🔭

Considering you’re already on his doorstep like an idiot, with a pie in your hands and a bullshit excuse ready to go, you figure there’s not that much more to lose. You steady the pie against your hip, smoothing down your hair with your thin fingers. You take a deep breath before hesitantly rapping your knuckles against the door.

knock, knock, knock.

You hold the pie steady with both hands again, heart pattering in anticipation. Truthfully, you’re thinking about turning around and calling it a day, but you hear a gruff, “yeah, yeah, I’m comin’, hang on.” and then shuffling behind the door. Before you know it, the door swings backwards, and the man who’s been living in your head the past few nights is stood there.

He hooks a hand above the doorframe, like he’s bigger than the frame itself, and nods at you, that same polite, friendly expression on his face. “Hey,” he says, “Everything okay sweetheart?” His gaze flicks over your body before settling on the pie in your hands, his eyebrows tilted slightly in confusion.

There’s a second where you just stare at him. Up close, he looks exactly the same as always, that worn flannel, those rough hands. The kind of man everyone on the street waves to. The kind of man whose house you definitely don’t show up to unannounced at eight thirty. You shift the pie against your hip. “Uhm, I made too much pie.” you say quickly. One of his eyebrow lift as he asks, “That right?” His tone isn’t suspicious, but there’s clearly confusion beneath it. Like he’s trying to figure out why this girl from a street down is standing on his porch.

“Yeah, and it’s um, cherry,” you add, because apparently that helps. His mouth twitches amusedly. “Well,” he says slowly, “that explains absolutely nothing.” Heat creeps into your face and you start blabbering, “I just thought maybe-” You stop yourself. “Well my aunt said you live alone- and I felt bad- and so I had extra pie and then-”. Waving around his hand, he cuts you off and asks,“Your aunt gossips about me?” The second you spoke, you wish you could reverse it. “Well yeah, but she gossips about everyone” you say nervously, and that gets a chuckle out of him.

The porch light hums softly overhead, and suddenly, you become hyperaware of everything, the cold night air, the warmth of the pie bleeding through its tin and the fact that he’s looking at you like he still hasn’t quite figured out what this visit it. He watches you carefully, thinking about his choice of words and finally nods his head at his door, “Alright sweetie, you better come in then, it’s freezing out.”

He moves to the side to let you step inside, then shuts the door behind you with a click. By natural instinct, you begin observing everything you see. You scan his hallway with your eyes; his house is clean, it has this warm, comfy feel, and- is that a plant? Not that you’ve been thinking about Frank (well?), but you wouldn’t have thought he’s a plant guy.

You smile to yourself as he leads you into his living room, walking infront of you. As he walks past his rustic timber table, he taps his fingers on it gently, like it’s an old friend. “You can put the pie here sweetheart”, he says gently, in a paternal tone. You do as he suggests, placing the warm tin down onto the table and stay stood up, scratching the back of your leg with your other foot.

He watches you attentively, clearly wondering why you’re so nervous when you were the one who showed up at his door. “You alright?” he asks, tilting his head forward slightly. You glance up at him, startled out of your thoughts. “Oh- yeah, sorry,” you mutter with an awkward smile. He just shakes his head, a quiet smirk tugging at his lips as he heads toward the kitchen, like you’re some unintentionally hilarious kid amusing him without even trying.

For some reason, that gets under your skin, the idea that he might see you as childish, and you have to physically stop yourself from frowning as he walks back. “Plates,” he announces proudly, holding one in each hand like a trophy. You smile like you’re in pain- “Plates,” you repeat dryly, lifting your brows sarcastically.

Frank sets the dishes down on the table, even pulling out a chair for you before turning back with a thoughtful look. “Oh, want anything to drink?” he asks, and honestly, you’re still intimidated by him and the fact you’re actually here. “Uhm, sure,” you say shyly, as you sit down in the chair he pulled out for you, trying to seem a little more outgoing. He shrugs lightly, “What do you want sweetheart? I’ve got milk, uhm- tea if you want,” he says, gazing off at the ceiling in concentration while he thinks.

You nod along as he speaks, his voice smooth as the polished timber table between you. “Have you got any whiskey?” you ask quietly, looking up at his manly figure. He frowns immediately. “Ain’tcha a little young for that?” he asks, perplexed. You glare at him with a sigh. “You’re so not funny,” you mutter, scooting your chair closer to the table to get comfortable.

He scans his eyes up and down your figure. “I’m serious; besides, whiskey with pie?” he asks with a grimace on his face. His hands are on his hips as he speaks, and you can’t help but scan your eyes over his muscles, over his broad chest pulling on the fabric of his shirt, like it’s about to tear any minute. “Oh, I don’t want any, I don’t even like cherries that much.” you shrug, running a finger around the edge of your empty plate.

He raises an eyebrow, tracing his tongue over his teeth as he watches you curiously. “What? It’s too sweet.” you protest, wondering why it’s a big deal. His eyes flicker over you, and suddenly the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk. “Huh, you made too much of a pie you don’t even like?”

Your lips part to answer him but you realise you’re stuck. His stupid smirk only gets wider when you don’t say anything, and he folds his arms across his chest. “Right then.” he says softly. You look down at your plate, suddenly very interested in the lack of food on it. “I just thought you might want some.” you mumble. He raises his eyebrows again and asks, “Even though you don’t like it?” he asks. You finally look at him again, “Well- I can bake things I don’t like.” you shoot back quickly. He studies you for a second too long, eyes narrowed with a quiet amusement, then huffs out a laugh through his nose. “Alright then.”

The room goes quiet after that, hot and awkward in a way that makes your stomach twist. You pray he doesn’t think you’re some weirdo who knocks on peoples doors with pies. God, you’re losing your mind. He glances between you and the untouched pie sitting on the table before turning around and leaving the room, his footsteps hushing as he walks away. You throw your head in your hands- you’ve actually made him walk away.

After a moment, he enters the room again with two forks in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. He places the glass onto the table with a clink. “Well, if I’m gonna eat pie from some kid who accidentally made too much, I’d hope it’s safe.” He slides one of the forks across the table toward you, and you reluctantly pick it up. He sees your hesitation and tilts his head slightly, leaning onto the table with his arms holding his weight as he stands. “You really don’t like cherries?” he asks gently.

You shake your head, muttering, “Not really,” and somehow his face softens. He nods, pulling a chair out and sitting down, “That’s alright sweetheart.” He pulls the dish towards himself, lifting up his fork. His eyes flicker to yours for a moment before he cuts himself a piece, carefully moving it to his plate. Your eyes can’t peel away from his every move, and he can tell. Slowly, he lifts his fork to his mouth and takes a bite of your pie. He nods as he chews, eyes closing for a moment. Of course, you can’t help but smile proudly, he actually likes it. He likes the pie that you made.

Once he’s finished the first bite, he looks up at you, wagging a finger. “Tell you what, you sure can make a pie kid.” he says appreciatively, taking another bite. “Thank you,” you reply, the tips of your ears flushing red. He notices it course, but quietly continues eating his pie. You take the glass of milk on the table and raise it to your lips, just to give yourself something to do. Eventually, he finishes his pie, and slides the fork down onto his plate. He doesn’t let go of it straight away though, his eyes lifting back to yours instead. “So,” he says slowly, “You gonna tell me why you actually came here, or are we sticking to the pie story?”

You open your mouth, then shut it again when you realise you have no follow up lie prepared. Heat crawls up your neck and he catches it immediately. “Is it so hard to believe I wanted to do something nice for a neighbour?” you ask defensively, the room suddenly feeling really hot.

He looks over to your almost full glass of milk and pulls it across the table, stopping it in front of himself. His eyes flick over your lipgloss imprint on the rim of the glass, and he lifts it to his lips, taking a painfully slow sip. He intimidates you, but for some reason you can’t look away from him. Slowly, he swipes his thumb over his lip, now tacky with your lipgloss. You swear your stomach physically flips at that.

With a low grin to himself, he stands up, stacking the dishes and glass onto each other. He gives a small nod to you and turns to leave the room again, presumably taking the dishes to the kitchen. You hear the rushing of water and the clinking of dishes. He’s really washing up right now? When there’s literally someone at his house?

You roll your eyes, frustrated at yourself more than him. You had one chance and now you’ve blown it. You’re gonna go home and live with the fact that tonight will haunt you for the rest of your life, and he’s gonna forget about you next month. Mention you on dates, simply remembering you as that loser kid who showed up to his door with a sad cherry pie.

You sit at the table, sulking about the past twenty minutes and eventually, you hear Frank’s footsteps getting gradually louder as he walks back into the room. He’s rolling his sleeves back down when you catch his eye. “Oh, you still here?” he asks casually, like your presence isn’t all that important to him. You frown confusedly as you scoot your chair back to stand up and say, “Well, where else would I be?” While he watches you move, he shrugs indifferently, leaning onto the wall behind him. That boils your blood. “Thought you’d have gone.” he says coolly. You bite the inside of your cheek, looking for a smart answer, but you can’t find one.

The thing is, he’s right. You should be gone now, because it’s not like you’re friends or anything? You just brought a pie and a stupid excuse to his house, you don’t even have a reason to stay.

The longer the silence drags on, the more obvious it becomes that Frank’s right. You should probably leave. He’s already had some pie, your excuse for coming over was bullshit to begin with, and now you’re just hovering in his living room looking ridiculous. Frank watches the thought settle over you and, unlike before, the careless expression on his face softens slightly around the edges.

“Hey,” he says, quieter this time, like he can tell you’re starting to feel embarrassed. “I’m messing with you.” You glance up at him uncertainly. He’s still leaning against the wall, relaxed as ever, but there’s something steadier in his expression now, less amused and more patient. “You get embarrassed too easily sweetheart,” he says softly, observing your face. “That’s not my fault,” you mutter, barely making eye contact.

A small laugh leaves him at that, low and easy. “Nah, I guess it isn’t.” Your eyes drift towards the half eaten pie on the table and your face warms all over again. “You didn’t have to eat it, you know.” you say quietly, cringing at yourself. “Course I did.” He shrugs like it’s obvious. “You brought it all the way here, and I couldn’t refuse it from a sweet girl like you.” he says simply. You shrug, insides churning with heat.

You feel like you’re losing your mind, so you cross your feet to give yourself something to do. “It was a stupid idea.” you breathe out. Frank nods, his eyes not leaving your turned down face. “Maybe yeah,” he admits, “but it was nice.” The words catch you off guard because he says them so simply, and yet you still can’t understand what he means.

He notices the way you go quiet after that and shakes his head faintly, pushing himself off the wall. “Stop hovering around like you’re about to get told off.” he sighs, gesturing his head to the chair you previously abandoned. You hesitate before sitting back down slowly, and he watches you for a second with that same knowing look he’s had all night. “You know,” he says casually, “you could’ve just said you wanted to stay.” Immediately, you look down at your hands, your body flooded with embarrassment. “I didn’t know if you wanted me here.” you mutter, like it’s hard to speak. Frank’s expression shifts at that, softer now in a way that makes your chest ache a little. “Kid,” he says, almost amused, “if I wanted you gone, you’d know.”

You feel like you’re going insane to be honest. Only now, you’re realising what a dumb idea it was to come to his house in the first place. He probably couldn’t care less about your crush on him if he found out, he thinks of you as some ‘kid’ anyways. But you’re not, and you’re desperate to prove it to him. Your mind races at a million miles a second, desperately thinking of something to say to end this awkward moment. But it’s not your words that break the silence. Your ears perk up like a puppy when you hear his deep, low voice. “You wanna tell me why you’re really here darlin’?” he asks, trying to coax the answer out of you.

You should’ve known what you got yourself into when you tapped on his door. When you entered his house with your little cherry pie. Heat grows at the bottom of your stomach, and you’re desperate to hear more of his low, manly drawl.

He tips his head to the side, and you lose all feelings in your legs. “I’m, well- I wanted to,” you begin, your mouth suddenly filled with dust. Frank just smirks that low, teasing smirk and whispers, “There’s nothing to be scared of sweetie, just tell me the truth.” You swear he’s doing it on purpose, he has to know the effect he has on you, especially when it’s so clear on your face.

“Hm?” he taunts, stepping towards you slightly, and your breath catches in your throat. There’s still a metre between you, but your skin is actually radiating heat now. “Well I just wanted to come and see you.” you choke out, eyes glued to the floor. “Hey,” he says, voice barely a whisper, “look at me when you’re speaking.” The way he says it makes your heart stop, and not because he says it in a patronising way, but because it’s like he’s teaching. Like he cares about you, like he wants the best for you.

Your eyes slowly unstick from the floor, moving up to meet his and he cracks a smile. “Alright good,” he nods, his arms crossed over his chest. Your stomach flips at his authoritative tone when he asks, “Why’d you wanna come see me then?” You’ve already got yourself into this shit, you think, so you might aswell tell the truth. “I thought you were handsome,” you shrug, “I wanted to get to know you a little- everyone talks about you.” you say bluntly, heart pounding in your chest at your own directness.

“S’that so?” he smiles, stepping away, walking towards his tv, which has a bottle of some fancy wine and a half empty glass of it placed besides it. You watch him grasp the bottle and lift it to his face. He huffs a short laugh through his nose and says, “That’s funny.” but you assume it can’t be anything that amusing.

He places the bottle back down while his back is to you, and picks the glass up like a feather, before raising it to his lips. You’re still wondering what he’s chuckling about? He turns back to look at you, the distance between you much wider now, while taking slow sips of the wine, like he’s choosing the words that are gonna leave his mouth very carefully.

His eyes flick over to the pie on the table for a second before he looks back at you. “Could’ve just knocked on the door, honey.” he says, stepping back towards you. You roll your eyes immediately to hide how badly he affects you, and of course he notices it. You’re just praying he can’t see you pressing your thighs together beneath the table. But he just says calmly, “You didn’t have to make the pie excuse up.”

