddenly, a vibration from your phone made your features harden. You unlocked it, reading the message from your handler. You swiftly typed a reply before shoving your phone back in your pocket. 

“Well, this squad is going to live another day. ‘Mr Charles’ said the timing isn’t optimal on his end. Told me to take a few days off.” 

You immediately went to disassemble your rifle, removing pieces one by one with efficiency before crouching down to toss them into your bag. It was a habit hard to break, always ready to move at a moment’s notice.

A thought sparked in Dex’s head, seizing the opportunity before it was too late to ask.

“If you want, since you’re free and all, you could come see me work for a change.”

It was miniscule, but Dex noticed the way your eyes slightly widened. The hand aiming toward your duffle bag zipper stopped mid air. You bit the inside of your cheek, a feeble attempt of trying to stop yourself from smiling. 

“Why not? I can watch your six since you definitely need someone to protect you.” You chuckled, words dripping in irony.

You quickly zipped it up but before you could place the straps over your shoulder, Dex reached for it first. 

“Here, I’ll carry it for you.” He grabbed the handles, holding it for you as you stood back up. 

When he initially designated a righteous path for himself to follow, the words “one good deed” repeated in his head like a mantra. But it occurred to him that maybe that one good deed could venture out pass the guardrails he set. Displaying an act of kindness can add to the scales. It’s what a good guy would do. 

“Ever the gentleman.” You patted his arm. 

Despite wearing his tactical suit and jacket, your touch still burned his skin, a delightful jolt that made him wish you would do that again. 

As the two of you walked out of the apartment and down the stairs, Dex couldn’t help but hover his other hand over your back, his palm grazing against the fabric of your shirt. A strong sense to protect you overwhelmed him as an intrusive thought entered his head. The possibility of someone ambushing you around the corner made him dial up his vigilance. He couldn’t tell if it was imagination, but he swore you had deliberately walked a bit slower, letting your body press closer towards his touch. 

The streets of New York made Dex even more weary, terrified at the thought of you getting attacked, or even worse. Dex hardened his features, hiding his anxiety underneath as he quietly asked you if he could walk you home. He wanted to extend this night with you but also put his mind at ease that you were safe. You happily agreed. 

He followed your lead as the both of you walked down quiet streets, soaking in the enjoyment of each other's company. Because you knew which streets the task force was stationed at, you turned down alley ways and hidden corners, letting the two of you walk under the cover of shadows and be unseen by everyone. Dex tried to mirror your lax shoulders, attempting to force himself to let the tension go. 

You slowed to a stop in front of an entrance of a small and quaint building. “Here’s my humble abode.”

The sight of your apartment alleviated his stress, the knots unravelling and loosening the stiffness in his back. You glanced between your duffle bag and Dex, making him realize he was still holding it. 

“Uh, here.” He muttered. 

As he handed your bag back, your hands brushed against his. The warmth of your skin burned his calloused hands, that electrifying and pleasant buzz from before making its return, crawling up his arms and coursing through his body. Dex desperately restrained himself, the tips of his fingers twitching as he hindered his urge to hold your hands. You thanked him as you grasped your bag, holding it in front of you. 

“You let me know where and when you decide to wreck havoc.” 

Dex tried to grin, but it came off more timid than he intended. “I will.”

You and Dex stood in silence, or as much as the city would offer. A sound of a car driving by a block over could be heard faintly in the background. His hazel eyes, darkened by the night, were in a trance as he stared at your face, flickering across your features. You mirrored him, your gaze evaluating him, but this time it was tender. 

For a while, Dex thought maybe his path could finally end once he killed Fisk. He believed doing so would absolve him for all the things he’s done. But as soon as Dex saw your eyes soften, the blues in his head began to slowly dissolve.

It was like all of his worries vanished instantly.

Your life revolved around violence, something he knew all too well. But you were successful, you were stable. You made a purpose for yourself with the way you created the structure around you. And not only that, but you cared. Very few people offered that to him.

Dex began to piece it together, a semblance of a future and what could have in store for him. Having you ingrained in his life could change that trajectory, where he could follow your lead as you act as a guiding example for him. Surely he could improve the structure of his life by having you in it. 

He originally saw you as a sapphire, but the more time he’s spent with you, getting to know who you are, the more he realized that you were more than that. You had a deep blue about you, having a deeper and better understanding of him than anyone else before, yet hidden beneath the layers were something else.

