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he was supposed to be your tutor; come over and help you study to bring your grade up and prepare for the next exam, occasionally pitching in halfway on whatever take-out you wanted to order whenever you’d let him do so, and always sneaking a little view into your life by snooping around your stuff when you went to the bathroom. never forgetting his weekly souvenir of a pair of underwear.
but now... now, he was sucking light bruises to your flesh, hands kneading the swells of your breasts and thumbing the hardened peaks through the cotton of your shirt—all while you moaned into his ruffled up hair and bounced on his tender cock.
his glasses were fogged up, matching his steamy mind. he couldn’t remember how you two got to this point. not really, anyway. all he knows is, that the girl of his dreams—quite literally for the past few... months? years?—was riding him and slipping her tongue past his own, swapping globs of slick saliva between heated pleasure.
he hadn’t meant to be physical with you, thinking he could live in his fantasy world where he watched you from afar a little bit longer. hell, he had even planned to take that pretty pink thong with the lace trim that sat in the corner of the second drawer of your dresser during the next bathroom break. he had been eyeing it back when he first started stalking you and planting the seeds that would end up leading to him entering your life. that had led up to now.
and unexpectedly, you were wearing that pair tonight. dex stared down at it with a lazy, lustful gaze as it became drenched and stained by the creamy arousal that was building on the base of his cock, and coating your folds and entrance. he listened to the shhhlick! of you sinking down and rising on the rounds of your knees, dragging out his ragged noises as he flicked his eyes back up to you, seeing your face contorted in the most beautiful sex-filled expression he’d ever seen.
his plush tip bumped the sweet ring of your cervix each time you sat down to the hilt, walls fluttering around the shaft of him, pulsing alongside his veins.
dex couldn’t help but grope the globes of your ass. he was so mesmerized by how good you felt, and how amazing you were doing, taking him like this.
he was just supposed to be helping you study, not pulling orgasms out of you all night. though, had he known you’d felt this way about him the whole time, he would’ve dropped the tutor act and broken the tight band of pure want in your belly a loooong time ago.
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TAGS: fem!reader, fluff, angst, implied age gap, NSFW,
A/N: back from the dead with some shamelessly self indulgent #frankslop. Enjoy!
You weren’t supposed to go. Frank, despite his tendency to overshare on the internet, was extremely private about his relationship with you. Technically, no one even knew you existed, and letting you tag along would mean you would be visible to thousands of people. You’d be a public figure whether you liked it or not. As someone who’s experienced the world’s attention, taking you on tour would feel a lot like leading a lamb to slaughter.
It turned into a fight—your first real fight as a couple ever. You’ve been together for 2 years, but you feel like he’s intentionally hiding you; maybe he’s embarrassed to be seen with someone so soon after his very public separation from his long time spouse. You know Frank is just trying to protect you, but being his secret doesn’t feel great.
The negotiation process is tedious; it’s a long night spent convincing him, going back and forth hearing each other out and considering the consequences. The conclusion: You knew what you were getting into when you started seeing each other. You’re aware of the microscope you’ll be under, but you care more about being there for him, and he can’t hide you forever.
It takes a couple weeks for Frank to get over himself. He’s insufferably angsty. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” “I just don’t want this to fuck us up.” You have to reassure him that it’ll be okay for a while, But when he finally comes around he’s excited to have you be a part of such an important aspect of his life.
Turns out you make an excellent travel companion. You fill in all the gaps that label management doesn’t. You got both boarding passes in your digital wallet, already checked in, and you know where his passport is when he doesn’t. You even have Advil in your purse for when he inevitably gets a headache. You’re 2 steps ahead of him, which he appreciates, because being in an airport at 3am makes him feel like he’s going insane.
Binge watching TV shows during plane rides and at various hotels. This round it’s The Sopranos. You get so into it that it becomes apart of the post show nightly ritual. Shower, room service, weed gummy, and The Sopranos in bed. Frank always falls asleep halfway through the episode. You fill him in on what he missed over terrible hotel coffee in the morning.
Tour management keeps an air tight schedule between cities. Everything is planned and executed with military precision; flights, accommodations, transportation, catering, rehearsals, sound checks, press junkets. It’s interesting for you to see the culmination of what Frank and the guys have been working towards—what it takes to put on a show of this scale. Frank loves when you ask questions. You love to hear him yap.
You become familiar with the crew—guitar techs, roadies, stage managers, assistants, etc. Some of them already know your name. They’re all happy to meet you. Frank must’ve told them about you.
For the first couple of shows, you watch the first half from the wings of the main stage, and live feed of B stage on a flatscreen in the green room. The internet was slowly catching onto your existence; Twitter threads about the mystery person Frank has been sneaking around with, blurry pictures of you getting in cars, standing off-stage during shows, wandering around various cities on his days off. It freaks Frank out, so you agree to lay low for a bit, just to ease his anxiety.
Frank lurking on social media, doom scrolling through twitter speculation. He was bothered by it at first, but now he thinks it’s kinda funny. Specifically, the pixilated 100x zoomed in pictures of you watching the show from the sidelines accompanied by unhinged theories and fan commentary. “Ha, oh man, they really got your ass. You’re like fuckin’ Bigfoot to them. Wait, what’s a ‘soft launch’?”
Contrary to what the internet speculates, you two aren’t fucking like rabbits. Touring is less glamorous than people think. It’s relentless; all tight schedules, meetings, and liminal spaces. Airports, hotel lobbies, mazes of stadium hallways. It’s all very unsexy. Sure you’re tired, but Frank is feeling very much like an exhausted 44 year old. When you do fuck, it’s slow and lazy. Usually Sleepy missionary in the morning, with your legs wrapped around his waist. There isn’t much said—you’re both still waking up—but you can feel how much he wants you in the way he presses his weight into you, big arms cradling the sides of your face while he rocks into you.
As the weeks go on, he fully stops giving a fuck about what strangers online are saying about him. You’re at a coffee shop in Stockholm on his day off—a pit stop before meeting up with one of his industry friends. You catch him taking a picture of you looking up at the menu from behind. Later that night, back at the hotel, he asks if he can post it to his story—no tag, just the picture. “I’m small launching.” You shrug and nod, not bothering to correct his butchered phrasing. You didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Internally, you’re geeked. Twitter has a field day. You both agree to avoid social media for a while.
He asks if you’re gonna come out to watch B stage on a whim after a sound check at Wembly. “Did I tell you Ray’s wife is flying in tonight? She’s gonna catch B stage if you want to go with her. She’s cool, you’ll like her.” He says it casually, chugging a water bottle in between sentences and fucking around with his in-ear piece.