You can’t help but let out a small laugh, it sounds so much sillier now that the words are leaving his lips. Your gaze meets his as you smile, and his heart warms. “You’re a pretty girl,” he whispers, returning your smile as he sips his wine. You blush at his words, but you can tell there’s a ‘however’ incoming. He lowers the glass down, parting his mouth to talk. “But I’m way too old for you sweetheart.” he breathes out. Slowly, you shake your head in protest. “You can’t just decide that for me.” you say, finding your voice. He raises his eyebrows in surprise, not used to you being opinionated before. He likes it.

“Yeah?” he asks. “I’m not the boys your age sweetheart, I don’t do the shit they do.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I know,” you start, “I’m tired of the boys my age.” you huff, hands holding your head as your elbows rest on the table. He doesn’t answer that, just turns towards a window and keeps taking small sips of that stupid wine. You can’t help but stare at his back, and the muscles of his arms. Imagining what they would look like holding you down. His arm wrapped around your waist, his mouth on your neck, his-

For goodness fucking sake.

You sigh, breaking the silence filling the atmosphere by pushing your chair back with a creak. Frank turns around slowly to see what you’re doing. “Why?” you hear him ask, the atmosphere of the room so thick you could cut it with a knife. “Why what…?” you raise a brow as stand up straight, patting you skirt down.

He doesn’t even say anything, just watches you with narrow eyes and somehow, you’re compelled to walk a few steps across the room and sit on his leather brown L-shaped couch. It’s like he’s challenging you silently, daring you to leave, but of course you won’t give in.

As you slump onto the couch, he takes a couple steps over, finally standing right at your feet. “Why are you tired of boys your own age?” he asks, like he’s genuinely curious. You look up at him, chest suddenly feeling tight. “Hm?” he urges, and you tell him awkwardly, “Well, they’re idiots,” you sigh, “and they don’t make me feel good.” Frank raises his eyebrows, clicking his teeth, as if to say he’s not surprised.

You don’t expect to feel so flustered by telling someone about your love life. It feels like your chest is growing tighter, especially when he asks so casually, “Yeah? They don’t know how to take care of you?” while shaking his head, like they’re commiting crimes.

You shake your head slowly, wishing he would stop talking and actually get on top of you. Your heart is pattering like a drum as he stands in front of you, but what you don’t expect him to do next is crouch down to get level with you. “You ain’t satisfied darlin’?” he coos as he sits eye to eye with you, his voice barely a whisper. You don’t know what to do but shake your head, and that’s what you do.

Your eyes drift away into your lap as he sits there and observes, like he’s never seen someone as small and sweet as you. “Hey,” he breathes out, and your eyes move up to meet his. The heat in your stomach is expanding, moving dangerously lower and Frank orders you plainly, “Open your mouth.”

You obey of course, opening your mouth, waiting patiently for what he’s going to do next. As your soft lips part in anticipation, he lifts his glass of wine to your lips, tilting it forward for you to have a sip. The acidic, earthy taste floods your tastebuds, and you realise why he found the bottle so amusing.

It’s Pinot Noir. And it has strong notes of cherry.

You swallow the wine, your doe eyes never leaving his. Slowly, he raises his hand to your mouth, wiping your lip dry with his calloused thumb. “There,” he says, “because you’re such a big girl and apparently you drink.” Even when he pulls his hand away, your lip burns with the reminder of his touch. He slowly gets back up, pushing his hands on his thighs to stand, and walks to the armchair opposite you. Carefully, he takes a seat, finally placing the glass of wine down onto a coffee table beside him.

“What then, you think I could treat you better, sweetheart?” he asks, leaning forward to brace his elbows against his thighs. The shift in posture does something unbearable to you, the casual spread of his legs and the way he leans in making heat coil low in your stomach. Everything about him is making you wet, and you can’t help it when your breath hitches at him leaning forward like he’s telling you off.

Suddenly you feel far too aware of him, of the weight of his attention fixed entirely on you. When you don’t answer, he tilts his head slightly, his voice firmer this time. “Wanna answer me when I talk to you, hon?”

God, that goes through you. You feel so dirty, but when he talks to you like he’s in charge, you just feel like melting. You nod “Mhm” submissively, but you’re just met with his fixated gaze. “I asked if you think I’d be better than those idiots.” he says calmly, waiting for your answer. You hear him this time, and not wanting to disappoint him, you answer back, “I- yeah. yeah I do” all hesitantly.

He nods slowly, dwelling over your words. “Okay,” he says steadily, dragging out every word, “and what makes you think that?” He frowns with those gorgeous eyes of his, waiting for your answer. “Well, you’re surely more experienced.” you start, and he nods as you speak, showing you he’s listening. “And you’re a gentleman.” you breathe out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Your face flushes as he watches you with that brooding stare.

He lifts his wineglass and drains the last of it in one swallow, setting it down with a soft clink. A sigh slips from him as he turns your words over in his mind. “Well, darling,” he says at last, rubbing a hand over the stubble along his jaw, “I don’t know what to do with you.” You aren’t sure what possesses you then, what loosens the thought from wherever the fuck you’d buried it, but the next words spill from your mouth before you can stop them.

“Whatever you want.”

Suddenly, your mouth feels full of honey, thick and suffocating, as though it’s sealing your lips shut and stealing your ability to speak. You want to apologise, to tell him what you said was stupid and immature, but no matter how hard you try, your mouth refuses to move. You want to run too, but you can’t. The honey is spreading through you, sinking into your muscles, weighing you down from the inside out.

Frank’s expression softens as he says, “Sweetheart I know, but I’m so much older than you.” There’s sympathy in his voice, quiet understanding that makes it seem like he knows exactly what it is you want from him.

Of course he wants it too. There’s nothing he wants more than to fuck you right here, to keep going until you’re a breathless mess beneath him, trembling and begging. The thought alone nearly undoes him. But you deserve better, and he knows it.

With a strained groan, he drags a hand down his face, the conflict written plainly across his features. “Look, you’re young, honey, you should have someone your age.” he says with a weary sigh, shaking his head as though he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

You whine, frustrated. Frustrated that he’s a good man with morals. But that’s not what you need right now. Right now you want to forget everything, to feel nothing beside his rough hands on your skin. “Please.” you sigh, the need between your legs spreading upwards and around. Your tits ache, your thighs ache, your heart aches.

“Darling, you have to understand I’m experienced okay? he sighs, “I don’t want to be taking advantage of you.” You watch him with your big eyes, waiting for him to change his mind, to reconsider it. He throws his head down, rubbing the back of his neck, and you can tell he’s contemplating it.

He leans back again with a low chuckle. “Honey, you’re killing me.” Before you can stop yourself, your thighs press together for the second time that night, a small, instinctive movement. Frank notices immediately. His eyes flick downward, lingering for a moment before lifting back to your face, amusement softening his expression. “Oh, darling,” he murmurs gently, almost pityingly, “you’re aching, ain’tcha?”

Somehow that makes you even wetter. That pitying, condescending tone that laces his every word. You were annoyed earlier that he treats you like a child, yes. But you’re so hot and bothered now, drowning in need that you couldn’t care less. As long as he agrees to fuck you, he can treat you however he wants.

A quiet whimper slips past your lips, and Frank realises how much you need it. There’s a slow change in his expression then, and amusement gives way to something quieter, more curious. “Oh sweetheart,” he chuckles softly, like he’s finally accepted it. You whine, your whole body aching for him, and he leans back on the armchair with a soft creak, beckoning you over with the flick of two of his fingers.

Tentatively, you stand, legs peeling away from the brown leather of his couch with a faint sting. As you take a few small steps toward him, he leans back even further, as if he has all the time in the world, sprawling his legs apart slowly. He shifts his hips, creating a space between his thighs on the couch, and your legs nearly become limp at that basic act.

But god, he’s the epitome of a man. Rugged, handsome, caring.

Frank tilts his head to the side, watching you stand infront of him like a little deer caught in headlights. “Yeah sweetheart?” he asks, adjusting his hips purposely. “Please” you mewl, face screwed up in frustration as you stand in front of him, begging without words. He just smiles at you understandingly and it drives you nuts. How he’s able to be so calm when you’re bursting with need. “Please what?” he coos, “Tell me what you need and I’ll give you it,” he finally breathes out, patting at the space free between his legs.

You want to crawl into his lap, but when you move closer to him, he moves his hands to your hips, guiding you carefully to sit between his legs, with your back to his warm chest. He runs his palms down the length of your arms, prickly with goosebumps. His head is right beside yours as he leans forward, and when you feel his warm breath fanning on your neck, your mind goes blank. “I need you to touch me,” you whine, on the verge of tears from how sensitive you are.

All you can hear is him breathing, and your core aches in desperation and need. Slowly, one of his large hands settle possessively on your thigh, sliding the hem of your skirt up slowly, calloused fingertips tracing the sensitive skin there like he’s got all the time in the world. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling your back flush against his broad chest so you can feel the steady heat of him, the solid muscle beneath his flannel.

You whine, feeling like you’re about to explode if he doesn’t just touch you. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your ear, his voice rough and warm. “Just let me take care of that ache f’you.” The words slip out so naturally it makes your breath hitch, heat flooding your cheeks. His fingers keep traveling higher, brushing the edge of your panties, and finally he turns his head a little, looking for confirmation that you want this.

You whine “mhm” before he even gets the words out, and slowly, his fingers start to rub soft circles on your inner thigh, before silently slipping beneath the thin fabric of your panties. You’re already soaked, embarrassingly wet, and he lets out a quiet, appreciative groan when he feels it.

“Fuck, darlin’. This little pussy’s drippin’ for me already?” he chuckles softly, the sound vibrating past your neck. “Such a needy girl, comin’ over here hopin’ I’d touch you like this.” Suddenly, two thick fingers glide through your slick folds, spreading the wetness, teasing your entrance without pushing them in yet. He circles your clit lazily, applying just enough pressure to make your hips twitch. All the while, he’s watching your face, taking in your every reaction.

You whimper, head falling back against his shoulder, and he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck. “That’s it. Let me hear those pretty sounds. You been thinkin’ about this, haven’t you sweetheart?” he coos, voice barely above a low groan. But he’s still not giving you the pleasure you crave- just touching you softly.

Then, he pushes a meaty finger into you, stretching you open until you’re moaning. If his finger is this filling, what would his cock feel like?

A second finger slides into your heat, and he pushes his digits in slowly, feeling you suck him in tightly, inch by inch. He curls them just right and the stretch is perfect- his fingers thick and experienced as he starts moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm that has you gasping. He pumps them steadily and his thumb finds your clit, beginning to rub slick circles while his other hand holds your hip firmly in place, keeping you right there in his lap.

“Goddamn, you’re tight,” he praises, his voice gravelly with lust. “Squeezin’ my fingers so good, sweetheart. Oh, those boys didn’t know what to do with a girl like you.” He curls his thick fingers again, stroking that sensitive spot over and over, and your thighs start to tremble. You can’t take it anymore, his fingers mixed with those dirty words spilling out his mouth. “But I know. I’m gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Just let go f’me.”

As he painfully forces a third finger inside you, your head falls back on his chest. You moan louder, grinding down against his hand and chasing your pleasure. He keeps that same steady pace, whispering filthy praise right against your ear as you become wetter and wetter. “Look at you, ridin’ my fingers so desperately. So wet I can hear it, darlin’.” he whispers into your ear. He knows what he’s doing.

The pressure coils tighter in your belly and heat spreads through your whole body. His thumb words rapidly at you clot and his fingers thrust deeper as he holds onto you, moving them perfectly. “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you’re close, cum f’me.”

Before you know it, your back arches, breath coming in gasps as the orgasm crashes over you. Pleasure explodes through every nerve, your walls fluttering and squeezing around his thick fingers while he keeps stroking you through it, murmuring low praises the whole time, “That’s it, good girl… just like that.” until you’re shaking and whimpering in his lap, completely shattered.

His fingers stay inside you as the last of your orgasm ripples through you, your walls still fluttering around them. You’re trembling in his lap, head heavy against his shoulder, and he holds you there with one strong arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand continuing with slow, gentle strokes in and out of you, to ease you down from the high.

Fuck. What the hell am I doing?

The thought hits him like a freight train even as his cock strains painfully against his jeans, throbbing at the way your soaked pussy is still gripping his fingers desperately. You’re so damn young and soft and sweet and looking up at him with those trusting eyes like he’s the answer to every ache you’ve ever had. He should stop. He knows he should stop. You deserve someone closer to your own age, some kid who doesn’t have years of rough hands and a lifetime of mistakes behind him.

But God, you feel like heaven. Wet, hot, and so responsive, soaking his palm and making those little whimpering sounds that go straight to his dick.

She came over here with a goddamn cherry pie, for Christ’s sake. She’s barely more than a girl, and here I am knuckle-deep in her like some dirty old man.

His jaw clenches. He slowly pulls his fingers free with a squelch, but your pussy is desperate and so reluctant to let them go. His fingers are glistening with your release as he watches the way you feel so empty once they’re pulled out of you. That sight nearly breaks him right there. He brings his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers clean with a low, involuntary groan, savoring the taste of you- sweet and salty- before the guilt comes back twice as bad.

“Jesus, sweetheart…” he mutters against your hair, voice rough. His free hand strokes soothing circles over your thigh, pushing your skirt back down gently like that small act of modesty could somehow make this better.

She trusted you enough to walk through your door. You’re supposed to be the responsible one here. The adult. Not the guy who fingers his neighbor’s young niece on his armchair after one slice of fucking pie.

You shift in his lap, still breathing hard, pressing back against the obvious bulge in his jeans, and Frank hisses through his teeth. His hips twitch once before he forces them still.

Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare take this any further.

He’s painfully hard, aching to replace his fingers with his cock and bury himself inside that tight heat until you’re crying out his name. He wants to ruin you for anyone else, to show you exactly how a real man takes care of a woman. But that’s exactly why he can’t. You’re not some experienced woman who knows what she’s getting into. You’re the girl from down the street who blushes when he calls her “sweetheart” and bakes him pie because she heard he lives alone.