You were more like tanzanite, and depending on the angle of the light, you shimmered in different shifts of colours. When you took lives away like him, you illuminated in a shade close to his cobalt blue, when you were focused and in analyzing mode, you beamed with a light blue hue, one that was similar to the sky. But underneath it all, Dex realized that at your very core, it was violet. And it’s the type of presence that brought a sense of calm to Dex that he’s rarely felt before.

You weren’t using him for his skills and you didn’t see him as someone who needed fixing. You simply accepted him for who he was, sought him out for who he was. A shred of altruism reserved for him. 

Dex noticed you wringing the bag handles between your fingers. You shyly looked away from him, staring at the crack in the sidewalk. You quietly took a breath, like you were gathering every ounce of courage in your body to reveal your most vulnerable card on the table. 

“I… I haven't had many people stay in my life for long. So thank you for being the first to stay, even for a little bit.” The words were strained, like you were physically forcing your confession from your mouth. 

Before he could even respond, you stepped forward and pressed a soft peck to his cheek, over the scarred tissue. Dex blinked as you quickly retreated to your apartment without a glance behind you, leaving him in a daze in the middle of a barren street.

It suddenly registered to him like a bucket of ice water pouring over him. 

He could feel the heat rising  in his face, the cheek you kissed set ablaze. It was like you branded his scar, making him forget how he got it in the first place. 

For once, instead of blues, his head began to seep in indigos.

Powder blue

Dex felt like a kid again, standing at the pitchers mound underneath a bright and sunny day, ready to play his favourite game. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath as he held the baseball in his grip. You were proudly viewing him from the stands, fueling his sense of pride that rippled through his mind. A cocky smirk was on his face as he pulled his arm back, winding up his throw. 

As he opened his eyes, the baseball blurred into a blade, hurled straight at the head of a task force officer. 

Dex jumped behind a display case, avoiding bullets as they punctured the wall behind him. A flurry of shots flew off the drywall, hitting the glass and shattering the case that held designer watches, expensive earrings and rings.

Reaching into the destroyed showcase, he grabbed a handful of rings with his gloved hands. Dex hurled them, ricochetting off a multitude of shelves and walls before hitting the dead center of multiple eyes.

He was smiling underneath his balaclava as bodies dropped to the ground one after another. 

Dex had lured an AVTF squad to a jewelry store, pretending to browse as he made the call, using Frank Castle’s name once again. And across the street, you were on a studio apartment terrace, witnessing his skills in action. You viewed it all unfold through Dex’s scope, which he lent you before he walked into the shop. 

His smile only grew bigger as he envisioned you approving his work from afar, reminding him of how you met and how the roles have reversed.

He flung a pair of gaudy diamond earrings with both of his hands, arms crossed over his chest before releasing his throws, killing the last two officers. He could feel the dopamine rushing through his body as the simple thought of you watching him pulsed through the reward system in his brain. 

As Dex stood up, he glanced at the poor workers of the store, all huddled in terror by a corner. He ignored them as he walked through the store, heading towards the back exit as his combat boots crunched over the carnage and broken glass. However, something caught his eye, making him stop in front of a damaged cabinet. 

It was a collar brooch, the edges lined with an ornate silver pattern. A chain connected between two small gemstones, specifically two deep indigo stones. 

Tanzanite. 

Dex studied the jewels, watching them glisten with every shift, refracting the skylight that came through the front windows. The longer he gazed at it, the more it evoked a feeling in the back of his head, latching onto your image. He swiped it off the case, stuffing it into his pocket as he made his escape through the back of the store. 

As Dex weaved through alleys and neighborhoods, his thoughts becoming overwhelmed with you. You and Dex had planned a safe spot, meeting up in a secluded area by the warehouse district that put distance between him and the scene. It would take some distance to get there on foot, but for you, he would do it without question.

Dex was quick on his feet, his desire to see you propelling him forward with conviction. As the warehouses entered his vision, he broke out into a jog, darting towards the abandoned storage facility you agreed upon. 

He whipped the rusted doors open, skylight pouring in as his chest heaved from his run. Dex inhaled deep breaths through his mask, eyes locking onto your figure. You were elated, leaning your back against the end of an industrial storage shelf with a giddy grin. 

Usually he would strut with an air of arrogance, shoulders loose and limbs swaying by his sides. But this was different. Dex hurried towards you with determination in his posture, beelining straightforward like his aim.