You don’t go to every show. Sometimes you elect to stay at the hotel, or go out by yourself and explore wherever you are in the world. But whenever you tell Frank you’re gonna watch him play, He looks forward to it. He manages to hold it together during main stage ‘for the sake of theatre’, give or take a couple of sly glances and smiles. But once you started going to B stage—once he was comfortable with you being seen—he starts putting on a show. Just for you.
He’s mellowed out with age, but you get glimpses of his younger self sometimes. You think it’s sweet that, after 2 years, he still wants your attention; direct eye contact while he plays, intentionally obnoxious gum chewing, making stupid, overly suggestive faces just to make you crack a smile. “Oh I’m there baby” crooned into his mic, with a wink and a shit eating grin (cornball behavior smh), said to thousands, but he’s only looking at you.
Frank’s guilty pleasure is scrolling through b stage clips on Twitter. There’s a video circulating; a shaky iphone quality clip of him showboating for you, and you smiling up at him, happy to watch him do what he does best. It’ll always be trippy to see videos of himself in third person, and even trippier now seeing you there too. It’s eerie, and a little invasive, but sacrificing a portion of his privacy was a part of the job he made peace with years ago. He’s just glad somebody caught the moment. He avoids looking at replies for his own sanity, but he catches a glimpse of one; “holy hard launch.” with some kind of meme underneath. He makes a mental note to ask you what a hard launch is later.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ Benjamin Poindexter (FBI!dex) x fem!reader ⋆.ᐟ
summary: Benjamin Poindexter x reader fic set before his fall into Bullseye. Y/N Hawthorne, a forensic psychology student in New York, finds herself becoming familiar with a quiet FBI agent who walks into her favourite coffee shop every morning. What begins as a simple routine slowly becomes something far more complicated.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ chapter 4/?
⋮ ⌗ ┆ wc: 5.4k
Benjamin Poindexter was good at his job.
That was something everyone knew.
Inside the FBI, there were few things more valuable than certainty. Situations changed quickly. Information was incomplete. People lied. Circumstances shifted without warning.
Benjamin didn't.
He adapted.
He watched.
He calculated.
The briefing room was colder than it needed to be, the artificial lighting reflecting off the polished table in front of him. A screen at the front of the room displayed photographs, locations and information that everyone present had already reviewed several times.
The atmosphere was quiet.
Focused.
Nobody wasted time.
"Target location is a warehouse in Brooklyn," the team leader explained, pointing towards the map. "We've had confirmation of multiple armed individuals inside. We don't know numbers beyond that."
Benjamin sat with his hands folded in front of him, listening.
"You'll be entering with the first team."
A few heads turned briefly.
Not because it was unusual.
Because Benjamin Poindexter was often the person people wanted when things became complicated.
"Any questions?"
Silence.
The team leader nodded.
"Alright. Move out in twenty."
Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone began gathering their equipment.
Benjamin stood.
His expression remained unchanged.
This was the part of his life that made sense.
There were rules. Objectives. Procedures. A clear understanding of what was expected.
He knew exactly who he was here.
—
The city looked different from inside the armoured vehicle.
New York continued around them completely unaware. People walked along pavements carrying coffee. Taxis moved through intersections. Someone laughed outside a restaurant as they passed. Normal life. The kind of life Benjamin spent most of his time protecting.
The radio crackled.
"Two minutes."
The team prepared.
Benjamin checked his equipment one final time.
Everything had a place. Everything had a purpose.
His breathing remained steady. His mind remained clear.
When the order came, he moved.
—
Later, after everything was finished, the adrenaline faded slowly.
That was always the strange part. The world could change in an instant. Then, afterwards, everyone went back to paperwork. Reports. Debriefings. Questions.
The fluorescent lights of the office felt almost too bright after hours spent focused on a single objective.
Benjamin sat at his desk, reviewing the final details.
A cup of coffee sat untouched beside him.
His colleagues moved around the office, conversations overlapping.
Someone complained about traffic.
Someone else talked about weekend plans.
Someone laughed about a mistake made during training.
Normal conversations.
Benjamin listened without participating. He usually did.
"You heading out after this?"
The voice belonged to one of the other agents.
Benjamin looked up.
"No."
The agent leaned against the desk.
"Nothing planned?"
"No."
A brief pause.
Then:
"You always say that."
Benjamin looked back at his screen.
"Because it's usually true."
The agent smiled slightly.
"Fair enough."
He walked away.
Benjamin returned to his work. Except his attention didn't stay there. Not completely.
His phone sat beside his keyboard.
Quiet.
Waiting.
He had never considered himself someone who checked his phone often.
There was rarely a reason to.
Messages were usually work-related.
Updates. Information. Instructions.
Not conversations. Not someone asking how his day was.
Not someone who had laughed at something he said and made him feel, even briefly, like he wasn't constantly analysing every interaction.
He looked at the screen.
No notifications.
He told himself that was fine.
Then, after a moment, he opened his contacts.
Your name was still there.
Y/n Hawthorne.
He stared at it. The conversation from earlier that day came back to him. The way you had laughed when he admitted he was serious. The way you hadn't seemed bothered by his awkwardness.
Most people noticed the things that made him different. You seemed to notice them and simply continued talking.
His phone remained in his hand.
A message would be simple. Something normal. He considered several options.
How was your day?
Too personal.
I hope your studies went well.
Too formal.
He almost sighed.
It shouldn't have been this difficult.
Eventually, he placed the phone back down. Not because he didn't want to speak to you. Because he wanted to do it correctly.
That thought stayed with him longer than expected.
—
Monday mornings had always been your least favourite.
There was something about the city waking up again after the weekend that felt almost aggressive.
The streets were crowded before you had even finished your coffee. People rushed past with tired expressions, phones pressed against their ears and coats pulled tightly around themselves against the cold. Cars filled the roads with constant noise, horns cutting through conversations and buses pulling away from stops with a familiar hiss.
Usually, you enjoyed the rhythm of New York.
Today, you felt slightly behind it.
Not because anything bad had happened. Just because your weekend had not gone the way you expected.
Sunday had been supposed to be simple.
A coffee.
A conversation.
Something easy.
But then your friends had invited you out, and one thing had turned into another. A quick lunch became hours of wandering around the city, catching up, laughing and forgetting to check the time until the evening had already arrived.
You had thought about messaging Benjamin.
Several times.
You had even opened his contact.
But every time you did, you hesitated. You didn't want it to sound like you were cancelling because you didn't care. You did care. Maybe that was the problem.
So instead, you had sent him a short message explaining that something had come up and apologising.
His response had come a few minutes later.
That's alright. Another time.
Simple.
No guilt.
No disappointment.