His chest tightens with the conflict. Part of him- the darker, hungrier part, wants to flip you over, spread your legs wider, and fuck the innocence right out of you until you’re shaking and addicted to his touch. The other part, the one that’s kept him a quiet, respected loner all these years, screams that he’d be no better than every other selfish bastard if he does.

“You okay, darlin’?” he asks softly, pressing a kiss to your temple even as he argues with himself. His voice is steady, but inside he’s going insane. His egos inflated by making you come so hard, but he’s full of shame at how easily he gave in to touching you in the first place. He wants you. More than he’s wanted anyone in a long time. But he’s not sure he can live with himself if he takes any more.

You’re trembling in his lap, breath ragged, head heavy against his shoulder. But the pleasure only increases the ache between your legs. It’s not enough. You need more.

You whine softly, twitching restlessly, grinding back against the thick bulge pressing into your ass. “Frankk” you moan, the sound coming out needy and broken. Your hips roll again, desperate. “Please- I need you. I need you so bad.” you cry. He lets out a low groan, his arm tightening around your waist like he’s physically holding himself back. His fingers slip out of you slowly, leaving you underwhelmed and empty, clenching around nothing. You sense the trouble he’s having and the tension in his body, but also how his dick is hard against you even as his breathing grows ragged.

“Honey,” he mutters, voice strained, “you don’t know what you’re askin’ for. I’m so much more experienced, I-” You turn in his lap, straddling his thick thighs so you’re facing him. Your hands claw at his flannel shirt and you whine, “I know Frank. I know, but I need you inside me- please, Frank. I need you now.”

His jaw clenches, eyes burning with lust and that heavy guilt. He grasps your chin as his thumb brushes against your lower lip. “Use your words then, darlin’. Tell me what you need.” he drawls. Heat floods your face in embarrassment, but the hot need between your thighs wins. You look him in the eyes, voice shaky but determined. “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fill me up- please.” you whine, desperate for him.

Frank exhales like your words just winded him. For a long second he just stares, clearly battling with himself. You can see the conflict in his expression- the good, responsible man fighting that raw, animalistic need to ruin you right here. Your eyes meet his and you stutter out, “I came here knowing my intentions,” you whisper. “I baked that stupid pie because I wanted to get alone with you. I’m not some fucking kid who doesn’t know what she’s doing. I wanted this.”

Something inside him finally snaps. A low groan rumbles from his chest as he stands up slowly, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, arms around his neck, and he carries you down the hallway without another word. He takes you up the stairs, his feet making every wooden step creak. Then he turns, and you can see that you’re heading towards a door.

His bedroom door creaks open. The room smells like him- that faint leather and that laundry detergent mixed with a deep, masculine, scent that makes your head spin. His bed is large and sturdy with a heavy dark wooden frame, covered in rumpled navy sheets that look like he’d been tossing and turning in them. A small lamp on his bedside table casts a gentle, golden glow over everything, highlighting the simple space. It feels safe. Intimate.

He lays you down on the bed with surprising care, but his eyes are bright with fire. Without wasting any time, he starts to rip open his buttons, before finally yanking off his flannel in one rough motion to reveal the broad, muscled chest you’d fantasised about for weeks. As you lay back, propped up in your elbows, his hands move to you next, peeling your skirt and soaked panties down your soft legs, then tugging your top off and unclipping your bra until you’re completely bare beneath him, and all of your clothes are pooled together on a the floor.

Your mouth isn’t that far away from beginning to water as you watch his muscles work to undo his belt. His fingers frantically work at the clasp, and once it’s undone, he’s hastily pulling off his jeans and throwing them to the side to join the growing pile of discarded clothes. You lay on his bed, too needy to even think of being self conscious, and he’s crawling onto the bed, his frame covering yours.

“You sure about this, hon?” he asks one final time, hovering over you, his voice struggling with need. As he moves closer, his thick, heavy cock rests against your thigh, already leaking and throbbing. “Yes,” you breathe, pulling him down by the shoulders. “Please Frank- I need you.”

He curses under his breath before smashing his lips into yours, finally giving in and kissing you deeply. Your mouths are clashing together, his tongue between your lips, but he finally pulls away like a starved man- ready to move on. One calloused hand spreads your sensitive thighs wider as the other one finds his dick and hastily lines it up with your dripping core.

The blunt, swollen head of his cock nudges your slick entrance, and then he pushes in slowly, stretching you open inch by inch as he lets out low groans, in awe at how good you feel. Your cunt greedily sucks him in, needing him even deeper.

“Oh, you’re so tight,” he rasps against your mouth with a screwed up face, his forehead pressed to yours. “Takin’ my cock so well- good girl, keep breathing.” he groans out, watching your every reaction and expression. You gasp at the overwhelming fullness, and your nails dig into his shoulders while he bottoms out inside you. He turns still for a moment, letting you adjust while he murmurs praise right against your ear. “Such a sweet pussy squeezin’ me like that. You feel amazing sweetheart.”

Then he starts moving. His thrusts rock the bed beneath you, every powerful stroke dragging perfectly against that sensitive spot inside, his experienced hips rolling with precision. One hand grips your thigh, holding you open for him, while the other is beside your head.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands softly. When your eyes lock with his, he leans down and kisses you again, slower, tongue sliding against yours as he fucks you deeper. “You feel so good wrapped around me. Been fightin’ this urge, tryin’ to be a decent man, but you make it so hard.” he shudders, his lips glistening with your saliva.

You moan loudly, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist. The heavy weight of his body presses you into the mattress, filling you completely- it’s everything you’d imagined and more. He angles his hips and keeps hitting that perfect spot until you’re crying out with every thrust, the sound of skin slapping filling the once quiet room.

“That’s it, darlin’,” his voice is low, “let me hear those pretty noises,” he growls, thrusts growing harder and more possessive. “This is what you wanted, ain’t it? My cock stretchin’ your needy little cunt open.” you let out a vulgar moan as his shaky breath fans over your face. You swear you’re gonna cum, just from his voice. He lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah? You like hearin’ me say filthy things sweetheart?” he grunts, knowing you can’t answer back. You just nod, eyebrows knitted together in desperation. “Oh- you’re such a good fucking girl for me.” he says in awe.

His dirty words and the raw pleasure you feel push you closer to the edge again. Frank can feel it- the way you flutter and squeeze around him. He reaches between the place you’re connected, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing hot, sticky circles onto it. You moan as he keeps driving into you.

"Attagirl. Cum all over my cock this time," he praises, his voice low and filthy. You can't help but moan at his dirty words, you're actually fluttering around him now. "You're mine tonight, sweetheart. Gonna fuck you until you can't cum no more." he groans, hips thrusting into yours still. You head falls back in ecstasy, senses overwhelmed- you feel like crying, or screaming- maybe both.

As your legs begin to shake, Frank notices it and starts frantically rubbing your clit even faster, his fingers wet and sloppy. The coil in your belly snaps hard. Pleasure crashes over you in waves as you cum hard around his thick length while you moan his name, your body shaking under him. Frank groans deeply, thrusting through every pulse, his own control fraying as he continues moving, trying to chase his own release while whispering more praise against your damp skin.

"Fuck darlin'-" Frank groans all broken, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his hips stutter. He thrusts once more, before he loses control. Then, he slams deep into you and stays there, pulsing thick and hot inside you as he cums hard. His dick throbs with every move, filling you up while he holds you tight against him, murmuring ragged praise between shaky breaths. "Good girl, takin' everything so perfectly for me" he praises. You feel that thick, hot spend ooze out of you, creating a messy white ring around the base of his cock.

You’re both panting messes, and for a long moment, the only sounds are your shaky breathing and the faint creak of the bed as he slowly relaxes on top of you. He stays buried inside you, not daring to pull out yet- instead, he just presses lazy kisses along your jaw while his hand strokes soothingly up and down your side. You clench around him, having aftershocks. You’ve never been fucked like that. With care, with understanding.

Eventually he lifts his head a little, his deep brown eyes searching yours with that familiar mix of satisfaction and lingering guilt. "You alright, sweetheart?" he asks softly, brushing damp hair from your forehead as he looks down at you. You nod, smiling up at him sheepishly, still shy and warm all over. "Mhm- more than okay. I wanted this, Frank. I still do." you whisper, your big sweet eyes looking into his.

He lets out a long breath, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re gonna kill me, y’know that kid?” he sighs. There’s a tired, affectionate look on his face now. “I’m too old for this shit” he chuckles.

You bite your lip nervously, and Frank runs a finger over it to smoothen the skin of your lip. He looks into your eyes for a moment, before tilting his head softly. “I’m gonna pull out, okay sweetheart?” he tells you, wanting you to be comfortable through it all. You nod, not excited for the overwhelming emptiness to consume you. Frank trails his hand down to meet your pussy, and his fingers become soaked in the mixture of your juices. He pulls out slightly, only a couple inches, watching your face for confirmation. When you nod quickly, he pulls his hips back, robbing you of the feeling of fullness.

He shifts away, to stop hovering, and then slumps down beside you with a content sigh. You tilt your face in his direction, face flushed and fucked out. “Thank you.” you manage to pant, chest still heaving from your two orgasm.

Frank shakes his head modestly, but you can tell there’s still a sense of shame in his expression. “Frank,” you sigh. He meets your gaze silently, eyes curious at what you have to say. “Thank you for making it good for me.” you whisper, suddenly feeling self conscious that you’re done, and just laying down besides him without clothes, your whole body visible. “That’s alright hon, you deserve it,” he smiles softly, admiring your bare body.

You feel his rough hand slowly move over your stomach to rub it, and life suddenly doesn’t seem so bad. You giggle softly, the sound muffled against his chest as you burrow deeper into his embrace. Frank’s arms tighten around you in response, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “Stay tonight,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “Stay with me.”

You nod, your throat too tight to speak. He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been holding his breath in for too long. When he pulls you closer, there’s no hesitance in it- no careful distance or restraint. He just holds you, warm and certain, wrapping his arms around you like he doesn’t intend on letting go. The faint, sweet taste of cherries lingers on his lips from the pie you’d nervously brought over earlier, the one he happily tried while you watched with hopeful eyes.

You came here convinced you’d be leaving with an embarrassing rejection and a quiet walk home. Instead, the man that no one has ever properly known is holding you like you’re something precious, something he’s been waiting for.

You show up when he texts, he fucks you, you leave.  That’s… it.  No pillow talk, no dates, hardly any acknowledgement of your existence before or after; ‘fuckbuddies’ isn’t even the right word because at least they’re ostensibly ‘buddies.’  

You honestly didn’t even know each other.  You met once at a party, and it all followed from there.  You had no relationship, you were nothing to each other… nothing with benefits.  There, that’s the best effort you could make in trying to ‘define’ it, if that counts.

A lot of things went unsaid, but you knew more than you let on.  For instance, whenever he blew you off or kicked you out after he made some excuse about ‘needing to work.’  You never asked about his work but you’d deduced it was something incredibly atypical— probably illegal.  He said once he didn’t have time for anything ‘real’ because of it, and you decided not to be offended by the implication that you were, what, fictional?  But you knew what he meant, of course.  Whatever this work was, it seemed to take a toll.  He’d told you not to ask about his bruises and cuts, no matter how bad they looked; they never seemed to bother him that much, actually, even when they looked… very bothersome.

Another thing you figured out was that he was in love.  Not with you, obviously, Jesus— but he loved someone.  Of course you had a lot less concrete evidence for that, it was just a vibe you got… but you could see it on his face sometimes, in his eyes.  That heartbroken look, and more importantly the brave face trying to cover it up: you recognized it because you’d felt it a thousand times yourself.  He probably assumed you weren’t a particularly emotional person considering your openness to such a cold arrangement, but who knows?  Sometimes you felt like he knew more than he let on, too.

But it all was left unspoken, unaddressed, undefined.  Like I said, it was better that way.

“Peter, fuck,” you choked out as he held tighter onto your hips, thrusting harder, faster, deeper all at once.

“Shh, I’m close,” he hissed; he liked you better silent when he came, but you had to bite your lip hard to try not to make too much noise.  Actually, you had to grab hard onto his headboard just to keep yourself steady, your eyes rolling back far enough in your head that you could almost see how empty your brain was at that moment.

How could you think about anything right now, when he was slamming right into that spot that seemed to reset your entire system? 

He was pretty quiet himself, sometimes you couldn’t even really get much of a reaction from him; though you occasionally dared to look back over your shoulder to get a glimpse of him with his lip caught between his teeth, his eyes fallen shut, a loose curl sticking to his face from the thin layer of sweat on his skin…

It was only because you were trying your best to be quiet now that you could hear him, the suppressed grunt through his teeth as he finished; he thrusted just once more, sharply, before relaxing slightly with a heavy exhale through his nose.

It was a good thing he couldn’t see your face like this, or he’d probably notice how much even that little noise from him exhilarated you.  Maybe he wouldn’t care, honestly.

When he pulled out, he quickly grabbed his shirt to catch the come that spilled out of you.  Most of it stayed inside until you fell limply down onto the bed— then you felt it all start to leak out, comfortingly warm but annoyingly sticky.

You could’ve stood to lay there for much longer to enjoy the slight numb feeling, but you decided you’d better get to the bathroom quickly.  You didn’t say anything as you ungracefully hopped up and held the shirt between your legs on your way to the toilet.

After cleaning up as best as you reasonably could in the stereotypically bare-bones bathroom of a single twenty-something guy, you cupped your hands in the sink to drink from them for a moment.  Peter wasn’t necessarily cruel, moreso just neutral, but he wasn’t enough of a gentleman to consistently offer you a cup of water after.