As soon as he was close in proximity, Dex ripped his balaclava off his face before crashing his lips into yours, the force of it making you gasp. His balaclava landed by his feet as he pulled you close, hands gripping your waist as he kissed you hard and deep, breathing you in like you were the only oxygen left in the world to keep him alive. Your brain finally caught up to you, eyes closing as you kissed back with equal fervor, your hands bumping into the pistol holstered across his chest, clutching the fabric of his tactical suit. 

It was a desperate and clumsy press of lips and noses accidentally squished together, until Dex tilted his head with a grunt for a more optimal angle. He bit your lower lip between his teeth, making your breath hitch as he pressed you into the hard muscles of his body, your hips pushed against the sheathed knives on his belt. Dex wanted you close to him as humanly possible as his hands traveled to your lower back, palms splaying there.

Your hands trailed upwards, playing with the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck. Running your fingers through the blonde strands, your nails lightly scratched his scalp, making Dex hum into your mouth. You smiled into his lips, giving his hair a light tug. A low groan emitted from the back of his throat, allowing you to bully your tongue into his mouth, gliding your tongue against his. 

Your taste, your scent, and the warmth of your body overwhelmed him, flooding his senses and hardwiring his brain. 

Dex kept kissing you until his chest began to hurt, his world beginning to spin as he got lightheaded from the high.

He abruptly pulled away, panting heavily as he pressed his forehead into the crook of your neck, kissing the skin above your collarbone. He felt your body shift with each gasp of air before it started to shake, a breathy laugh escaping from your lips.

“That’s one way to say hi.” You teased hoarsely, your fingers continuing to weave through his hair.

He lifted his head, hazel eyes half-lidded and fogged over. Dex let out a low chuckle as you kissed his scarred cheek, following with a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“What you did back there was exceptional by the way—”

Dex cut you off with another kiss, less heated but much more tender in the way he caressed your lips with his. The praise began to cloud his head as you cupped his face in your hands, thumbs brushing against his cheekbones.

He grabbed your wrist, his thumb feeling your pulse pounding underneath your skin. As he fished out the brooch from his pocket, he held your hand out, placing the pin in your palm.

“Made me think of you.” Dex rasped against your lips.

You tilted your hand, letting the brooch catch in the light as you studied it with softened eyes.

“You sure are something else, aren’t you?”

Dex’s lips lifted into a small grin.

You were a tanzanite he found in the city, and now with you in his arms, he wanted to greedily keep you all to himself, putting you in his pocket and never letting you leave. Dex knew you were fully capable of handling yourself, having done so way before meeting him since you’ve been an assassin your entire life. But he would do anything to protect what was his.

Dex viewed the two of you as fucked up souls that were in desperate need of someone who they could depend on. And it was true, because he couldn't imagine his life without you now that you’re here. The idea of you was too precious to let go. 

Another intrusive thought entered his mind, that maybe it was all too good to be true, that it all might go down in flames and collapse around him again, leaving him alone once more. It could all amount to nothing in the end. 

But he was certain about one thing — despite the rough edges, you were a luminous tanzanite, something beautiful and sincere. You melted into him, binding together a piece of shattered cobalt who was trying to hold himself together. The warm blues and purples of you, coalescing with the cool ceruleans of him, both complementary and clashing.

He held you close, all while the powder blues of the sky shimmered through the brooch sitting in the palm of your hand, continuing to be the constant in the background of his life.

Thanks for reading! Feedback is appreciated!

[captainfern]

Catch Me If You Can

Benjamin 'Bullseye' Poindexter x fem!reader

✿ dex chases you through the woods and despite your best efforts, he catches you. he always catches you. ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 3.7k ✿ cw: fem!reader, DDBA!dex, established relationship, predator-prey, SMUT, outdoor sex, unprotected piv, the chase is foreplay, dry-humping, slight knife play?, pussy pronouns, one (1) pussy slap, pet names (baby, sweet girl), praise!!, dirty talk!!!, dex is obsessed with you, possessive!dex (duh), strong language, british english author tries her best with american english 😔

a/n: needed to write for this man so bad. also, i'm a 'dex hits the right spot every single time' truther just as much as i'm a 'dex whimpers when he comes' truther soooo yeah i hope you enjoy :)

A myriad of noises surround you as you sprint through the woods, a cold wind biting at the warm skin of your face. Birds call high above with mournful laments that carry across the breeze as you dodge between trees. Leaves rustle where the wind whispers through them. Branches creak where they sway in dance-like movements above you.