Still, you had spent the rest of the evening wondering if he actually meant it.
Now, standing outside the café on Monday morning, you found yourself strangely nervous. Which was ridiculous. You had been here countless times. You knew the layout. You knew where the sugar packets were kept, which table was usually free and which barista worked the early shift.
But today felt different.
Because now Benjamin wasn't just the man who happened to order coffee at the same time as you. Now he was someone who had your number. Someone you had spoken to outside of this place. Someone you had almost made plans with.
You pushed the door open.
Warm air immediately surrounded you, carrying the smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked pastries. The familiar sounds of the café washed over you—quiet conversations, the grinding of coffee beans and the occasional clatter of cups being placed onto counters.
And then you saw him.
Benjamin stood near the counter. His back was partially turned towards you, one hand holding his coffee while he listened to something the barista was saying.
For a moment, you simply watched him. Not in a strange way. Just recognising the familiarity of seeing someone who, only a few weeks ago, had been a complete stranger.
Almost as if he sensed you, he looked over.
His expression softened slightly.
"Morning, Y/n."
A small smile appeared on your face.
"Morning, Benjamin."
The barista looked between the two of you.
"Your usual?"
You nodded.
"Please."
Benjamin glanced at you.
"How was your weekend?"
There was no accusation in his voice. No hint that he had been waiting. Just a question.
You relaxed slightly.
"Busy."
He nodded.
"Good busy?"
You smiled.
"Yeah. My friends dragged me out."
"That sounds like a positive thing."
"It was."
You hesitated briefly. "Sorry about yesterday, though."
Benjamin looked at you.
"You don't have to apologise."
"I know, but I still feel bad."
"Why?"
The question was so genuine that it caught you off guard.
You shrugged.
"Because we were supposed to meet."
A brief pause.
Then Benjamin looked down at his coffee. "We can do it another time."
The simplicity of his answer made you smile.
"You really don't get bothered by much, do you?"
Benjamin looked at you for a moment. The question seemed to catch him slightly off guard. Not because it was offensive. Because it was difficult to answer.
"I do."
You tilted your head.
"You do?"
"Yes."
"But you never seem bothered."
His eyes dropped briefly towards the coffee in his hand. "I don't always show it."
That answer was so honest that it made you pause. There was something about Benjamin that was difficult to figure out.
He wasn't cold.
At least, you didn't think he was.
He just seemed... controlled. Like every reaction passed through a filter before he allowed anyone else to see it.
You looked down at your own coffee.
"Well, I guess that's probably useful for your job."
His expression shifted slightly.
"Probably."
You smiled.
"You say that a lot."
"What?"
"Probably."
A brief pause.
Then:
"I do?"
You laughed quietly.
"Yes."
Benjamin looked almost as though he was making a mental note of that.
You weren't sure if that was amusing or slightly concerning. Probably both.
The café was becoming busier now. The morning rush had settled in properly. The quiet conversations had grown louder, chairs scraped against the floor as people came and went, and the smell of fresh coffee seemed to linger everywhere.
Neither of you were in a hurry.
You had a little time before your lecture.
Benjamin, from what you knew, had a little time before work.
So you stayed.
Not in any official way.
There was no plan. No arrangement. Just two people sitting with their coffees and talking because neither of them had a reason to leave yet.
Your eyes drifted over him while he spoke. Not intentionally. You just noticed things. You always noticed things.
It was probably why forensic psychology had interested you in the first place. People's habits. Their expressions. The small details they didn't realise they showed. And right now, there was one detail you couldn't ignore. A small cut near his cheek. Another near his lip. They weren't severe. Just noticeable.
You frowned slightly.
Benjamin caught it.
"What?"
You looked away quickly.
"Nothing."
A small pause.
"You're looking at something."
You looked back at him.
"I am not."
"You are."
The fact he said it so calmly made you smile.
"Okay, maybe I am."
His expression remained neutral.
"What is it?"
You hesitated.
Your fingers moved around the cardboard sleeve of your cup.
You weren't sure why you felt nervous.
It wasn't an invasive question. It was a normal question.
It was just...
You glanced at him again.
The small cut along his cheek caught the morning light for a brief moment. other, barely visible unless you looked properly, sat near the corner of his lip.
You'd noticed them the second he'd walked into the café.
You looked back down at your coffee.
"I was going to ask you something."
Benjamin turned his head slightly.
"What?"
You hesitated for a heartbeat.
"I noticed..." Your eyes flickered back to the cuts before meeting his again. "The ones on your face."
Instinctively, his hand lifted just enough that his fingertips brushed lightly against his cheek, as though he'd forgotten they were there.
"They look like they hurt."
He gave the smallest shrug.
"They're not too bad."
"I know," you said gently, "but cuts on your face can be annoying."
A faint smile tugged at your lips.
"They always seem worse when you're trying to eat."
For the first time that morning, the corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
"That's true."
The smile disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived, but you'd seen it.
"I was just wondering..."
You paused, suddenly worried you were overstepping.
"...are you cleaning them properly?"
Benjamin looked at you for a moment. Not suspiciously. Almost... surprised.
"As in disinfectant and everything."
You laughed quietly, a little embarrassed.
"I know it sounds like such a random thing to ask."
"It is."
You covered your face for a second with one hand.
"I knew it."
"But..."
He cleared his throat softly.
"I am."
You lowered your hand.
"You are?"
He nodded once.
"I cleaned them when I got home."
"And you're keeping them clean?"
"Yeah."
You let out a small breath you hadn't realised you were holding.
"Good."
Benjamin watched you for another moment.
"You were worried."
It wasn't a question. Just an observation.
You smiled sheepishly into your coffee.
"A little."
"You didn't have to be."
"I know."
You looked up at him.
"But I still was."
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Benjamin wasn't used to that kind of concern.
People noticed injuries. Colleagues joked about them. Supervisors asked whether he was fit for duty. Doctors patched them up. But nobody had ever asked whether he was looking after them afterwards.
It was such a small question.
So ordinary.
Yet it lingered with him far longer than he expected.
"I'll be alright," he said quietly.
You nodded.
"I know."
And somehow, the way you said it made it sound less like reassurance for yourself...
...and more like trust in him.
A quiet moment passed.
Outside, New York continued moving. Cars passed by the windows. People hurried along the pavement. The city was loud and restless, but inside the café, it felt strangely calm.
You wrapped both hands around your coffee, letting the warmth seep into your fingers.
Benjamin sat opposite you, his own cup untouched for the moment.
He wasn't looking out of the window.
He wasn't looking around the café.
He was looking at you.
Not intensely. Just... attentively.
As if he were trying to commit another small detail to memory.
You noticed.