When you emerged from the bathroom, he’d put his underwear back on but was still on the bed; this was notable since he was often already working on something when you returned, at which point he would tell you to let yourself out.  But no, this time he was on the bed, laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling with a glassy kind of look in his eyes.

You figured he would notice you and say something, but you watched him for a little while and he never did.  It was kind of a nice moment, but you had to break the silence.  “Tell me about her,” you requested, apparently feeling a bit more brave than usual.

He sat up slightly to look at you; it looked like it took him a moment to realize what you’d said, and he transitioned from a shocked expression to a dismissive laugh.  “What?” he pretended not to know what you meant.

“Did you think I couldn’t tell?” you smiled back.  “Seriously, I’m curious.”

“No,” he shook his head, laying down all the way again, “I… shouldn’t talk about that, with you.”

You shrugged a bit as you grabbed your shorts off the ground and slid them back on.  (Yes, you’d skipped underwear when getting dressed, you knew why you were coming here.)  “Why not?” you wondered.

A wrinkle formed between his eyebrows as he seemed like the answer was too obvious to verbalize, and you turned your shirt right-side-out before putting it on again.  “Isn’t that, like… bad form?” he laughed, just a little.

This was the most you’d talked since you met him.  It made your heartbeat speed up again, after only getting a moment of rest.  “I don’t care,” you assured.  “I mean— I do, I wanna know… I just mean I won’t be offended.”

He sighed a little and you thought he was just going to ignore you at first; the silence went on just a little too long to feel natural, but you let it ride.  “She doesn’t know I exist,” he finally answered, speaking softly.

You smirked a bit, not sure if that was believable.  “Don’t sell yourself short,” you encouraged, “I’m sure she—”

“No, literally,” he insisted.  You still didn’t quite buy it but you decided to accept it if he was so sure.

Your eyes drifted over his body as he exhaled slowly, reaching up to rest his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling like he was remembering something.  You figured if he took his shirt off in front of this girl she’d notice him; he was… hard to ignore, when he wasn’t covering himself with baggy clothes like he seemed to normally.

Not that he spent all too long in clothes when you came over, but still.

“Good luck with that,” you broke the silence, and he seemed to come out of a daze; he’d already forgotten you were there, maybe.  “Just text me when you’re free again?”

He watched you get off the bed and go towards the door where you’d left your shoes.  “Y-yeah, sure,” he agreed— he sat up quickly, like maybe it was rude to just lay there while you left, but that was a bit out of character since you could remember plenty of times he hadn’t even looked at you…

Regardless, you left rather unceremoniously, feeling satisfied and yet already wondering how long it would be until you heard from him again.

The answer was, it turns out, longer than usual.  Long enough that you felt a little weird about it but tried not to notice it; long enough that, when he did text you, you were much more relieved than you wanted to be.

Come over.  A little abrupt after two weeks without any contact, but you weren’t too proud.  You slipped on some sandals and headed for the subway; you probably should’ve taken the time to grab a light jacket, you hadn’t realized how cold it had gotten since the sun went down, but the buzzy energy that filled you as you prepared to see him again kept you warm enough.

So, it was a bit of a let down when he seemed confused as he answered the door; “Um, hey?” you greeted hesitantly, wondering why he was staring at you and not just letting you in.

“Did I… text you?” he wondered.

“Uh… yeah?” you responded now with a confused look of your own.  “Are you drunk?”

“No, I— sorry,” he sighed a little, “that was a mistake, I— now’s not a good time.”

You swallowed, trying not to take it personally— trying not to imagine why he changed his mind.  He was shirtless already, did he have someone else coming over, was she already there?  Oh, you really didn’t want to know— so why were you leaning to try to see past him into the apartment?

He shifted to try to block your view, leaning on the doorway, but you caught a glimpse— no girl that you could see, but the place looked like it had been turned upside down.  Your fear shifted to concern.  

“What happened, is everything okay?” you asked quickly.  “Did you get robbed?”

You slipped in past him, and he stammered out a protest that he never really finished.

“Oh my god, Peter—” you began, but he turned you around to look at him.

“You need to go,” he insisted again, “I’m sorry, I— I’m really not trying to be a dick.”

You snorted a little, not really meaning to, and he exhaled.

“Okay, I know I’m already kind of a dick to you, but I’m… not myself right now.”

“If you’re normally a dick to me, and you’re not yourself right now, then isn’t that a good thing?” you mused, but Peter just shook his head in confusion.

“What?” he panted, but it definitely just wasn’t a confused look anymore— he reached up and put a hand to his head, his palm pressing above his eye and his fingers starting to curl tightly.

“A-are you okay?” you asked, all the playfulness lost from your tone. 

He winced and bent over suddenly, grabbing his head tightly, making you look at him with wide eyes.  

“Peter?” you continued, trying to lean down with him, but he reached up and pushed you back slightly.

“M’fine,” he choked out, but the whine of pain through his teeth seemed to prove him wrong.

You weren’t sure how to help, you couldn’t tell at all what was wrong, but you couldn’t just leave him like this even if he seemed to want you to.  “How can I help?” you pleaded.

“You can’t help me!” he insisted.

He straightened up again, throwing his head back for a moment, the agony on his face perfectly visible now.  His hands moved to cover his ears, his eyes shut tightly— maybe it was a migraine or something?  You looked around for a lightswitch, hoping turning off anything too bright might make it better, but the second you tried to step away, he grabbed your arm and pulled you into him; you yelped a little and hurried to hold onto his shoulders, nearly losing your balance as he yanked you forward.  

It seemed like he had changed his mind very suddenly about you being able to help him— and had a very different idea of how you could help than you’d originally imagined.  His eyes were scanning your face, his nostrils flaring as they fell on your lips.  You opened your mouth slightly just before he covered it in a rough, punishing kiss.

You couldn’t even remember the last time he kissed you— but he definitely never kissed you like this.  It was hard and fast and dominating, his head forcing yours to tilt back, his tongue handily overpowering yours.

His hand wrapped around your neck and your knees wobbled for a second; fuck, if this was Peter not being himself, then you were starting to like this guy better.

He made quick work of your clothes, too quick actually, you were pretty sure you heard something ripping but you didn’t care at all.  His hands grabbed you anywhere and everywhere they could reach, rough and eager until they all but shoved you onto the bed.  You gasped but went along with it, you weren’t sure what was going on with him but you’d never questioned him before— you just gave him what he wanted.  Even if you knew better than to take it personally, the way he was acting now… could he really want you this badly?

You tried to turn around to get on your hands and knees like usual, but he roughly turned you back to face him; he climbed over you and shed himself quickly of his sweats and underwear— god, when did he get that hard?

His hand pushed your thighs further apart, making you shudder a little just before he shoved his cock into you— all at once, no warning, making you choke on your own breath.  

You couldn’t try to complain that you weren’t ready for it, even if you wanted to, because you were already plenty wet enough despite it all happening so suddenly.  Maybe his new attitude just had that effect on you, maybe you’d been building anticipation since you got on the subway to meet him here; and, both could be true at once.

“Peter,” you whined as he filled you, back arching off the bed, but he pushed you back down at the hips to make sure you took it all.

He laid himself down over you, keeping his face close to yours as he thrusted fast but deep, holding you tight enough to make sure you couldn’t rock too far away and would be forced to take every inch.

You felt your face tighten up— actually, all of you, not just your face— in response to him going just a little too far, pushing on something a little too sensitive; you whined, some pain tinting the noise, but he only made sure to press his hips against you even more.

You groaned deeply, feeling pleasure grow from the intensity, though it still had a sharpness to it.

Overwhelmed by… everything, you tried to close your eyes just to focus on the feeling; “Look at me,” he demanded instantly, catching you off guard.  You obeyed, of course, meeting his stare as he requested, though you definitely couldn’t match his intensity.

He grabbed your hips and tilted them up towards him slightly, forcing his cock to press against something that made you shake and grab the sheets under you.  “Oh, fuck,” you gasped, noticing the way he flexed his jaw as he watched you.

You weren’t proud of how quickly he was getting you there; but was there any room for pride in a situation like this?  It’s not like you’d had much in the first place, when you were just coming over for quick thoughtless fucks, but at least then you didn’t say much or look at each other much and you could go through it all without acknowledging much of anything.  Now he was staring right at you, watching your body respond to him so quickly, purposefully making you so desperate for him.

He let go of your hips to slide his hands up the back of your thighs, hooking them under your knees and pushing your legs up towards your chest.  “God, yes,” you breathed, struggling to stop your eyes from rolling back.  You watched him, too: the way his mouth fell slack to let his panting breaths through, his chest rising and falling, his muscles rippling as he fucked into you…

You heard the smallest chuckle and looked back at his face to see a smirk there; apparently he caught you gawking.  Surely he knew already that he had a great body, so he couldn’t be surprised, right?  He’d never seemed to really care that you were attracted to him, or take it as much of a compliment.

But now it made him fuck you harder, which made you whimper and shudder as you clutched handfuls of the sheets under you.  

One hand let go of your leg to rest above where he was moving in you: at the same time, it pushed down right where the tip of him reached inside you, and his thumb circled over your clit.

The added pressure amped everything up and even the slightest touch on your bud made you realize how sensitive you’d become.  You bit down on your lip to try to stop yourself from praising him endlessly— you didn’t need him getting an even bigger ego.  But even still his effect on you was obvious, the way you were succumbing to the pleasure was obvious, though you still felt the need to announce it.

“I-I’m gonna come,” you warned, and he kept his movements and pace exact, eagerly pushing you closer to the edge.

It built up faster with each thrust, his fingers digging in harder under your knee, and you let your head fall limply to the side as it grew and grew within you.

One hand came down and took a tight grip of your face to turn it back up towards him.

“Look at me,” he reminded you, and you swallowed around a gasp but nodded quickly.

“Fuck,” you breathed, “fuck, I— ohh fuck yes—”

He watched you with darkened eyes as it hit you, a heady wave of pleasure that started from somewhere deep within but rippled all over you.  As the feeling peaked and subsided, he kept his grip on your face— not too tight, but far too strong to break away from.

The second you started to relax back into the bed, he pulled out and flipped you over— far too easily— onto your knees.  He was inside you again before you could even find your balance.

“Oh, fuck,” you choked out, falling forward and barely catching yourself on the headboard in time.  He was thrusting again, fast and hard, like he hadn’t stopped at all; you were still sensitive from the orgasm you’d barely even completed, and the different angle of his penetration into you was even more intense now.  “Fuck, Peter, you—”

He grunted lowly, and you didn’t get a chance to finish that sentence as you moaned desperately.

“Oh my god,” you managed to pant out even as you were getting more and more lost in it— he had never been the gentle type per se but he had always been… restrained, patient.  You never could’ve imagined this kind of brutality, or how perfect it would feel.

You also weren’t used to him being so vocal, and you heard a stream of moans and purrs from behind you that were, for lack of a better word, beautiful.  Filthy and animalistic, yes, but beautiful nonetheless.

“So good,” you couldn’t stop yourself from panting out; your first orgasm had left you so… exposed, every sensation heightened, every touch more electrifying.  Now it was building up again, even faster than before, turning you just as desperate and needy as he sounded.

The curve of him inside you was too perfect, the thick stretch was almost too wide— when he pushed all the way in and buried himself to the hilt you actually felt a little sting— his heavy balls hitting your clit made you feel delightfully whorish; pleasure was coming at you from every angle, overwhelming you, washing all the thoughts out of your head and turning your body into his plaything (if it wasn’t already).

The difference really was that before, you had some autonomy about the whole thing— it wasn’t quite an equal partnership, since he was the one who called for you and you were the one who showed up right away nearly every single time.  But it was at least a mutual dynamic: you were a slut and he was using you like one, simple as that.  

Now, those things may have still been true but it had become so much more.  Now, you were totally at his mercy.  Now, he was asserting a previously-unspoken dominance and proving that he owned you completely… and that you loved it.  It may not have been a particularly empowering feeling, but knowing he could do absolutely anything to you in that moment was fucking addictive.  

“I’m coming,” you blurted out, not even really believing it yourself, “I’m coming again, oh shit—”

You moaned pathetically— well, more specifically, you went silent for a moment as you came too hard to remember to breathe, then you moaned pathetically; but then you started to laugh a little, thinking he would slow down to a stop, give you a little break so you could mumble something about how incredible he was before he used you to finish.

But he didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, didn’t give you even a second to breathe as you tried to pull yourself together.  Even when you passed the height of your pleasure into something much more raw and unfathomable, he didn’t falter for a moment.  Your walls tightened repeatedly until they ached, until you whined through your teeth at the soreness of the muscles inside you.

“Peter,” you gasped, “s-slow down…”

He ignored you.

“Stop,” you blurted out; again, he ignored you.  “Peter, stop!  I can’t—!”

A hand wrapped around your throat and your words dropped instantly to silence.  Wide-eyed, you clawed at his hand to try to peel it away, but obviously that didn’t work.  

Your hands fell limply to the sheets— he was holding you up by your neck now, and he wasn’t even breaking a sweat— and they tried to grab hold of something, anything, without much success.

The pleasure he forced on you was excruciating and overwhelming, and totally inevitable.  You tried to force yourself to relax, wondering if that would make it any easier to take all this, but you couldn’t anyways as shocks ran all through your body.  Your toes curled, your legs began to shake uncontrollably— you were saying his name, begging for mercy, but hardly any sound was coming out since you weren’t taking in any air.

You reached back to try to grab his hand, push his hips, anything to slow down this onslaught of sensation; he ignored it at first, before growling a little as he grabbed your hand and pinned it down to the bed.

He was iron, absolute— you could literally fight him with all your strength and he wouldn’t move an inch.  The helplessness made you panic and squirm uselessly, and yet the racing of your heart was more than just fear, even as your vision was getting spotty from how long he’d been choking you.  Fuck, it was good; it hurt like hell, you didn’t think you could take it, but it was fucking good.