The rapid beating of your heart is loud in your ears too, and you can barely hear yourself think over your own laboured breathing.

Just get to the lake, you think as you try your best not to stumble over an exposed tree root. Just get to the lake and you’ll be safe.

You’ve traipsed through this thick expanse of woodland more times than you can count, and many summers gone you have spent splashing in the shallows of the lake. A secluded spot off the beaten track, away from prying eyes and the constant noise of the city.

So you know you’re not far.

You know that the glittering blue surface of the lake will present itself to you in less than a quarter of a mile. You know the invisible track you’re following will lead you right to its shingled shore and you’ll be safe.

Your heart hammers wildly against your sternum, and you slow for just a second, arm reaching out to grip the trunk of a nearby tree. Your hand splays across it as cold air fills your lungs. Burning legs threaten to pull you to the ground, but you swallow down the lingering taste of defeat as you settle yourself.

You just need a second.

A sharp whistle fills the quiet woodland—a projectile rocketing through the air. You yelp when a loud thunk follows, and your head whips around to find a sleek black knife embedded in the tree trunk, directly in the gap between your thumb and index finger. You jerk your hand away, eyes drawing wide as you realise you can’t hear him. Over all the natural noises—the birds, the wind, the crinkling of leaves—you can’t hear him. Can’t hear his footfall, or his breathing, or the leisurely unsheathing of his blades.

You take off running again, leaving the knife protruding from the tree.

Another high-pitched whistle overwhelms the peace of the woods. A blade flies past your ear so quickly you barely see it, so close you almost feel it. It lands in the trunk of another tree ahead of you, and you weave around it, your entire body thrumming with adrenaline.

Ahead, the surface of the lake glimmers between the trees.

You’re so close you can smell the fresh water.

You can’t help the smile that splits across your face. You’re almost there.

You hear two more blades coming, but you don’t see them and you don’t know where they land.

Not until it’s too late.

Two blades, slightly larger than the first pair, ricochet perfectly from a thick-trunked tree nearby and rocket upwards several yards in front of you. They slice clean through a low-hanging branch and, with a splintering crack, the branch snaps and topples. Your smile drops, something sinking deep into the pit of your stomach, as you skid to a stop to avoid the branch that crashes to the ground in front of you.

Your steps falter, but you attempt to leap over the felled limb anyway.

You can’t.

Mid-air, a hand seizes the back of your shirt and pulls you backwards. You curse loudly, body hot and heart threatening to break out past your ribs, as you’re pulled through the air and brought to the ground. You let out a shout, but a large hand clamps across your mouth as you’re flattened against the woodland floor, a strong body trapping you amongst dead leaves and spongey moss.

“Aw, you were so close,” Dex whispers, his other hand pinning your hips down to prevent you from squirming. You narrow your eyes at him, and he laughs. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you y’wouldn’t make it.”

You say something against his palm, but it’s unintelligible. He removes his hand, resting it on your warm cheek instead.

“You cheated,” you grumble, hands finding where his biceps contract beneath his compression shirt. “You didn’t count to a hundred.”

“Baby, I counted to three hundred,” Dex replies, leaning down. With a pleased hum, his hand finds your jaw and angles your head up so he can drag his nose down the column of your throat. You whine, acutely aware your skin is dewy with sweat, but Dex just inhales before his lips part and he sucks a kiss to where your neck joins your shoulder. “God, you smell so fuckin’ good.”

“Dex,” you whisper. His body is a hot press against yours, and you wriggle as that heat permeates your body. Where his hand rests on your hip, you feel his thumb hook into the waistband of your pants. “Dex, please.”

A low rumble leaves his throat as he mouths down your neck, the mass of his thighs spreading your legs apart. He seems to ignore you though as he licks down your neck, his pelvis resting firmly against yours. Slowly, he ruts his hips and you feel the hard length of his cock beneath the layers. It makes your stomach swoop, and a pleasant sort of heat fills you like molasses.

“You can’t run from me,” he suddenly says, pulling his face out of your neck. His pupils are blown wide, eyes appearing near black as he peers down at you. You blink up at him, and your doe-like expression has his cock jumping where it presses to you. He groans. “Oh, my sweet girl, just look at you.”

You bite your lip to temper your own groan as he pulls back, the cool woodland air suddenly biting against your skin. Dex kneels between your spread legs and pulls your pants from your body with such force you’re dragged through the leaves. A small noise of surprise leaves your mouth before Dex is surging forward again.