"What?" you asked, the corner of your mouth lifting into a faint smile.
He blinked once, as though he'd been pulled back into the room.
"What?"
"You keep looking at me."
There wasn't any accusation in your voice. If anything, you sounded amused.
Benjamin looked down at his coffee for a brief second before clearing his throat.
"I was thinking."
"About?"
Another pause.
He rarely answered quickly when the answer mattered.
"You look..."
He stopped himself.
You waited.
He looked almost frustrated with himself, searching for the right words.
"You always look..."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"...comfortable."
You frowned, not because the compliment was unwelcome, but because it was unexpected.
"Comfortable?"
Benjamin nodded once.
"When you come in here."
He glanced around the café before looking back at you.
"I've noticed that."
You couldn't help smiling.
"I don't know whether that's a compliment."
"It is."
The certainty in his voice surprised you.
"You always seem..."
Again, he searched for the words.
"...calm."
You laughed quietly.
"I promise you, I'm usually anything but."
"I know."
That answer caught you off guard.
"You do?"
"You fidget."
Your eyebrows rose.
"When you're thinking."
He gestured subtly towards your hands.
"You've been turning that coffee sleeve since we sat down."
Almost instinctively, you looked down.
He was right.
Your fingers had been absent-mindedly rotating the cardboard sleeve around your cup for the last few minutes.
You hadn't even realised.
A small, embarrassed laugh escaped you.
"I do that all the time."
"I know."
"You've noticed that too?"
Benjamin gave a slight nod.
"You do it when you're nervous."
You looked at him for a second before shaking your head with a smile.
"See, that's unfair."
"Why?"
"Because you notice everything."
He was quiet.
Then, almost apologetically, he said,
"I don't mean to."
You believed him.
There wasn't a hint of self-importance in his voice. It wasn't something he did to make people uncomfortable. It was simply how he experienced the world.
You smiled warmly.
"I know you don't."
The tension seemed to leave his shoulders almost immediately.
You took another sip of your coffee.
"So..."
You tilted your head slightly.
"You really notice all of that?"
Benjamin looked at you.
"What?"
"The little things."
You smiled faintly.
"The coffee sleeve. When I'm nervous. The way I fidget."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I notice most things."
There wasn't any pride in his voice. It was simply a fact.
You rested your chin lightly against your hand, studying him for a second.
"Doesn't that get exhausting?"
His eyes drifted briefly towards the café window, watching people hurry past beneath umbrellas.
"Sometimes."
The answer was honest.
No hesitation.
No attempt to soften it.
You nodded slowly.
"I suppose my lecturers would say that's a useful skill."
"For psychology?"
"Mm."
You smiled.
"They're always telling us to observe before we interpret."
Benjamin looked back at you.
"And do you?"
"I try."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You ask more questions than you assume."
You laughed quietly.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was."
Your smile lingered.
"So..."
You pointed playfully between the two of you.
"I observe people."
"You do."
"You observe people."
"I do."
"I suppose we're both in the business of noticing things."
Benjamin considered that for a second before giving a small nod.
"I hadn't thought about it like that."
"It makes sense, though."
"It does."
Another comfortable silence settled over the table.
You watched people pass outside while absent-mindedly tracing the rim of your coffee cup.
Benjamin remained exactly as he always seemed to be calm, composed, quietly taking in the world around him without appearing distracted by it.
The café door opened, letting in a rush of cold air.
You glanced towards the clock. Your lecture wasn't far away. Neither was his work.
You sighed softly.
"I should probably go."
Benjamin nodded.
"Me too."
For a moment, neither of you moved. It was strange how quickly the café had become a place where silence between you no longer felt uncomfortable.
A few weeks ago, you would have filled every quiet moment with nervous conversation, worried that you had said the wrong thing or that he had lost interest.
Now, you were beginning to understand that Benjamin's silence was not always an absence of something.
Sometimes, it was simply how he existed.
You finished the last sip of your coffee and glanced towards the time displayed on your phone.
Definitely time to leave.
You began gathering your things, slipping your notebook back into your handbag and adjusting the strap over your shoulder. The familiar sounds of the café carried on around you—the hiss of the coffee machine, the chatter of customers, the occasional laugh from a table nearby.
Benjamin stood as well.
You picked up your coffee cup, ready to throw it away before leaving.
"Y/n."
You looked up. The way he said your name made you pause.
"Yeah?"
Benjamin cleared his throat.
It was such a small gesture, but you noticed it. He didn't seem nervous exactly. At least, not in the way most people were.
It was more like he was carefully arranging his thoughts before speaking.
"I was wondering..."
You waited.
He glanced briefly towards the door, then back at you.
"The other day."
You knew immediately what he meant.
Sunday.
The plan that never happened.
Your fingers tightened slightly around your handbag strap.
"I know you got busy," he continued. "And that's alright."
You nodded quickly.
"Yeah, sorry again about that."
"You don't need to apologise."
A small smile crossed your face. "You really like saying that."
His expression softened slightly.
"I do."
You laughed quietly.
Then Benjamin continued.
"I was wondering if you would still like to meet."
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Meet?"
"Properly."
There was something about the way he said it that made you smile.
Not because it was particularly romantic. Because it was clear he had thought about it. He wasn't casually throwing the suggestion out. He had considered it.
"If you'd like."
You looked at him. Benjamin looked completely composed, but you had started noticing the small things.
The slight pause before he spoke. The way his fingers adjusted around his coffee cup. The way he seemed to wait for your answer without trying to influence it.
You smiled.
"I'd like that."
Something in his expression eased. Only slightly. But you saw it.
"Okay."
You nodded.
"When?"
He seemed to already know.
"Friday."
A small pause.
"Six o'clock."
You considered it.
"Where?"
"Central Park."
You smiled.
"Central Park at six?"
"Yes."
"That's very specific."
Benjamin looked almost confused.
"It's a good location."
You laughed. "I know. I'm just saying."
A faint hint of a smile appeared on his face.
"I thought it would be easier."
"Easier?"
"Less crowded than a restaurant."
That actually made sense. Of course it did. Benjamin wasn't someone who would choose a loud, busy place where he couldn't hear properly or control his surroundings.
A park made sense. Open space. Quiet. Simple.
"I think that sounds nice," you said.
He nodded.
"Friday, then."
"Friday."
For a moment, you both just stood there.
The agreement was made.
Simple.
No dramatic moment.
No grand gesture.
Just two people who had started as strangers sharing coffee and had slowly reached the point where spending time together outside that café felt natural.
You moved towards the door.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Benjamin."
"Tomorrow, y/n."
You stepped outside into the cold New York morning.
The city immediately surrounded you again. The noise. The traffic. The endless movement.