The hand on your throat let go to force your head down into the mattress: so, yes, the sound you let out after all that silence was muffled, but still so embarrassingly loud.  A desperate, broken, sobbing scream.  “Oh my god, oh my god,” you heard yourself repeat, though you could hardly recognize your voice at this point.

He slowed down a little, not nearly enough to give you a true reprieve, as he laid over you— you felt his chest press against your back, and he pulled your head up by your hair to lift you out from where you’d buried yourself in the mattress.  “Let me hear it,” he encouraged, as if the whole building wasn’t hearing you even with your face in the sheets.

He bit down hard on your neck until you basically screamed— you’d be surprised if it didn’t break the skin, the way it stung so sharply, but somehow that ache and burn seemed to blend into everything else a moment later.  Chills ran over your skin— pleasure, pain, ecstasy, agony, you couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

His tongue and lips toyed with the spot he’d just marked, before his teeth moved higher to your neck to make another impression in your skin.  You felt a hot tear run down your cheek as a bit of numbness radiated from your shoulder in the shape of his bite.

Apparently satisfied with his work, you felt his breath against your ear as he groaned proudly.  “You belong to me,” he informed you roughly; you sobbed but nodded eagerly.

“Yes, yes,” you chanted, though you never wanted to acknowledge it before— you still didn’t, knowing you were his but he wasn’t yours, but you were helpless to him now.

“Mine,” he insisted again.

“Peter, please,” you whimpered, this time not begging for him to physically stop but for him not to make you admit it anymore.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“Yours,” you breathed, dropping your head down in defeat as tears fell onto the dishevelled sheets below.  “I’m yours, Peter, yours—”

“Gonna fill you,” he promised roughly.  “Gonna breed you.”

“O-oh god,” you choked out weakly.  “Oh my fucking god—”

“If you beg for it,” he added— oh, of course it couldn’t be so simple.

“Please,” you spat out instantly, you probably would’ve said it anyway, you just had to add the next part; you swallowed thickly, fighting the part of your brain that still experienced shame to get the words out.  “Please… breed me.”

He growled proudly, speeding up his thrusts yet again as you cried helplessly.  “More,” he ordered.

“Please!” you screamed, convinced now that at any moment you might just combust from the sheer intensity of all these sensations in your body.  

Right at the moment that you were sure you truly couldn’t take anymore, that it would build beyond what you were able to withstand, he pulled you back onto him and moaned loudly.  He stopped moving, but it didn’t bring as much relief as you would’ve expected; yes, you were able to relax slightly and actually breathe for a second, but you could feel him… pulsing.  

You started to feel a pressure that only soothed when you felt come start to leak from where you were joined— was he actually coming that much?  You shuddered as the thick drop ran down your thigh which, yes, was still shaking.

You heard a long, satisfied sigh behind you, his fingers digging a little too deep into your sides, but it seemed he was finally finished.

This would be the part where you get up and go to the bathroom— you know, if your legs were working— but instead he grabbed you tightly and fell onto the bed, pulling you down with him.  He hummed as he nuzzled into your neck, forcing you to be his little spoon as he seemed to want to keep you as close as humanly possible.  He hadn’t even pulled out, excess come leaking out as he softened a bit, but it gave you no chance to recover from the soreness as he kept you stretched out.

You couldn’t decide if this was more or less weird than everything else that had just happened.

He fell asleep behind you within a couple minutes, you could tell by the way his breathing slowed; you felt exhausted and wired at the same time, your body totally drained but your brain cycling through a thousand thoughts a second.

But even if you couldn’t sleep, there was no way you were getting up— whenever you dared to shift even an inch, his grip on you tightened even in his sleep.

Actually, you did eventually fall asleep, and he did eventually let go of you and pull out of you— but you couldn’t know exactly when any of those had happened, in fact you didn’t even realize they did until he started to wake you up.  

He did so somewhat abruptly; you heard his voice and started to blink a few times to try to come back to reality.

“Are you okay?” he rushed, looking over your body, moving you around a bit to check everywhere for injuries.  “I hurt you, oh my god, I— I’m so sorry—”

You were still struggling to wake up— you definitely hadn’t slept this hard in years, if ever— and you groggily hummed as he fussed over you.  “Peter,” you mumbled, noticing the bright sun of late dawn coming in from the window, and he held your face for a second before gently brushing his fingers along your neck, your shoulder…

“Oh my god,” he gasped, “what did I do to you?”

There must have been bruises and bites all over you, that was no surprise— so why was he acting surprised?  “It’s okay,” you breathed, “seriously, I’m okay—”

“I wasn’t— I swear that wasn’t…” he interrupted himself before trailing off.  “I lost control.”

That explanation was… cryptic.  Slightly disturbing.  And, annoyingly, a little bit hot.  “I’m fine,” you promised.

“You wanted me to stop,” he seemed to remember suddenly.  “You asked me to stop, and I—”

“Peter,” you rested a hand on his shoulder to try to soothe him— it did seem to slow down his spiraling, at least, and he looked at your face again.  If you didn’t know any better you’d say his eyes were watering.  “It’s fine. I wanted it. I just… didn’t know that I did.”

“That sounds kinda fucked up,” he noticed.

“Well, yeah,” you laughed thinly, “this whole thing is fucked up.  Just don’t worry about it, okay?  Yeah, I got a little… overwhelmed, at one point, but um… I didn’t mind it.  In the end.”

He nodded a little, clearly not totally at peace with it but at least seeming to let it go.  “Okay,” he sighed.

“Is… everything okay with you?” you asked nervously; you hadn’t planned to make a habit out of asking him personal questions, but you figured you earned that one.

“Uh… I’m not sure,” he admitted.

“Is this like, a split personality thing?” you wondered, mostly kidding— he laughed a little, thankfully.

“Well,” he relented, “I mean— no, but, maybe a little bit.”

You raised an eyebrow but decided to just nod.  “I… guess if there’s anything I can do…” you began to offer.

“You’ve, uh, done enough already,” he assured as you sat up a bit on the bed.  “I know this kind of isn’t our thing, but I feel like the least I could do is buy you breakfast.”

“Oh!  That’s, um— don’t worry about it,” you shook your head.  “I should head back to my place, actually.”

“N-no, come on, stay,” he pleaded.  This man was just full of surprises, apparently.  “Not long, I mean, if you don’t want to, but… you definitely need a little more time to heal after that.”

He gently guided your legs apart, chest deflating as he looked between them.

“Yeah, you, uh… definitely need time to heal,” he added, but his voice sounded rougher and breathless.

“What— what is it?” you asked worriedly, pushing your legs back together— you felt much too self-conscious now for him to just openly gawk at your pussy like that.

“No, it’s fine, it’s just, uh,” he started nervously, “it’s kinda, you know… I can still kinda see how much I, um, stretched you…”

You swallowed a little, noticing a flush on his face.

“I mean, I’m sure it’ll, like, go back, but uh—”

“Well, you did stay inside for like, a while,” you added, laughing slightly.  “Fuck, um… yeah, that was different.”

“Good different?” he wondered.

“Y-yeah,” you answered, “it was a lot, but, yeah, definitely.  I mean, if you ever need to lose control like that again, just let me know.”

He seemed a little surprised, his eyes drifting over the marks he’d left on you again.  “You’re sure you can take it?” 

You must not have realised he's just returned from a deployment tonight, because he hears you stumble through the living room, giggling. He hears a male voice, and he hears the way your giggles turn into moans when the mystery man kisses you.

Now he's listening to the bed creaking and your muffled whimpers.

The bloke barely lasts 10 minutes.

Simon can't sleep for the rest of the night. His back is acting up, and a migraine is definitely on its way, and his tinnitus seems worse than usual.

He listens to your quiet voices in the morning, listens to the front door open and close again.

Your feet padding across the floor.

Three knocks.

"Si?"

You peek your head in, and he looks at you.

"Hi," you say, a smile growing on your lips. "I didn't realise you were home."

"I figured," he replies, and you instantly become flustered, your eyes widening.

"Oh my god," you say, your mind catching up. He can tell the way embarrassment washes over you as you groan, putting your hand over your eyes. "Please tell me you didn't hear anything."

When he doesn't reply, you sigh loudly before stepping into his room and plopping onto his bed. Years of living together has made you overly familiar with him. He doesn't have the heart to correct it.

He doesn't want to.

"Please pretend it didn't happen," you ask, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

Simon looks back at you. There's a hickey on your neck, one that makes his molars hurt. He doesn't like that someone got to have you like that, in the way he so desperately wants. Got to sink their teeth in what's rightfully his.

"You're a grown woman," he states. "You can do whatever you want."

"Yeah, but I didn't mean for you to hear it!"

You push off the bed, but Simon is quick to grab your arm, pulling you back down. You land nearly on top of him with an "oomf", blinking at him, eyes filled with confusion.

"Was it good?"

"What?"

Your mind seems to struggle to catch up with what's happening, and you open your mouth before closing it again. Simon motions to the hickey on your neck. He wraps his hands around your throat, his thumb digging into the purple mark. Your mouth falls open.

"Was he at least a good shag?"

You flush, but you don't pull away this time.

"Did you even come?" he asks, and the way you pout tells him everything he needs to know.

"No," you say hesitantly.

"Why not?"

"I don't know," you say, hiding your face in his duvet. He lets go of your throat, patting your head instead. "His dick was big, but he didn't really know what to do with it."

Your voice is slightly muffled from the duvet, and your grip is tight around the fabric. You're clearly embarrassed. If anyone should be embarrassed, it's the bloke who failed to make you finish.

Simon feels lightheaded with the way his blood rushes south. He feels himself chub, and he imagines how you'd work to take his cock, how you'd struggle to adjust. How he'd target your sweet spot till you're crying.

"I bet," he says, grabbing you again so he can pull you on top of him. He knows you're feeling his erection, but he can't bring himself to care. "Most guys barely know what to do with pretty things like you."

"What, as if you know better?"

You're teasing him, but to Simon it's all the invitation he needs. He slips his hand underneath the waistband of your shorts, grinning when he finds you wet already. He doesn't waste time, gathering your slick before bullying two fingers into your soft pussy.

He groans at the way your walls give for him, adjusting with ease. Your pretty doe eyes go wide when he curls his fingers and finds your gspot, reaching deeper than you could ever hope to with your own fingers.

"Si," you whimper, clinging to him. He hums as he thrusts his fingers into you, revelling in the sound of your wet cunt filling the room.

You come embarrassingly quick, warmth curling in your stomach as you finish with a drawn-out moan. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you grind your hips erratically into his hands, drawing out your high. Pleasure curls through you from your core all the way to your toes.

"Good girl," Simon drawls, watching the way you twitch. He pulls his fingers out of your warm pussy, licking his fingers clean before patting your arse.

You blink sleepily at him. Post orgasm glow makes your brain foggy, especially with the way your roommate is looking at you, licking his lips hungrily.

"That was a way better shag than him," you say, giggling, but your eyes are droopy. You don't hear his response as you rest your head on his chest, drifting away.

You start to avoid him.

Something Simon finds incredibly annoying.

You're fussing. Definitely ruminating. Possibly spiralling.

He should've kept his cool, and not immediately finger fucked you into oblivion the second he got home. But the fact that you were with another man, just behind that thin wall between your rooms, made him lose his cool.

And now he's paying for it.

It's fair for you to hook up with others. He's barely home. He's not your boyfriend, he's your roommate. He's a soldier.

He's starting to realise he can't keep a clear head when he's with you. He doesn't want to wait. The long game isn't worth much when it comes to pretty girls like you. He'd rather just get it over with and make you realise you're stuck with him. That you're done with quick disappointing fucks once he gets to sink his teeth into you.

He goes to the pub with Soap and Gaz. It's rare for all three of them to be home at the same time, and Soap and Gaz are taking advantage, downing pints and talking away. Simon mostly listens, until his mind wanders to you.

His pretty bird, all alone at home.

He gets up without saying anything, adjusting his crotch that's already chubbing. Soap hollers after him, but he dismisses him with a wave.

He doesn't quite want to share you. Not even with Soap.

Wearing his T-shirt to bed is a particularly cruel move on your end. Simon has to bite back a groan as he climbs over your sleeping body, straddling you from behind. He grinds his dick against your panty-clad arse while he leans over you.

You're sleeping, blissfully unaware. It makes him harder, as he takes out his dick, rubbing it between your arse cheeks. You quietly moan, subconsciously pushing back against him.

He slips his cock into your panties, using your thighs to stroke him. His cockhead pokes at your clit, and he feels you start to grow wetter with each push and pull of his hips.

You let out a tiny moan in your sleep, and Simon grunts as he leans over you, trapping you underneath his weight. He licks and bites at your throat, right where the hickey is starting to fade. He wants to erase it, make you forget there's ever been anyone other than him.

You wake with a jolt when he bites down particularly hard, and he feels you tense up beneath him as your mind catches up to what's happening. You scramble, but he's pressed up so close behind you that you're immobile.

"Jus' me, love," he murmurs, and you whine, attempting to look over your shoulder. He feels you relax, but then he starts to fuck your thighs again, and you tense again, gasping at the feeling of his cock nudging your clit.

"Si?" you ask, confusion and fogginess from your sleep making you struggle to realise what's happening.

"You were wearin' my shirt, doe," he says, kissing behind your ear. He slips one of his big hands underneath your shirt, cupping your tit and squeezing till you moan. "Couldn't help myself."

"Why didn't you, ah, wake me?" you whine, arching up into him so desperately it makes him dizzy.

In a quick motion, he flips you so he can see your face. Your pretty face is puffy, your lips all pouty as you sleepily blink up at him. He slips his cock into your knickers again, watching the light fabric darken with his precum.

"Didn't wanna interrupt your beauty sleep."

That makes you scoff, and he slaps your tit in response, making you gasp in surprise. Before you can tell him off, his cock catches your entrance, head popping inside your tight cunt, and you let out a strangled moan as you squeeze down on him.