His mouth slams to yours and swallows the tail-end of your little exclamation, and your hands immediately find the strong expanse of his shoulders as he holds himself over you. The kiss is not gentle in the slightest: your teeth knock together as he pushes against you, his tongue a firm swipe across your lips before he breaches inside. Thick, warm, overwhelming as his tongue flicks across yours, over the points of your molars as well, like he’s committing the taste of you to memory.

Dex moans into your mouth as he ruts his clothed cock against the gusset of your underwear, your core burning hot beneath the flimsy cotton, arousal pooling wet where he slides against you. You wonder, as your tongues meet over and over, if he can feel it. You wonder if Dex can feel the way your underwear grows damp with your desire.

Leaves rustle around you as Dex pulls back, your mouths connected by a thin string of saliva. You breathe harshly into each other’s space, just staring at one another as his hips rock and your legs twitch with each subtle rut against your covered clit.

The string of spit snaps when he speaks. “You’re fucking soaked, aren’t you?”

You burn at his words, trying to turn your head. He doesn’t let you—shooting a hand down to grab your jaw and force your head back. With a firm roll of his hips, the thick silhouette of his cock presses down harshly on your clit, and this time, you can’t hold back the mewl that tumbles from your lips.

“You don’t get to look away from me,” Dex utters, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, smothering another of your whimpers when the print of his cock slides over you again. When he pulls back, you watch him unsheath another knife from his belt.

He sits back on his heels, putting a bit of space between your bodies as he looks down. A vulpine smile creeps across his face when he sees how wet you are. The gusset of your underwear is dark with your arousal, and something primal in the back of his mind urges him to lean down and suck the fabric into his mouth.

He quashes the urge though, taking his knife and pressing the flat of the blade against you. The steel is cold and biting, and you yowl as he holds it firmly against you. You writhe in the leaves, and he grins at you all the while, gently sliding the flat of his knife up and down your clothed core.

“Dex, wait, please—” You whine, back arching when Dex pushes just a little bit firmer. Your sentence dies on your lips as you choke yourself on a moan, and Dex delights in the way your hips twitch and your legs attempt to close around him. But the mass of his body keeps them spread. You breathe out, “Please.”

“You’ve ruined your pretty little panties,” he whispers, almost to himself, as he ignores your pleading and withdraws his knife. He takes the tip of it—dangerously sharp—and touches it ever-so-slightly to the little bump of your clit beneath the material. You suck in a breath, and Dex’s grin widens when he feels you stiffen. “Made such a mess, huh?”

He removes the knife, and you exhale.

But without warning, two thick fingers hook through the elastic that rests in the bend of your thigh. Rough knuckles press firmly to the wet split of your pussy before he gives your underwear a little tug, then slashes his knife through them. 

You yelp as he cuts through the gusset. “Dex!”

Dex sheaths the knife. “You ruined them, baby.”

“But you just cut—!”

You’re cut off when those same two fingers of his split open the folds of your pussy and the cool air of the forest braces against you. You watch him with fluttering eyelids as he leers down at where he spreads you, watching the slick drip from your hole. He can’t help but chuckle to himself, shaking his head.

“She’s drooling for me,” he whispers, almost bewildered. He brings his fingers down to run a tight circle over your hole, and his eyes snap to your face momentarily as your entire body shudders, a moan slipping from you. 

Your eyes close, and that’s when his fingers vanish—only for four more to land against you in a firm smack. You rip your eyes open, a stuttered moan of his name filling the air, and you send a few birds flying from their roosts as it echoes.

“Look at me,” Dex tells you, a small dip in his brow. His breathing is laboured when his fingers find your core again, rubbing your hole in soothing circles as you tremble beneath him. When your eyes find his, he moans. “There we go.”

His hand flies to shuck his pants and underwear down, his breathing becoming more and more ragged as his cock hangs free. You moan as he grasps himself at the base and fists himself, spreading your slick across the shaft. His hips pitch forward, and he slaps the ruddy tip against your swollen clit.

“Fucking hell,” Dex hisses, dragging the tip through your wet folds. He does this a few times, rutting against you, splitting you open with the length of his cock. The vein on the underside rubs against you in just the right way that you arch off the ground, leaves crinkling. As you do this, Dex draws the head of his cock down until he can press it right against your hole. “Here we go, baby. Let’s make ‘em kiss a little.”