But you couldn't help smiling slightly as you walked towards university.
Friday suddenly felt much closer than it had before.
—
Wednesday
7:48 p.m.
The cold settled over Manhattan long before the sky turned completely black.
You pulled your coat a little tighter around yourself as you and Pamela rounded the corner onto the next street, the glow of shop signs reflecting across damp pavements. Cars rolled steadily through the evening traffic, headlights stretching across the wet roads in long ribbons of white and gold. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed as they climbed into a taxi, while further down the street a bus sighed to a halt before disappearing again into the constant rhythm of the city.
New York never truly slowed down.
Not really.
The little Korean hotpot restaurant was exactly where it always was, tucked between an ageing laundrette and a tiny convenience shop whose fluorescent lights seemed permanently on. It wasn't particularly pretty from the outside. The sign above the door had faded over the years, and one of the windows had a small crack running through the corner.
You loved it anyway.
The food was good. The portions were generous. Most importantly...
It was affordable.
The warmth hit you almost immediately as you stepped inside. Your glasses you fogged for a second before clearing again, revealing a restaurant alive with conversation. Steam drifted lazily from bubbling pots on almost every table, carrying the rich scent of garlic, sesame oil and chilli through the room. Cutlery clinked against ceramic bowls, chairs scraped quietly across the floor, and somewhere in the background, soft Korean music played beneath the chatter of customers.
The hostess smiled warmly.
"Table for two?"
"Please," you answered.
A few moments later, the two of you were settled into your usual booth near the window.
Pamela rubbed her hands together.
"I swear this place gets better every time."
You laughed.
"No, we're just broke enough to appreciate it."
"That's probably true."
Within minutes, a pot of broth bubbled gently between you, filling the small table with comforting warmth.
You leaned back slightly with a contented sigh.
"I needed this."
"I could tell."
Pamela poured herself another drink before looking across the table at you.
"So..."
You immediately pointed your chopsticks at her.
"Don't."
"I haven't even asked anything."
"You've got that face."
"What face?"
"The one where you're about to interrogate me."
Pamela smiled innocently.
"I prefer the word 'enquire'."
"It's interrogation."
"It isn't."
"It is."
She laughed.
"Fine." She picked up a slice of beef with her chopsticks before dropping it carefully into the broth. "So..."
You sighed dramatically.
"There it is."
"There what is?"
"The question."
Pamela grinned. "How's Benjamin?"
You looked down into the bubbling broth, pretending to be far more interested in cooking your food than answering.
"He's alright."
"Alright?"
"Yeah."
"You've spoken to him since Saturday."
You nodded.
"We had coffee on Monday."
"And?"
"And... we talked."
Pamela waited.
You knew that look.
She wasn't going to rescue you from the silence.
"So?" she prompted again.
You smiled despite yourself.
"He apologised."
"For what?"
"The phone call."
Her eyebrows drew together. "He was still apologising?"
"I told you."
"He apologised over the phone."
"I know."
"And he apologised again?"
You nodded. "He seemed genuinely bothered."
Pamela rested her chin in her hand. "Huh."
"What?"
"I wasn't expecting that."
"What were you expecting?"
"I don't know."
She shrugged.
"Someone in the FBI."
You laughed. "What does that even mean?"
"I don't know." She smiled. "I just imagined someone a bit... tougher."
"He is."
"You know what I mean."
You thought about Benjamin for a moment. The cuts on his face. The careful way he chose his words.
"He is," you repeated quietly. "I think he's just..." You searched for the right word. "Reserved."
Pamela nodded slowly. "That's probably a better way of putting it."
You smiled.
"He asked if I'd still like to meet up."
Her eyes widened.
"He did?"
You nodded.
"Friday."
"What time?"
"Six."
"Where?"
"Central Park."
Pamela slowly lowered her chopsticks onto the table. "Y/n."
"What?"
She looked at you with complete disbelief. "That is a date."
You laughed.
"It isn't."
"It absolutely is."
"It isn't."
"You are meeting a man in Central Park on a Friday evening."
"Yes."
"A man who specifically asked if you'd still like to meet him."
"Yes."
"A man who remembered your university modules."
"Yes."
"A man who apologised three separate times because he had to answer a work call."
You smiled into your drink.
"...Yes."
Pamela folded her arms.
"And you genuinely don't think that's a date?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because..."
You hesitated. The answer was more complicated than you'd expected.
"I just..." You looked out of the restaurant window for a moment, watching people hurry past beneath scarves and winter coats. "I want to know him."
Pamela softened.
"You already do."
"No."
"I don't."
"I know little things."
"The coffee."
"His job."
"The fact he always apologises."
You smiled.
"But I don't know him."
Pamela watched you quietly.
"I think he's interesting."
That much was true. You weren't lying. There was something about Benjamin that made you curious. Not because he was mysterious. Because he never seemed to pretend to be someone else.
He was quiet. Sometimes awkward. Occasionally unintentionally funny. He listened more than he spoke. He remembered almost everything. And despite working what was probably one of the most stressful jobs imaginable, he never made it his entire personality.
You liked that. Maybe more than you realised.
"I don't have time for a relationship," you admitted after a while.
Pamela smiled knowingly.
"Neither does he."
"Exactly."
"So maybe neither of you are looking for one."
You nodded.
"I think..." You stirred the broth absent-mindedly. "I think it'd just be nice to have another friend."
Pamela didn't answer immediately. Instead, she smiled the sort of smile only a best friend could.
"You keep telling yourself that."
You groaned.
"Pamela..."
"I'm serious."
She laughed as you rolled your eyes.
"I believe you."
"...Mostly."
You reached across the table and nudged her arm.
"You're impossible."
"So you've said."
The two of you dissolved into laughter once again, your voices briefly blending with the warm, comforting noise of the restaurant around you.
Outside, the city continued rushing from one place to the next.
Inside, time seemed to slow just enough for you to forget about assignments, deadlines and overthinking.
For the first time all week, you simply enjoyed the evening with your best friend.
—
Benjamin's shift finished just after half past seven.
By the time he stepped outside the FBI field office, Manhattan had already surrendered to the night. The air was cold enough to sting his lungs as he breathed in, and a steady breeze swept between the buildings, carrying with it the distant sounds of traffic, police sirens and snippets of conversations from pedestrians hurrying home.
He adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder before making his way towards his car.
It had been a long day.
Paperwork.
Training.
A briefing that had lasted far longer than anyone wanted.
His shoulders ached beneath his jacket.
Normally, he would drive straight home.
He liked routine. Routine was predictable. Predictability made life easier.
Tonight, however, his thoughts kept drifting somewhere they hadn't before.