"It's too big, Si," you whine, starting to back up, but he grabs your hip tightly, pulling you back onto his cock. He presses another inch inside you, brows furrowing at just how damn snug you are. He presses soothing circles into your clit with his thumb.

"You can take it," he says, nodding at you while you shake your head. "You're a big girl."

A pitiful whimper leaves you when he presses in yet another inch, and his eyes roll back at how warm you are inside.

You're rendered speechless as he slowly pulls in and out, making you take inch after inch. It stings, but pain mixes deliciously with pleasure as he thumbs your clit and licks and kisses your throat.

"How much more?" you ask, staring at your ceiling with knitted brows. The man on top of you rumbles as he kisses your lips, licking into your mouth.

"Halfway," he replies, and your eyes widen, because he's already splitting you in two. You look down to where you're connected, and a rush of arousal hits youwhen you see how his fat cock is practically bullying your poor pussy.

Simon must feel you clench, because he laughs.

"You're doing good, baby," he says, and your concerned eyes find his, looking for reassurance.

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh," he replies. Taking pity on you, he starts to fuck you like that, with only half of his cock. "My pretty baby,"

It's almost an art form. That he can fuck with half his inches and still have you writhing underneath him, whimpering each time his cock hits your sweet spot. Your cunt drools around his length, allowing him to slowly push further and further in, till you're taking him to the hilt without even realising. Too busy with your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Your orgasm creeps in on you, sweeping you underneath the waves of pleasure as you choke on air. Your cunt nearly squeezes the life out of him, and he leans over you, reminding you to breathe through it as you choke on a sob. You cling to him, digging your nails into his biceps, as he slowly fucks you through it till you're boneless beneath him.

Your eyes slip closed as sleep overtakes you again. It makes him groan, getting impossibly harder as he thrusts into you the last few times before spilling into your welcoming cunt.

He flips you around so you're on top of him, your poor pussy still stuffed with his cock and cum. Content, he gets the best sleep he has in years, despite the flare-up in his hip.

He doesn't know how long he's out for, but he wakes to the sweet sound of your moans. You're straddling him, bouncing on his cock with all your might. It must be hard on you, sweet thing. You're doing so well, though, despite your pinched brows. He traces his hand over your stomach, trying to feel himself in there.

You jolt when you realise he's awake, and a giggle escapes you.

"Good mornin', love," he rasps, and you lean down to kiss him. He grabs your hips, helping you ride him.

"Hi, Si," you say, pressing your lips to his. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, licking into your mouth. "Don't mind being woken like this, though," he adds.

Your cunt clenches around his length, and he grunts.

"You're gonna make me come like that," he says, and you moan into his mouth.

"Want it," you gasp, raking your nails over his scalp. "Inside,"

You don't have to tell him twice. He rubs your clit in messy circles, pulling you over the edge with him as he spills into you for the second time, pumping you full. You whine, swallowing his moans with your sweet kisses, as both of you grow sensitive.

When you pull off him, it's with a wet pop, cum spilling out of you. Simon watches the sight, satisfied with his claim.

What a perfect roommate he has.

hi i started writing this last night but i fell asleep halfway through (ironic) so here you have it. i only edited it like two times so if you find any mistakes ignore itttt …. 🫪

“uhm. ‘m proper leakin’ right now. ma head won’t stop–not my head head, but the one on m-my cock. keeps crying for ya.” another punched-out groan cuts off simon’s ramble. he curses a couple times under his breath before remembering the rest of his words. “i spit on it, too. helps like y’said. haven’t even come yet, ’n i’m already makin’ a mess.”

a hissing sound ends that one. next...

“my, uh, my top is off. already was ‘cause’a the heat, but left my briefs on. the-the white ones. cock was so–shit– hard, i nearly popped outta them. when you… mmm–when you come over later, can you do th-he sniffs-that thing where ya. like. lick over the fabric? ’n nose at me, that kinda stuff? look so pretty when you do that…”

on the next note, the strokes are faster. louder. accompanied by a touch of impatience.

“fuck me, love. wish y’could see me right now. c… god, cock’s feelin’ bigger than usual. thicker, too. can feel it fuckin’ pulsing. ’n my balls, jesus. they miss ya’real bad. i think they’re–maybe aching a bit? but it’s the kind that feels good, too. like, uh. like they’re jus’ full. sensitive. and it feels nice when i do this…” there’s break in the strokes and a shuffling noise, then a deep groan. “y-you can’t see but ‘m wrapping my fingers around them. like that ring we got, ’n the pressure feels nice. gonna make me cum ‘f i do it f’too long.”

by the time the next one starts, simon’s hand is wrapped right back around himself. his breathing is louder now, accented by badly-hidden whines, and you can hear the way he’s started to squirm against the sheets of the bed.

“i-i can’t wait t’fuck ya tonight. been getting better at holdin’ it. practicin’ my form–fuuuck. oh, fuck. s’close, baby, i can feel it… auh, i wish-i wish, uh, fuck. i can’t think. my fuckin’ legs, they won’t stop shaking.” god, you can hear it in his voice. the poor thing, with his voice croaking out an increasingly wobbly tone, cock sounding wetter and wetter with each tug of his hand. he’s probably sweating, too. he always is when he gets like this–horny and flushed and damp with sweat over how good he’s feeling… how much he feels for you. “ooouh, i wanna come… i wanna come… fuck, can i blow f’you, please?”

the next audio message is the longest one and nothing but simon falling apart. the volume fluctuates, his grip on the phone less reliable with his head in other places and his throat going raw with all the noise he’s making. groans and wails of everything from your name to swears that aren’t comprehensible (thanks to the unconscious thickening of his accent) tumble out of him in between arches that puff his chest in the air and the tight gropes of his twisty, pumping hand. it feels like it’s lasting forever, simon’s release. he goes on and on, having to sniff a few times when tears try to well in his eyes.

the last note takes him a good minute to send. he starts it with a thick sigh.

“uhm… uh, t-there’s so much cum, love. hand’s covered in it… everywhere else, too,” simon makes himself laugh with that one. he lets out a deep, tired chuckle before a quiet smack sounds. “tastes good. gonna… gonna send you a pic, yeah? little preview f’later. and ‘cause it really is a lot. think this is the most i’ve ever come without ya here…”

one last buzz from your phone. 

FROM SI 🤓♥️:

1 image

opening up the picture, your entire body warms with buzzy feeling.

against his cum-covered hand rests his softening cock, still appearing as thick and as heavy as ever despite the size of the load that’s oozed out all over him self. the photo is all spit and cum and slick, which forces you to have to swallow down the groan that tries to escape your throat.

christ. tonight cannot come soon enough.

Benjamin Poindexter noticed everything.

He noticed the slight limp of the businessman walking six paces ahead of him, indicating an old injury in his right knee.He noticed the woman standing beside the pedestrian crossing checking her handbag every few seconds, likely making sure her purse was still there.He noticed the security camera mounted above the entrance of the corner shop was angled three degrees too far to the left, leaving a narrow blind spot beside the alleyway.

Dex saw patterns where other people saw chaos.

Movements. Habits. Weaknesses.

He could calculate the trajectory of almost any object before it had even left his hand. He could look at a room once and remember where everything had been placed. He could predict what someone was going to do simply by watching the shift of their weight or the movement of their eyes. People were predictable. Usually. You were not.

The first time he saw you, you walked directly into him.

It was a chilly Manhattan morning, the streets overcrowded with impatient commuters and the lingering smell of rain. Dex had been moving through the crowd without thinking, his hands buried inside the pockets of his dark jacket, when something warm collided with his chest.

Or rather, someone.

“Oh my God!”

A paper cup slipped from your hand, coffee splashing across the pavement between you. Dex’s arm moved instinctively - He caught your wrist before you could stumble backwards, his other hand steadying your waist for less than a second.

You stared up at him with wide eyes.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

Dex blinked.

You had been the one who collided with him. You had nearly fallen. Your coffee was now spreading across the pavement. Yet you were asking whether he was alright.

“I’m fine,” he answered.

His hand remained around your wrist. Your skin was warm beneath his fingers. He released you abruptly.

“I’m so sorry.” You looked down at the ruined coffee, then back at him. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I noticed.”

The words were colder than he intended. For a moment, he expected you to become defensive. Most people did when he spoke like that. They stiffened, frowned or quietly decided that he was strange. Instead, you laughed. It was a soft, breathless sound.

“Fair enough.”

You crouched to pick up the empty cup, brushing the loose hair away from your face. Dex watched you. Noticed your tied up hair now messy like you've walked through a bush. The worn laces of your shoes. The faint smudge of flour on the sleeve of your coat. You worked somewhere nearby. Probably somewhere involving food.

When you straightened, you gave him another apologetic smile.

“I really am sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“I’d offer to replace your coffee, but apparently I can’t even keep hold of my own.”

“I wasn’t carrying one.”

“Oh...”

Your cheeks warmed.

“Right.”

Dex felt the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. You looked down the street, sudden panic crossing your features.

“Crap. I’m going to be late.”

You stepped around him before pausing.

“It was nice crashing into you.”

His brow furrowed. You laughed again.

“That sounded better in my head.”

Then you were gone.

Dex stood motionless on the pavement as the crowd flowed around him. He watched you hurry down the street, weaving between pedestrians until you slipped through the door of a small café nestled between a bookshop and an ageing apartment building. The bell above the café door jingled and You disappeared inside.

Dex continued staring long after he could no longer see you through the window. He told himself it was nothing, a passing interaction. A strange woman with a warm smile who had ruined her coffee and apologised for hurting him when she was the one who had almost fallen. It should have ended there. It didn’t.

Five minutes later, Dex walked into the café.

The place was small and warm, with mismatched wooden tables and fairy lights hanging around the windows. Soft music played beneath the murmur of conversation. You stood behind the counter, tying an apron around your waist. When you looked up and saw him, recognition immediately brightened your expression.

“You came back.”

The words struck him harder than they should have.

“I wanted coffee.”

“Right.” You smiled. “Of course.”

You picked up a cup.

“What can I get you?”

“Black coffee.”

“Simple.”

He watched as you prepared it. You moved quickly, confidently, exchanging greetings with regular customers while tidying the counter between orders. You hummed beneath your breath as you worked. Dex listened until he identified the song. When you handed him his drink, your fingers brushed. “Careful,” you teased. “I’ve already murdered one coffee today.” He looked at you over the rim of the cup.

“You work here every morning?”

It was too direct. Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Most mornings.”

“What time do you finish?”

You stared at him for a second. Dex realised how the question sounded.

“I was only asking.”

“Are you planning another collision?”

“Maybe.”

A smile slowly spread across your face.

“I finish at four.”

He stored the information away immediately. Four o’clock. “Enjoy your coffee,” you said. Dex sat at the table nearest the window. He stayed for almost two hours - You occasionally glanced at him while you worked. Each time, he was already looking at you.

After that, Dex began visiting the café regularly. At first, he came every few days. Then every morning. Sometimes he ordered coffee. Sometimes he bought something he had no intention of eating simply because you recommended it. He learned that you hated waking up early but enjoyed the quiet hour before the café became busy. You preferred tea to coffee despite spending most of your days surrounded by espresso machines. You always gave the slightly misshapen pastries to customers you liked because you said they had more personality. You called him Dex after overhearing someone use the name once. He never corrected you. He liked the way it sounded in your voice. “Your usual?” you asked one morning. Dex sat at the end of the counter.

“You already started making it.”

“I know.”

“Then why ask?”

“Politeness.”

“You ask questions you already know the answers to?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?” You set the coffee in front of him. “People like feeling as though they have choices.” His eyes lingered on you. “And do they?” Your smile faltered. Only for a second. Then you leaned across the counter.

“You ask a lot of intense questions before nine in the morning.”

Dex’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips.

“You don’t answer many of them.”

“Maybe I like keeping you curious.”

You moved away to serve another customer. Dex remained there long after his drink had gone cold. Keeping him curious was a mistake. Curiosity became interest. Interest became fascination. Fascination became something darker. Something consuming. He began following you home.

The first time, he told himself he only wanted to make sure you arrived safely. You finished a late shift shortly after ten. The streets were slick with rain, streetlights reflected in shallow puddles, and you walked alone with your headphones in. Careless. Dex followed from the opposite side of the street. You stopped at a small convenience shop and bought milk, strawberry sweets and a cheap bunch of flowers reduced to half price. You smiled at the cashier. You thanked the man who held the door open for you. You gave one of the flowers to a woman sitting outside the subway station. Dex watched every second. When you reached your apartment building, you glanced over your shoulder. For one terrifying moment, he thought you had noticed him. Instead, you looked at the rain and smiled to yourself before heading inside. Third floor. Apartment 3B. The bedroom window faced the fire escape. Dex knew before he had even consciously decided to remember. He returned the following night. And the night after that.

Soon, he knew your routine like the back of his hand. You left your apartment at seven twenty-three on weekday mornings. On Thursdays, you stopped at the corner shop on your way home. Every second Tuesday, you called someone—probably a relative—and paced around your living room while speaking to them. You took a shower in the evening and left the bathroom window open afterwards because the extractor fan was broken. You read in bed before sleeping. You fell asleep on the sofa whenever you tried watching films after a late shift. You forgot to close your curtains more often than you remembered. Dex watched over you. That was how he justified it. He was protecting you. The man who followed you from the subway one evening stopped after Dex dragged him into an alleyway. The drunk who grabbed your arm outside the café woke in hospital with three broken fingers. The customer who repeatedly waited for you after closing received one warning. He did not require a second. You never knew. You simply began commenting on how much safer the neighbourhood had felt recently. Dex would sit at the café counter and listen, hiding his satisfaction behind the rim of his cup.

“You look pleased with yourself,” you said one afternoon.

“I’m drinking coffee.”

“You drink coffee every day. You don’t usually look that smug about it.”