He bites his bottom lip, brows drawing together as he pushes the tip against your drooling hole. The moan that leaves your mouth has his balls twitching, with something drawing tight in the base of his stomach, and he repeats the movement: pushing the flushed tip of his cock against your slick hole, pushing in just enough to make your breath hitch, before pulling out.

He watches with swollen pupils as a small string of your slick pulls taut from your pussy to the head of his cock. It severs when he fists himself, and he watches instead as a pearl of pre-cum beads at his slit. He swipes it against you, running his cock back through your folds again, relishing in the dull electric current that passes down his spine.

He feels like a live wire.

“Dex,” you call to him, your hands gripping the ground around you uselessly as you arch and writhe, attempting to chase his contact.

“I’m right here, baby,” Dex whimpers, mouth dropping open when he finally slides his cock back down to your hole. This time, he notches the head fully in one gentle rock of his hips, and he bends down to kiss you when you whine at the stretch. Your pussy flutters around him, and he swears he could have come right then and there. He pulls back, pecking the corner of your mouth. “Here we go, baby, here we go. Open up for me.”

Pressure builds tight in your belly as Dex pushes in. His cock splits you open, the heat of your cunt opening up for him as he moves in. His spine tingles—if he was any more of a freak, it might’ve started glowing—as your walls part for him, slick and warm against the thick of his cock. You mould around him, clay-like in the way you take him. It makes him stutter around a moan as you flutter and tighten, sucking him in like you always did.

“That’s it, that’s a good girl,” he coos as you whimper, hips finally joining with yours. His balls rest heavy against the curve of your arse. They twitch when your fingers find his shoulders, your nails needling through the fabric that obscures them. He groans loudly, and it bounces from tree to tree. “Y’always take me so well.”

You mumble something, but it’s lost in the pleasure fogging your brain. Dex is still, resting so deep inside you that you swear you can feel him in your guts. Your heart hammers wildly against your sternum, skin dewy with sweat as your adrenaline rush continues to linger.

“Yeah,” Dex continues after a beat, stretching back to watch as he pulls his cock from you. The head rests sheathed in the heat of your cunt, silken and soft and so incredibly warm around him. He smiles down at you. “Yeah, she always takes me so well. Pussy’s a dream, isn’t she, baby?”

You hum out a dizzied moan as he ruts back in. Even when you try to expect it, it always catches you off guard: the head of his cock slams directly into that spongy spot inside you that has you seeing stars. There’s no preamble, there’s no search. He knows exactly where he needs to go, and he hits his target hard.

You clutch him tightly. “Oh, fuck, Dex, baby, that’s—uh—”

“Oh I know, sweet girl, I know,” Dex rambles as he holds himself over you, legs caught around his hips as he sets his pace. You’re dripping around him, and each of his thrusts elicit wet plap-plap-plap’s that seem loud over the blood pumping in your ears. Your cunt drools out with his movements, slick leaking down the curve of your arse. Dex breathes through a hoarse groan. “Fucking Christ, baby, just listen to her. She’s a mouthy girl today, huh?”

The pressure in your belly builds, stretching tightly like a rubber band as you listen to the pornographically wet shlicks of your cunt.

You can’t find the words to answer him. But you scarcely can in times like this. His pillowtalk always strikes you dumb, and all you can do is lie there and take his cock and enjoy the way he rambles.

You do give him a pathetic little whine in response though, and he replies with another vicious smile that deepens the lines around his eyes.

“You know she is,” he tells you as he rocks you into the soft earth beneath you. “Got all worked up while I chased you through the woods, didn’t you? Got your pussy drooling knowing I was hunting you, didn’t it?”

You heat up with your embarrassment, and the moan that fights its way out of your chest doesn’t feel like your own. “Dex, I—”

“Y’thought you could outrun me…” Dex ignores you. His cock nudges up near the plug of your womb, and your stomach clenches tightly as your legs begin to tremble. He continues, undeterred by the meek whimpers he’s pulling from you. “Y’thought you could—run—from—me.”

He speaks as he thrusts. They’re heavy hitting, and he drills you into the leaves and moss as you yowl. The sound is fittingly animalistic for the setting, like the mangled bleating of a lamb as it’s pursued by a wolf: maw red, eyes hungry.

You feel him in your stomach. He fills you so much, so perfectly, you swear he knocks the air from your lungs. The grunts and groans that fall from his lips don’t help either, and you find yourself gasping as your release looms, cresting like a wave.