To you.
Benjamin unlocked the driver's door and climbed inside, setting his bag on the passenger seat before starting the engine.
For a few moments, he simply sat there. The heater hummed quietly as it began pushing warm air into the car, fog slowly disappearing from the windscreen.
His eyes landed on his phone.
Friday.
Six o'clock.
Central Park.
He remembered every word of the conversation. Not because he had been trying to.
Because remembering came naturally.
His memory rarely gave him the luxury of forgetting things.
Especially conversations. Especially yours.
He shifted the car into gear and pulled out into the evening traffic.
The roads were busy, though no busier than usual for Manhattan. Brake lights stretched endlessly ahead of him, red reflections shimmering across damp tarmac as people crawled home after work.
Benjamin rested one hand loosely against the steering wheel.
His route home would take him west. Instead, without really thinking about it, he found himself turning at the next junction.
The movement was instinctive.
He frowned almost immediately.
That wasn't the way home.
His grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
He knew where you lived. Not your apartment number. Not which floor. Just the neighbourhood.
You had mentioned it once during one of your conversations over coffee, and he had remembered.
The thought settled uncomfortably in the back of his mind.
He could drive past. Just once.
He wasn't trying to interrupt you. He wasn't planning to stop. He only...
Benjamin exhaled slowly.
No.
His indicator clicked as he changed lanes again. The car turned back towards the main road.
What was he doing?
You had your own life.
Your own friends.
Your own evening.
The fact that he was curious didn't mean he had any right to satisfy that curiosity.
His instructor's voice echoed faintly in his memory.
"Boundaries matter, Dex."
He swallowed.
They did. Of course they did.
The traffic slowed to a stop at a red light. Benjamin drummed his thumb once against the steering wheel before looking absent-mindedly through the passenger window.
A small restaurant stood on the corner.
Its windows were fogged from the warmth inside, making it difficult to see clearly.
People laughed around closely packed tables. Steam drifted upwards from bowls and hotpots.
His gaze moved across the room without much thought.
Then it stopped.
You.
You were sitting by the window opposite your friend you had mentioned a few times—Pamela.
You were laughing. Not the polite laugh he sometimes heard in the café.
A proper laugh.
Your head tilted back slightly as Pamela said something that made you cover your face with one hand.
Benjamin felt something in his chest loosen.
You looked...
Happy.
Relaxed.
Comfortable.
For a brief moment, he considered parking.
Not to interrupt.
Just...
No.
His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. You hadn't invited him. This wasn't his moment.
This belonged to you.
The traffic light turned green. A car behind him sounded its horn.
Benjamin blinked, shifted his attention back to the road and eased his foot onto the accelerator.
He drove away.
He didn't look in the rear-view mirror. He didn't circle the block. He didn't slow down.
By the time the restaurant had disappeared behind him, he was already telling himself he had done the right thing.
Because he had.
He had almost let curiosity become something else.
Almost.
That thought stayed with him for the rest of the drive home.
It unsettled him.
Not because he had seen you. Because, for a moment, he had wanted to.
And Benjamin Poindexter was beginning to realise there was a difference.
'Fun Ghoul comes back from a raid with a nasty cut along his mouth. It's sure to scar, but you patch it up all the same.'
Ghoul kept one hand on the wheel and the other pressed to his face as the Trans AM hummed contentedly across the desert, wincing slightly every time the car hit a dip in the sand. The supply run had gone sideways fast, and when the Dracs boxed him in he’d moved to draw fire but caught a blade across the face. The cut ran deep, starting high on his cheekbone and slicing clean down to the corner of his mouth.
The fingers of his left hand were sticky with blood that still hadn’t clotted. He glanced in the cracked rear-view mirror: blood had run down his neck and into the collar of his shirt, drying in a way that made his skin crawl— that and the wound pulling every time he breathed too hard. He tried to grin at his own reflection just to see if he still could: the movement split the cut wider and sent a fresh trickle down his chin.
“Fuck,” he muttered to the empty road. “She's gonna be so pissed.”
The neon sign of the old diner finally flickered into view through the cracked windshield; half the letters dead, the rest buzzing like they were on their last legs. Still, Ghoul was relieved to be home, or as close as any of them got to one these days. He killed the engine in its usual spit, but sat there for a while longer than he needed to, drumming his fingers against the wheel as he plucked up the courage to face you. Finally he sighed, shoved the door open, and walked toward the diner, slamming the door shut behind him with a determined thunk.
You heard the car before you saw it, the familiar roar of the engine that indicated you could relax because Ghoul wasn't dead: you couldn't have anticipated what you were going to see. The diner’s front door banged open and Ghoul walked in with his head down, like he was hoping the dark curtain of hair would distract you from the immense gash on his face.
You glanced up from behind the counter, where you were trying to fix the radio Kobra had karate-kicked across the room by mistake.
"Hey, Gh—ohmygodwhathappened?"
The smile was wiped off of your face as you did a double-take: Ghoul's mask was resting on his head, the underside soaked in blood; the left side of his face was a mess of blood and open skin, the cut running from his cheek straight down to the edge of his mouth. He caught sight of your shocked face and attempted a smile that immediately turned into a wince.
“Before you say anything,” he said, words garbled and slow from his trying not to move his mouth too much, “I know I fucked up.”
You shook your head in disbelief and began to move across the room.
“Sit,” you told him, pointing at the nearest booth. "And pull your hair back."
Before you'd even finished your sentence he was obeying. He dropped onto the cracked vinyl seat and tipped his head back against the wall, watching you wash your hands and grab the med kit. When you came back and tilted his face toward the light, he didn’t pull away, just watched you guiltily as you lightly held the uninjured parts of his jaw in your hand.
“You’re going to scar," you said flatly, eyes slightly squinted in concentration.
“Cool.” He tried to smirk again and failed.
"Don't."
"Sorry."
You cleaned the wound as carefully as you could, standing between his legs. He hissed through his teeth but stayed still, one gloved hand resting on your hip like he needed the contact.
“You went alone,” you said softly as you dabbed the cut.
“Yeah.” His voice was smaller than usual. “Was stupid.”
You briefly glanced up at his eyes and hummed in agreement.
"Think this is punishment enough, though." Ghoul was pleased to hear sympathy return to your voice, though he knew your anger was masking concern.
You kept working: antiseptic; gauze; sterilised strips to hold the worst of the split closed until it could heal. His hand stayed on your side the whole time, thumb moving in a slow, absent stroke as he considered how lucky he was to come back to you, to not have to worry whether you'd find the scar ugly or not.
When you finished, you sat back a little. Ghoul reached up, touched the bandaging lightly with two fingers, then looked at you.