“I don’t look smug.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

You leaned closer. “You absolutely do.” His gaze flickered over your face. He wanted to touch you. The thought arrived so suddenly that he tightened his grip around the cup. You didn’t notice. “Maybe I had a good morning,” he said.

“I’m happy for you, Dex.”

His chest tightened. Nobody said things like that to him. Nobody cared whether he had a good morning. You did. You cared without knowing anything about him.That was when watching from a distance stopped being enough.

The first time Dex entered your apartment, it was raining. You were working an evening shift. He knew you would not return until almost eleven. The lock on your window was old. It took him less than six seconds to open. Dex stepped into your bedroom without making a sound. The room smelled like vanilla, clean laundry and the perfume you wore to work. For a moment, he simply stood there. It felt different being inside. More intimate than watching through the glass.

 Your bed was unmade. A cardigan hung over the back of a chair. Two books rested on your bedside table, one open and facedown despite the damage it would do to the spine. Dex picked it up. He examined the page you had stopped reading on. Then he closed it properly and placed a bookmark inside. He moved through the apartment slowly. Carefully. He looked through photographs on your shelves and studied the names written on the backs. He opened cupboards. Checked drawers. Examined the contents of your bathroom cabinet. He learned which medicine you took for headaches, Which shampoo you used, Which brand of tea you liked.

The plant on your living room windowsill was beginning to wilt, Dex watered it. The kitchen sink contained two mugs and a plate, He washed them. He knew what he was doing was wrong - He understood boundaries. Laws. Privacy. But those rules seemed irrelevant when it came to you. He wanted to understand everything, Every insignificant detail. Every preference. Every habit.

He opened the top drawer of your dresser. His fingers paused. Lace. Cotton. Soft colours. Benjamin stared down at the neatly folded underwear. He should close the drawer. Leave. Never come back.

Instead, he reached inside and took a delicate black pair between his fingers. His breathing changed. He imagined you wearing them. Imagined the fabric resting against your skin. His jaw tightened.

“This is wrong,” he murmured to the empty room.

The underwear disappeared into his pocket. He visited your apartment seven more times. Sometimes he moved things only to see whether you would notice. You rarely did. Once, he replaced the batteries in your smoke alarm. Another time, he fixed the loose handle on your kitchen drawer. He threw away expired food from your refrigerator.

He found your journal but did not read it. Even Dex had limits.

Or so he told himself while lying on your bed, his head resting against your pillow, breathing in the faint traces of your perfume.

________________________________________________________________

The night you discovered him began badly.

Two members of staff had called in sick, the café had been unusually busy, and an aggressive customer had shouted at you because his drink contained the exact syrup he had requested. By the time you reached your apartment, your feet ached and your patience was gone. You fumbled with the lock before stepping inside. The apartment was cold. You frowned. A curtain moved gently in the night breeze - Your bedroom window was wide open.

You stopped breathing. You knew you had locked it. You always locked it before late shifts. Slowly, you placed your bag on the floor.

“Hello?”

Silence. Your hand tightened around your keys. “If someone’s in here, you need to leave.” A heavy footstep sounded from the corner of the living room. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Another step. Then a man emerged from the darkness. He wore blue tactical armour, dark gloves and a mask marked with the symbol that appeared almost nightly on the news. Bullseye.

You had seen shaky phone footage of him fighting on rooftops. You had watched reporters describe him as a dangerous and unpredictable killer. You had seen the aftermath of his attacks. Now he was standing in your living room. He raised his hands slowly.

“It’s alright.”

His voice was strangely familiar. “I’m not going to hurt you.” You backed towards the kitchen.

“Don’t come any closer.”

He stopped immediately. Your hand searched blindly across the countertop until your fingers closed around the first object you could find. A wooden spoon. Bullseye looked at it. Then at you. “You’re threatening me with a spoon.”

“I’ll use it.”

“It won’t be effective.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

You held the spoon higher. “I’m warning you.” His head tilted. Despite the mask, you felt as though he were studying you.

“You should put that down before you hurt yourself.”

“I’m not the one who broke into somebody’s apartment dressed like a murderous ninja.”

“That’s not what I am.”

“Which part? Murderous or ninja?”

Something shifted in his expression. Amusement. 

“You’re not reacting the way I expected.”

“How did you expect me to react?”

“Screaming.”

“I might still.”

“You haven’t.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“You’re curious.”

Your stomach twisted. He was right. Fear still pulsed through you, but beneath it sat an unbearable need to know why. Why you? Why your apartment? Why did his voice sound so familiar?

“Take off the mask,” you said.

His body became completely still.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“No.”

“Then get out.”

“I can’t do that yet.”

You tightened your grip around the spoon. “Take it off.” He stared at you for several seconds. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands to his face. The mask came away. Your makeshift weapon lowered.

“Dex?”

Dex stood before you, hair dishevelled from the mask and blue eyes fixed carefully on your expression. “Hello, Angel.” Your lips parted. Angel. He had never called you that before. At least, not to your face.

“You’re Bullseye.”

“Yes.”

“You’re the man from the news.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been sitting in my café every morning.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re in my apartment.”

“Yes.”

You stared at him.

“Do you know any other words?”

“Yes.”

You almost threw the spoon at him.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Dex lowered his hands.

“Watching over you.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you.

“Watching over me?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

He remained silent.

“Benjamin.”

“Since we met.”

Your stomach dropped.

“That was months ago.”

“I know.”

“You’ve been following me for months?”

“Protecting you.”

“You say that like it makes this better.”

“It does.”

“No, it really doesn’t.”

“You’re safe.”

“You broke into my home!”

“To keep you safe.”

“From what?”

“People.”

“What people?”

“The man who followed you from the subway. The customer who grabbed your arm. The one who waited outside your work three nights in a row.” You went still. The incidents had stopped so suddenly that you had almost forgotten them. “What did you do?” dex’s face revealed nothing.

“They don’t bother you anymore.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one you need.”

He moved closer. You immediately lifted the spoon again.

“Stay back.”

Benjamin stopped. His eyes dropped to the weapon.

“You’re still holding that.”

“It makes me feel better.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Well, it does.”

He looked almost fond. The expression unsettled you more than anger would have. “How many times have you been inside my apartment?” you asked.

Dex hesitated.

“Eight.”

Your mouth fell open.

“Eight?”

“Yes.”

“Eight times?”

“Yes.”

“While I was at work?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Once you were asleep.”

Your entire body heated with outrage.

“You were here while I was sleeping?”

“You left the window unlocked.”

“That isn’t an invitation!”

“I know.”

“You clearly don’t!”

“I didn’t touch you.”

“That is not the point!”

“You were safe.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it matters.”

He took another slow step forward. This time, you didn’t raise the spoon. “You don’t lock your bathroom window,” he continued. “Your fire escape is accessible from the roof. You walk home with both headphones in. You don’t check behind you when you enter the building.”

“You sound like an overbearing security system.”

“You need one.”

“I was doing perfectly fine before you.”

“No, you weren’t.”

The certainty in his voice made you bristle.

“You are unbelievably arrogant.”

“And you’re careless.”

“You’re insane.”

“I know.”

The answer silenced you. There was no denial. No attempt to excuse himself. He knew. Dex’s eyes moved over your face. “I tried to stop.” Something in his voice softened. “I stayed away from the café for three days.” You remembered - You had noticed his absence, though you would never admit how often you had glanced towards his usual seat. “I kept thinking about you,” he continued. “I needed to know where you were. Whether you got home safely. Who you spoke to. Whether someone had touched you.” His jaw tightened on the final words.

“You don’t get to decide who touches me.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.

“But I don’t like it.”

Heat crept across your cheeks. You hated that your body reacted. You hated that underneath the fear and anger was something else. Something dangerously close to excitement. Dex moved forward again. You stepped backwards. He continued until the edge of the kitchen counter pressed against your lower back. He was close now. Close enough that you could see the faint scar beside his mouth. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. He placed one gloved hand on the counter beside you. Not touching. Only surrounding. Cornering.

“You could call the police,” he said quietly.

“I could.”

“You haven’t.”

“You could take my phone before I reach it.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t care whether you believe me.”

His other hand settled against the counter on your opposite side.

“I would never hurt you.”

“You hurt people all the time.”

“Not you.”

“Why am I different?”

Dex’s expression changed. For the first time since he had revealed himself, he looked uncertain.

“You were kind to me.”

You frowned.

“That’s it?”

“Nobody is kind without wanting something.”

“I wanted you to buy coffee.”

“You smiled before I ordered.”

The simple answer pierced through your anger. Dex looked at you as though your smallest act of decency had become sacred. “You remembered my order,” he said. “You asked how I was. You noticed when I didn’t come in.”

“I notice all of my regulars.”

His eyes sharpened.

“You noticed me more.”

Your breath caught. Arrogant bastard. “You’ve been going through my things, haven’t you?” you asked. Silence. “What did you take?” His gaze shifted away. Your eyes narrowed. “Dex.” He looked almost guilty. It was an unexpectedly human expression on the face of a man the city believed to be a monster.

“What did you take?”

“Something small.”

“What?”

He said nothing. Then realisation struck. Your mouth dropped open. “You stole my underwear.” Dex’s jaw tightened.

“You did.”

“I regretted it.”

“Do you still have them?”

He paused.

“Yes.”

“Oh my God.”

You covered your face with both hands. The wooden spoon clattered onto the countertop.

“This cannot be happening.”

“I can bring them back.”

“You should never have taken them!”

“I know.”

“Why did you keep them?”

His answer was low. “Because they smelled like you.” Your face burned. You slowly lowered your hands. Dex watched your reaction with unnerving focus.

“That is deeply disturbing,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“And invasive.”

“I know.”

“And—”

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m furious.”

“You can be both.”

You stared at him. The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re enjoying this,” you accused. “A little.”

“You break into my apartment, confess to stalking me, admit to stealing my underwear and then laugh at me?”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I like you.”

The bluntness stopped you again. Dex’s smile vanished.

“I don’t know how to do this correctly.”

“That may be the biggest understatement I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t know how to want someone normally.”

His voice lowered. “But I want you.” Your pulse fluttered beneath your skin.

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you drink tea when you’re nervous. I know you hate silence unless you’re reading. I know you keep chocolate behind the flour because you think nobody will find it. I know you cry at animal rescue videos and pretend you have something in your eye.” Your expression softened despite yourself. “I know you call your mother every Sunday. I know you leave the hall light on when you’ve had a bad day. I know you talk to your plant.”

“You’ve been spying on me talking to my plant?”

“You named it.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Gerald is recovering.”

“You watered Gerald?”

“He was dying.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Dex stared. You pressed your lips together.

“Don’t look so pleased.”

“You laughed.”

“This is still insane.”

“You’ve already said that.”

“Because it is.”

“But you’re not afraid anymore.”

Your smile faded. You should have been. Dex was dangerous. Obsessive. Unstable. Every reasonable instinct should have told you to run. Instead, you found yourself studying the exhaustion hidden beneath his eyes. The loneliness. The almost desperate way he watched you. “You need to leave,” you whispered. His expression became unreadable. “Do you want me to?” You hesitated. Dex noticed. Of course he did. He noticed everything.

“You should leave,” you corrected.

“That wasn’t my question.”

You swallowed.

“If you stay, I might do something stupid.”

His eyes darkened.

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

He leaned slightly closer.

“Tell me.”

Your heart hammered.

“No.”

“Angel.”

The nickname sounded different now. Possessive. Reverent. You looked at his mouth,  Dex noticed that too. He moved closer until barely an inch remained between you, Yet he didn’t touch. He waited. For all his obsession, all his watching and stealing and breaking in, he waited. “I should go,” he said. The words were quiet– Almost reluctant. “Yes.” Neither of you moved. Dex’s eyes searched yours. Then he stepped back. The absence of his warmth left you strangely cold. He picked up his mask.

“You’ll lock the window after me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“And you won’t walk home with both headphones in.”

“Stop telling me what to do.”

“One headphone.”

“Dex.”

“Angel.”

The name made your stomach twist, You looked away. When you looked back, he had already moved towards the bedroom.

“Use the front door,” you called. He glanced over his shoulder.

“I came through the window.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to leave through it.”

“It’s faster.”

“You’re impossible.” Dex pulled the mask back over his face. “You’ll see me again.” Your heartbeat stumbled. “Is that a threat?” His eyes remained on yours. “A promise.” Then he disappeared through the open window. You stood in the middle of your apartment for several minutes. Gerald sat freshly watered on the windowsill. The kitchen sink was empty. The loose cabinet handle you had been meaning to repair for weeks was suddenly fixed. You should have called the police. Instead, you locked the window and wondered when he would return.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dex disappeared for four days. You told yourself you were relieved but the first morning, you looked towards his usual table at the café and felt grateful to see it empty. The second morning, you checked the street more often than necessary. By the third day, you began watching the news, there had been reports of Bullseye fighting several armed men near the docks. Grainy footage showed flashes of black tactical armour moving across shipping containers before the video abruptly cut out. No arrests had been made. No bodies identified. No mention of Dex. You hated that you were worried. He had stalked you, broken into your apartment, taken your belongings. The man was a walking parade of red flags. Yet you found yourself staring at the fire escape every night. Waiting…

On the fourth evening, rain lashed against the windows. You had the following morning off, so you had changed into an oversized shirt and underwear shortly after returning home. Your hair was still damp from the shower, and the kettle was beginning to boil. The scrape of the bedroom window opening made you freeze - you didn’t reach for a weapon. You didn’t call out. Instead, you turned off the kettle.

A heavy thud came from the living room, then a pained grunt. You hurried towards the sound. Dex stumbled through the doorway, one hand pressed against his side. His Bullseye suit was torn across his ribs,  blood stained the black material and dripped between his gloved fingers. He barely reached the sofa before collapsing against it.

“Angel..” he breathed. You rushed over to him. “Oh my God.”

His head fell back against the cushion.

“You got a first-aid kit in here?”

“You already know I do.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“Bathroom cabinet. Bottom shelf.”