Dex watches you, sweat beading high on his forehead as he takes what he needs. With something flashing in his eyes, he takes a hand and presses down on the softness of your lower belly. Your eyes roll, a splintered moan finding life in the cool air above you.

“You feel me in your tummy, baby?” He asks, tone hinged across a whine. His big hand splays across your womb. “Fuck, m’so—m’so deep. You feel my cock in here?”

When you broached this predator-prey situation to him, you never imagined it would end up quite like this.

You moan. “Fuck, y-yeah, baby—m’so full.”

Dex moans, much like yours. He sits back now, taking your hips in two hands. His thrusts build in speed and he’s hitting you deep—the right spot every single time. He pulls you back onto him, panting like a dog as you tighten. He can feel the way your legs quiver either side of him too, and he watches as your entire body begins to shake.

You’re teetering right on the edge of release. The rubber band in the pit of your stomach is pulling so tight it’s almost painful, and there’s a solid sort of pleasure in your spine that’s waiting to fissure. To crack, and splinter, and burst into a million pieces.

And Dex wants it too.

He wants to feel you come around his cock and squeeze him within an inch of his life. He wants to feel you pulse around him, thrum around him, milk him for all he’s worth.

“You wanna come?” He asks you quietly, and it’s surprisingly soft in comparison to his thrusts. His cock doesn’t relent and you begin to feel dizzy with your rising pleasure, your muscle fibres burning with it.

You nod hurriedly. “Please, Dex. M’so close, I just need—”

“I know what my sweet girl needs,” Dex mutters and, still using one hand to fuck you down onto his cock, his other hand winds down and finds the swollen pearl of your clit. 

Two fingers find it straight away, and he draws a pattern of shapes across it as you sob his name. You’re chanting his name and his ego soars, his balls pulling tight at the way you say it: “Dex, Dex, oh fuck, Dex, please—!”

You’re spiralling. The rubber band is pulling tight, tight, tight.

“Let me feel you,” he says. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

The band snaps.

You arch as you come, squeezing around his cock as your hands scrape down the taut muscles of his shoulders. You cry for him, his name the only intelligible word rolling off your tongue as your pussy spasms around him. Heat floods your entire body, the pressure in the base of your spine fragmenting as your legs seize around him, pulling him even tighter against you. It’s a heavy pleasure that pulls you under, and you find yourself gasping as Dex fucks you through it, and you’re so dazed that you don’t notice he’s writing his full name against your clit.

As your orgasm crests and fizzles, Dex takes two hands and plants them on your waist. With a deep growl, he holds you to him, forcing himself into the hilt as his own pleasure snaps like bone. He comes right against your cervix with a jerk of his hips.

“Take it, baby, take it, ah, fuck, fuck—” Dex rocks downward and buries his face into the crook of your neck, moaning your name as he spills, body flattening atop yours. 

His cum fills you while his cock twitches, and he whimpers like he’s hurt as his balls tighten and his entire body flushes hot. You whine, scratching your nails down his back as his hips give a few feeble rolls before he stills, plugging his cum inside you. He kisses your neck lazily as you both settle into the natural silence of the woods.

“Dex…” You whisper, and he turns his head just as you do.

Your mouths slot together. The kiss is slower, more gentle. It’s the gentle lapping of the lake against the shingled shore. It’s the whisper of the cool autumn breeze and the chittering of dried leaves across the ground. Your tongues meet, wet and warm and slow, and he whines softly into it as you give his a playful suck before his head falls back.

“We should do this more often,” you tell him, and he huffs, pressing his mouth back to yours. His teeth skim over your lip. Not quite a bite, but it’s enough to realise he’s a mutt with a bone that he’s willing and ready to sink his teeth into. You pull away again as one of your hands finds the back of his head, threading through his soft hair. You give it a gentle tug and he offers you a small, desperate whimper. “Next time, you’re not going to catch me.”

Dex’s eyes scan your face, and you feel his cock jerk inside of you. He smiles, and your stomach comes alive with nervous butterflies.

“I’ll catch you every time,” he whispers, and he allows you to plant a kiss to the scar on his cheek. He hums, pleased as his cock gives another pathetic jolt inside you. “You can’t run from me, baby. I’ll always catch you.”

———

bro who wants this !?!?

(me)

tags 🌿

@breakspearz @targaryenstar @pepzilover @genya1617 @st4rmborn @sun-snatcher @ancientbeing10