“Thanks, doll” he said with a small nod of appreciation.
You brushed a bit of dried blood off his jaw with your thumb.
“Try not to do it again.”
He caught your wrist before you could pull away, holding it gently as he raised your knuckles to his lips; his other hand's fingers slipped through the belt-loops of your trousers. You tilted your head and smiled down at him, letting the fear and anger melt away.
“I will,” he said. Then, quieter, “As long as you're here I'll always make it back, you know that, right?”
You sighed, then perched on his thigh, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your head in the crook of his neck.
"I know," you mumbled into his shoulder. "I just worry."
Ghoul didn't reply: he felt guilty and loved to the point he felt he might explode. Instead of trying to articulate that feeling (he never was a man of many words) he snaked his arms round your waist and pressed soft kisses to your hair.
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Thinking about Benjamin Poindexter who doesn't get your need for some alone time.
When the words came out of your mouth, he looked at you as if you had just said that you kick puppies for fun.
"Why would you say that?"
You sigh, knowing all too well the look on Dex's face — the glassy eyes, the furrowed eyebrows, the pouty lips.
"Just for tonight, Dex. You could go to the movies or something, and then sleep at your place."
The thing is, your offer is genuine. All you want is a quiet evening where you get to take a nice, long shower, eat a good meal while watching 'the office', do some yoga, and fall asleep in your freshly washed sheets.
And it's not like you couldn't do those things with him in your apartment, but ever since the two of you started dating, it feels like you were never truly alone.
If you have to drink some water in the middle of the night, he'll be there right behind you; if you have to go to the bathroom, he'll sit on the edge of the bathtub, waiting for you to be done; if you want to go buy some groceries, he'll be already with his shoes on, waiting for you at the door.
So, no, it doesn't seem unreasonable to you to want some alone time.
But to Dex? You just declared your desire to leave him.
"Why do you want me to go? Did I do something wrong?"
His lips are trembling, and his mind his clouded by the worst scenarios possible. But you've already played this game before, and you will not back down.
"No, baby," you coo, "I just think it would be good for us to spend some alone time, that's all."
Those words again. Alone time.
Dex doesn't understand why you need that so badly. He wants to spend every waking moment — or maybe every moment — with you. Don't you want the same?
"Baby, please, I won't bother you. You won't even know I'm here. Just, please, don't make me leave."
You highly doubt that. Even when he's not talking, or in your proximity, his gaze has a way of making your skin burn, never letting you forget you're not alone.
"It would be good for the both of us," you try to reason with him, but he won't have it.
"Don't you love me anymore?"
The statement takes you off guard, and the dramatics of it all almost make you laugh. But Dex is dead serious.
He takes a step closer to you, lowering himself onto his knees. His strong arms wrap themselves around your legs, and his head rests on your stomach.
"Please, baby, don't make me leave. I- I can't sleep without you," he pleads. "I love you so much, I can't be away from you."
The tears that had been gathering in his eyes start running down his flustered cheeks. He's breathing heavily, and despite knowing deep down that he's trying to manipulate you, you can't help but be concerned for him.
You had seen him crying and begging before, but this time he looks genuinely distressed at the thought of you wanting to be away from him.
Because that's how your request registered in his head: you want to leave him.
A sigh escapes your lips as you cradle his face, trying to whipe away some of his tears. You don't want to give in, but at this point you doubt he'll even get off his knees until you agree to let him stay.
And so you do.
You expect him to be relieved. Instead, he becomes extra clingy for the rest of the night, constantly following you around and making sure he's always touching you some way, and tightly wrapping his arms around you as you sleep.
You made him face his worst fear tonight — you leaving him, that is — and he'll make sure that never happens.
A/N: He's so dramatic and pathetic. I love him. In real life this sounds like a nightmare situation.
݈݇— pairings: nerdy!roommate AU dex poindexter x roommate!freader
݈݇— summary: Your friends keep laughing it off whenever you swear your shy, roommate Dex is secretly a total catch under the oversized clothing—they just can't see it like you do and you're finally determined to confirm it for yourself.
݈݇— [18+] themes: implied stalking, perverted roommate, dex acting pathetic, ooc dex, size kink, praise kink, teasing/seduction, body worship, msub, foreplay, oral (m & f receiving), dick slaps, face-riding, mating press, dirty talk, unprotected piv(pls use protection), creampie. Porn with plot. No use of y/n.
Author's Notes: Inspired by Need To Know by Doja Cat. Another fucking self indulgent fanfic. May or may not make a part 2 depending on how this goes lol.
Dex was right in the middle of staring at the same stubborn line of code for the third damn time when the loud clatter echoed from the living room, followed immediately by your very loud, very frustrated “Oh fuck!”
His hands froze on the keyboard. He was already half out of his chair before his brain caught up—because that’s what roommates did. They checked on each other. They didn’t just sit there spiraling through every worst-case scenario while their heart tried to punch its way out of their chest. Especially not when it was you.
He should’ve knocked. He knew the rule. But the door was already cracked open, and the only rule that actually mattered in his head (the one he’d invented the day you moved in) was simple: make sure you’re okay. Even if his palms were already clammy. Even if he’d spent the last six months pretending he didn’t notice you in anything less than full-coverage pajamas.
He pushed the door open a little wider with his shoulder, glasses sliding down his nose, and the sight hit him like a truck.
You were on the floor.
Legs splayed, one knee twisted at a weird angle, that thin white cover-up clinging to your skin thanks to the humidity and doing exactly zero to hide the tiny bikini underneath.
His gaze flicked down, then up, then anywhere that wasn’t you, but it was useless. The way the bikini bottoms sat low on your hips. The cover-up slipping off one shoulder. The sunscreen is still shiny on your thigh. He felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, felt his glasses fog slightly at the edges because apparently his body had decided this was the moment to overheat.
“Are—are you okay?” The words came out gravelly, like he’d just swallowed a handful of sand. He hovered in the doorway, one hand still gripping the frame.
You looked up at him, lips parted in that sheepish little smile. “Yeah,” you said with a soft, embarrassed laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I just slipped on sunscreen like an absolute genius.”
Dex swallowed hard. He should leave. He should turn around right now and go back to his room and pretend he hadn’t seen any of this. But his feet were glued. And you were still sitting there, looking up at him with those eyes, cover-up slipping further down your arm, and every single fantasy he’d ever tried to bury came roaring back in high definition.
He took one careful step closer, then another, until he was crouched beside you. His hand hovered for a second before his fingers brushed your elbow. The skin there was warm, still a little slick from lotion, and the contact sent a jolt straight through him.
“Here—let me…” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. “C-can I help you up?”