“Don’t be smug while you’re bleeding on my sofa.”

“Can’t help it.”

You knelt in front of him.

“What happened?”

“Occupational hazard.”

“You need a hospital.”

“No hospitals.”

“Dex—”

“No hospitals.”

His voice sharpened. You flinched, regret immediately crossed his face. “Sorry.” You stared at him. Benjamin Poindexter apologising felt more alarming than the blood. “I need to see the injury,” you said. He weakly nodded, your hands moved to the fastening of his armour as Dex watched you quietly while you struggled with the unfamiliar clips and straps.

“How does this thing come off?”

“Release underneath the shoulder.” You reached around him his breath hitched as your arm brushed his chest.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“You made a noise.”

“I’m injured.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You said that already.” You carefully removed the upper layers of his suit. Beneath the armour, he wore a fitted black compression shirt, darkened with blood along his ribs. You swallowed. Even injured, Dex was imposing… Broad shoulders, Defined arms, A powerful chest shifting with each controlled breath. Scars covered his skin where the shirt had torn. Old injuries, bullet wounds, cuts that had healed badly. You forced yourself to focus.

“This needs to come off too.” His eyes moved slowly over you, Only then did you remember what you were wearing - An oversized shirt that ended at the tops of your thighs. No trousers. just a pair of black lace underwear you decided to treat yourself to one birthday. Heat crawled across your skin as he watched you. 

“Stop staring.”

“You’re staring at me.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“You were looking before you saw the wound.”

“I was assessing the situation.”

“Professionally?”

“Shut up.”

Dex gave a weak laugh before wincing.

“Don’t laugh.”

“You’re funny when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Your pulse is faster.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“I can see it in your neck.”

Your hand immediately rose towards your throat, His eyes followed the movement.

“Dex.”

“Angel.”

“Take the shirt off.”

His expression shifted.

“That sounded like an order.”

“It was.”

He obeyed. Slowly, he pulled the damaged shirt over his head and dropped it onto the floor. You forgot how to breathe. His body was leaner than you expected but no less powerful. Muscle moved beneath pale skin as he settled back against the sofa, scars stretched across his torso, some faint and silver, others jagged and raised. Your gaze travelled involuntarily down the lines of his abdomen. Dex then cleared his throat. You looked up sharply, embarrassed at how much you were gawking at him as he was slowly still bleeding out on your sofa.

He was smirking.

“Not a word.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was enjoying the view.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“So you’ve said.”

You retrieved the first-aid kit and returned to him, the wound was deep but appeared to be a slice rather than a bullet wound.

“What did this?”

“Knife.”

“You lost a knife fight?”

“I didn’t lose.”

“You’re the one bleeding on my furniture.”

“The other guy is worse.”

You didn’t ask. You cleaned the wound carefully, Dex’s jaw tightened as the antiseptic touched exposed skin, but he refused to move.

“You can tell me if it hurts.”

“It hurts.”

“Then why aren’t you reacting?”

“I am.”

“No, you’re pretending you don’t feel it.”

He looked at you. “I’ve felt worse.” 

“That doesn’t make this hurt less.” Your voice softened. “You don’t have to pretend with me.” Something vulnerable flickered behind his eyes - Then he looked away. You pressed gauze to the wound. “Hold this.” His hand covered yours instead. You froze. dex’s fingers were warm yet his grip was gentle, though you knew how easily those hands could kill.

“You were worried,” he said.

“You turned up covered in blood.”

“Before tonight.”

You focused on the bandage.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You watched the news.”

Your eyes snapped towards him.

“How do you know that?”

“I saw you.”

“You were still watching me?”

“From a distance.”

“You disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear.”

“You didn’t come to the café.”

“I was busy.”

“Nearly dying?”

“Among other things.” You secured the bandage around his ribs. “I kept wondering where you were.” The confession slipped out before you could stop it, Dex became completely still. You continued looking down. “I saw reports about the docks. I didn’t know whether you were alive.” His hand rose. Slowly, cautiously, he touched your chin and guided your face towards his. “You care whether I’m alive.” It wasn’t teasing. He sounded genuinely astonished.

“Of course I do.”

“Why?”

You frowned. “Because despite everything, I—” You stopped. Dex’s thumb brushed your lower lip, Your breathing caught in your throat. “Despite everything?” he prompted.

“You’re not as frightening as you think you are.”

“That’s a dangerous assumption.”

“You came here for help.”

“I came because I knew you’d help me.”

“You were sure?”

“No.”

His honesty made your chest ache. “But I hoped.” You looked at him properly, without the suit and mask, Dex appeared almost ordinary. Just a bruised and exhausted man sitting half-naked on your sofa, looking at you as though you were the only safe thing he had ever known. Your fingers touched one of the scars near his shoulder, He tensed.

“Does that hurt?”

“No.”

You traced the edge carefully. His eyes darkened as he followed your delicate fingers glide across his rough skin. 

“Angel.” he spoke out almost like a warning.

“You have so many.”

“They don’t matter.”

“They do to me.”

His hand slid from your chin to the side of your neck. You should have moved away. Instead, you leaned into his palm. The room became quiet as rain tapped steadily against the glass. The television played somewhere behind you, forgotten and muted. Dex’s thumb moved across your skin.

“You should be afraid of me,” he murmured.

“Probably.”

“You should tell me to leave.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’m still dangerous.”

“I know.”

His gaze dropped to your lips and instinctively You moved closer.

“Are you going to kiss me this time?” you whispered. His breath changed. “Do you want me to?” You nodded gently. Dex didn't hesitate again, his hand tightened gently at the back of your neck as he pulled you towards him. The first touch of his mouth was almost careful. Testing,  as though he expected you to disappear. Then you kissed him back, something inside him broke.

Dex’s other hand found your waist, dragging you closer until you were half kneeling between his legs. His mouth moved against yours with barely restrained hunger, every quiet breath and subtle sound swallowed between you. Your fingers slid into his hair as he groaned into your mouth.  The sound sent warmth rushing through your body as  the kiss deepened even more. Dex's hand moved beneath the loose hem of your shirt, settling against the bare skin of your waist as you climbed onto his lap. He stopped himself before it could go any further.  His forehead rested against yours as silence and the sound of both your heavy breathing filled the empty apartment. 

“Tell me to stop.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His fingers flexed against your skin.

“You don’t know what you’re inviting.”

“Then show me.”

His eyes searched your face. You saw hunger there, obsession. But also restraint. He could have overpowered you without effort. Instead, he waited for every inch you gave him, Dex kissed you again, slower this time. His hand travelled carefully along your side, never moving further than you allowed. Your palm pressed against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

He kissed the corner of your mouth,  your cheek., your jaw. When his lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath your ear, you shivered. Dex noticed. He always noticed.

“Here?” he murmured. You nodded, practically begging for more. His mouth returned to the spot as a quiet sound escaped you before you could suppress it. Dex’s hand tightened around your waist. “Angel.” The nickname became a warning. Or a prayer. You pulled back before he could aggravate his injury.

“You need to rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“You can barely sit up.”

“I was doing alright.”

“You were distracted.”

His eyes moved over your face.

“I still am.”

Your cheeks warmed

“You’re staying here tonight.”

Dex ’s expression changed.

“I shouldn’t.”

“You’re not climbing across rooftops like this.”

“I’ve had worse injuries.”

“You keep saying that as though it helps.”

“It means I’ll survive.”

“It doesn’t mean you should suffer alone.” The words settled between you. Dex looked away first, You got off his lap gently as you began gathering the discarded pieces of his suit.

“I’ll get you something clean to wear.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“You are not sleeping in bloody clothes.” You returned with an oversized shirt and a pair of old jogging bottoms that had belonged to someone else. Dex examined them.

“Whose are these?” he questioned with a hint of jealousy

You raised an eyebrow.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His jaw tightened.

“Whose?”

You couldn’t resist. “An ex-boyfriend.” Dex’s gaze sharpened instantly. You laughed. “I’m joking. They belonged to my cousin.” He stared at you.

“That wasn’t funny.”

“It was a little funny.”

“No.”

“You looked jealous.”

“I was deciding whether to find him.”

“There is no him.”

“Good.” Possessive warmth curled low in your stomach.

“That shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.”

“What?”

he stirred, snapping you from the one sided staring competition you were having with his sleeping form. blinking awake with mussed eyelashes, grumbling something about the light being too bright before burying his head in the crook of your shoulder. the sheets rustling as his warm hands roamed your bare body beneath them.

strangely so, dex had convinced you to begin sleeping naked with him. your uncertainty to doing so at first made him sit you down with an article opened on his phone, reading out health benefits in an attempt to convince you. holding your hands in his whilst explaining how it will reduce stress whilst inadvertently improving your relationship by releasing oxytocin during the night. you were a reasonable woman, not one to argue with science, so you agreed. it'd be nice to let your wings to breathe for once, instead of being trapped beneath cotton all day.

in a weird way, you sort of liked it. you felt better in the mornings, refreshed. you had began to adopt the habit into your own routine, even on nights he wasn't sleeping over. you liked to roam your hands over the bare expanse of his back in the mornings, enjoying the way your fingertips dipped into the indentations of the sleep-lines over his skin.

whilst the science on its own was convincing enough for you, you couldn't help but believe that the main reason for the pep in your step throughout the day after he spent the night was down to the orgasm he seemed determined to give you in the mornings before you went off to work. though, you weren't going to argue with him over it. especially not now, with his lips attached to your neck and a hand nudging your thighs apart.

he'd have a hand between your thighs, thumb toying with your clit whilst two of his digits pumped in and out of you. dex was softer with you in the mornings, especially when you had work. he'd press his lips to yours, regardless of the morning breath, gently drawing your orgasm from you.

when your hips began to writhe, moving to chase his fingers, and the honeyed moans falling from your soft lips began to amplify, he had shushed you. using his free hand to press two fingers into your mouth, watching with awed eyes as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked on his digits. his pupils dilated, crows feet softening.

"shh, shh– angel. don't wanna wear that pretty voice of yours, huh? you've got work." he had cooed.

you only responded by whining around his fingers. he pulled them from your mouth, a string of saliva still connecting them to your lips. tucking your bottom lip between your teeth, moans now small whimpers. wings fluttering softly behind your back, something he found incredibly endearing. a tell besides the way you clenched around his digits, and the moans falling from your lips, that you felt good. that he was doing a good job.

"i know what you need, sweet girl. jus' let me do the work, yeah?"

like clockwork, as you reached climax, you jolted up, grasping onto his forearm. wings unfurling from behind your back as saccharine moans fall from your lips. dex swears its the most heavenly sight he's ever seen each and every time. watching those pretty wings sway as you ride out your orgasm on his fingers, walls spasming around the digits.

you'd attempt to shower alone afterwards, but dex would wander into the bathroom halfway through. he'd sit on-top of the toilet seat, just watching you or holding your hand. he liked to be close to you, never letting you stray too far. you thought it was sweet. he'd wrap you in your towel when you stepped out, you'd press your forehead to his before he got in the shower himself.

after you get ready, you'd make scrambled eggs and sourdough toast for both you and dex's breakfast most days. he'd come up behind you at the counter, burying his head in the crook of your neck to inhale the powdery perfume you had spritzed on your pulse points.

eating your breakfast on the couch, you'd sit side by side in silence whilst watching a documentary about fish behaviour. when you finished, you'd reach over and interlock your pinky finger with his, continuing to sit in silence until it was time for you to head to work.

dex would follow you to the door, helping you shrug your light jacket on before turning you around to face him. he'd press his lips to yours, slipping his tongue into your mouth to lick along your teeth. your incisors, the sharp slopes of your canines, the ridged edges of your molars. you didn't exactly know what dex did when you were at work, some days he'd call, others he wouldn't. he didn't tell you about anything to do with bullseye, you didn't know if you wanted to know.

He approached you slowly, waving a quick hello to the baby but otherwise just watching him slowly shut his eyes as he drifted off.

"The children adore you," he noticed, smiling proudly, "as do I."

"I adore them," you returned, "and I'm... thankful you hired me to care for them."

You felt his gaze on you as you gently laid the baby in his crib, feeling a little strange about him standing so close behind you while you were bent over. "Don't you ever want any of your own?" he asked, lowering his voice a bit. "You'd make a lovely mother..."

He trailed off for a moment, his fingers brushing over your back through your dress, making your breath catch.

"...and such a sweet little wife, too," he added with a slow breath. You shuddered, turning to face him and completely intending to tell him how inappropriate this was, but the look in his eyes shut you up in a second.

"M-Mr. Shelby..." you mumbled, blinking up at him as he stepped closer again, nearly pressing his body to yours-- you tried to step back but only found yourself pressed against the crib.

"Well?" he pressed. "Don't you want children?"

"M-maybe someday," you answered nervously, struggling to keep your attention on the conversation when he rubbed your arm through your sleeve. "But I think I'm still too young--"

He knit his brows together, shaking his head. "Oh, no-- you're the perfect age for it, darling..."

You swallowed thickly, his fingers running gently over your jaw and lifting your chin so he could get a better look at your nervous, confused expression.

"You should have one," he decided suddenly, "and I should have another."

You opened your mouth to disagree, but nothing really came out... instead, he just pulled you into a kiss: slow, gentle, patient. You knew Tommy could be a volatile man, even violent, but you'd never known he could be so tender.

Of course, it didn't last long. He was anything but slow or gentle or patient when he had you in his bedroom, pressed up against the wall as he drove into you mercilessly, holding your legs open as he grunted with each rough thrust into your heat. "Good girl," he growled as your head fell back with a sigh of pleasure, "look how well you take it. I knew you needed a baby in you, darling-- as soon as I saw you, I knew. This body of yours just begging to be bred..."

You whined and bit your lip, but a hard thrust that went just a bit too deep made you yelp loudly-- and his hand quickly snapped over your mouth, muffling your noises as he panted in your ear.