You nodded, still wearing that small, knowing smile, and when you slipped your hand into his, Dex felt it in his ribs, his stomach, everywhere. He pulled you to your feet a little too quickly, until you were standing right there, inches away. The sheer fabric brushed against his hoodie. The smell of strawberries filled the space between you.
“You… you should probably lather up on the couch,” he managed, voice low and rough. “Sitting down to avoid…slipping.”
“That’s actually a really smart idea,” you said, laughing softly, that same knowing smile still in place as you let go of his hand. You stepped past him toward the hallway.
Dex inhaled sharply before he could stop himself. Your hair swung close and that strawberry scent hit him full force again. His eyes actually rolled back for half a second, lashes fluttering. God. He was pathetic. Completely, irreversibly pathetic.
He followed you down the hall at a careful distance, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets so you wouldn’t see them shaking, eyes locked on the floor.
“You heading to the beach today?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer. He’d watched you check the weather app three separate times during dinner. He knew your plans better than his own.
You glanced back over your shoulder with a little shrug. “Nah, just the rooftop pool.”
Dex rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to look surprised. “R-right. I forgot the apartment even had a pool…”
You dropped onto the couch and gave him that sweet little “Mm-hm.”
“Well,” he said, already taking a jerky step back toward the hallway, “I’ll be in my room if you need anyth—”
“Actually…”
Your voice stopped him cold. Dex turned halfway around. You were standing by the couch, sunscreen bottle in one hand, fingers playing with the tie of your cover-up.
“Can you help me put sunscreen on?” you asked, all soft and sweet. “My back’s impossible to reach and I really don’t want to burn…”
Dex’s mouth went completely dry. Every alarm in his head went off, but his feet were already carrying him toward you anyway.
“You… you want me to—?” His voice came out cracked and embarrassingly breathy.
You tilted your head, biting your lower lip in that soft, innocent way that wiped every rational thought clean out of his skull. “Only if you’re okay with it,” you said sweetly, eyes wide and guileless. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything.”
Uncomfortable. Right.
He was already half-hard in his sweatpants, cock twitching at the mere idea of his hands on you. His glasses slid another inch down his nose.
“No—no, I don’t mind,” he blurted, then winced at how desperate he sounded. “I mean… yeah. Sure. Definitely.”
Your whole face lit up. “Thank you!” you chirped, bright and happy, and before he could brace himself you reached up and tugged the tie of the cover-up. It slipped right off your shoulders and you held it
Dex’s brain flatlined.
Holy shit.
New material, his mind supplied instantly, already filing every detail away for later. For when he was alone in his room tonight, door locked, hand wrapped tight around his cock, biting down on his wrist so you wouldn’t hear him falling apart through the thin wall. He was so unbelievably fucked.
You dropped the cover-up over the arm of the couch and sat down, patting the cushion beside you. “C’mere then.”
Dex nodded like a bobble head and lowered himself onto the couch on shaky legs, the cushions sinking under his weight. His hands trembled as he took the sunscreen from you and squeezed way too much into his palm. A thick white pool sat there like evidence of how badly he was failing at playing it cool.
He rubbed his palms together slowly, the wet sound loud in the quiet room, warming the lotion between his fingers. Then he scooted closer and placed his hands at the top of your back, right below the delicate knot of your bikini strings.
Fuck.
His thumbs pressed into your warm skin and he started rubbing careful circles, spreading the lotion down the smooth line of your spine. He was trying so hard to stay respectful, but his brain was already ten steps ahead—imagining taking the string with his teeth, tugging it loose, watching the strings fall away so he could finally see everything he’d been fantasizing about for months.
Dex’s breath caught. He kept his hands moving anyway, trying like hell not to let you feel how badly they were shaking.
“Mmm… your hands feel really good, Ben,” you said, low and a little breathy. You even used his first name, and it hit him like you knew exactly what it would do to him.
His whole body jolted.
“S-Sorry?” The word came out too loud and cracked right in the middle. His hands froze on your skin, palms pressed flat against your back, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his fingertips.
You let out a soft, knowing laugh and twisted on the couch. Before his brain could catch up, you swung one leg over his lap and straddled him. Your warm thighs settled around his hips, your ass pressing right down against the front of his sweatpants where he was already half-hard and completely hopeless.
Dex’s back hit the cushions hard, body stiff as a board. Every muscle locked up tight. His lotion-slick hands flew up in the air.
“Wh-what—you—I—What are you doing?”
You settled your full weight on his thighs, hands resting lightly on his shoulders, and smiled down at him with that sweet, wicked look that wiped every coherent thought from his head.
“You want to touch them, don’t you, Benjamin?” you asked softly, tilting your head. “I know you’ve wanted me for a long time. I see the way you look at me when I walk around in my sundresses. When I bend over to grab something. You think I don’t notice?”
Dex’s mouth opened, then closed. Words failed him for a second.
“I—I didn’t—fuck, okay I did, but I swear I wasn’t trying to be creepy— Jesus Christ you’re so pretty and I’m such a fucking loser but yes please—you can sit here forever—I’ll do anything—I’ll buy you all the sunscreen in the store—I’ll—fuck—”
His hands stayed hovering uselessly in the air, trembling, eyes wide and glassy behind his glasses as he stared up at you.
You giggled, clearly loving every second of his meltdown, and traced one finger slowly down his forehead, over the bridge of his nose, then across his bottom lip. Your fingertip caught on the way his mouth shook.
“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I don’t mind. I like it when you look at me like that.”
Dex’s breathing turned ragged, chest heaving under you. Every exhale fogged his glasses a little more. His cock was fully hard now, throbbing against your ass, and he was mortified and turned on beyond belief.
You slid your fingers into his brown hair, messing it up and tugged gently until his head tipped back with a shaky gasp. Then you plucked his glasses off his face and set them neatly on the couch cushion beside you.
“You’re already so hot with these on,” you murmured, brushing his hair back from his forehead, nails scraping lightly over his scalp, “but you shouldn’t hide that handsome face all the time.” You leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Can you still see me?”
Dex blinked hard. The world went soft and blurry without the lenses, but you were right there—warm, soft, and practically naked on his lap, tits inches from his mouth. His hands finally settled on your hips, thumbs brushing the edge of your bikini bottoms.
“Y-yeah,” he breathed, still panting. “I can still see you.”
“Good,” you said with another soft laugh, palms sliding down his chest, over his shoulders, feeling every tense line of him like you were marking what was yours. “Then you won’t mind taking off your hoodie right now, will you?”
Dex’s brain blue-screened, “Y-You want me to do what?”
You rocked your hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding right against the obvious bulge in his sweats. He choked on air.
“Take off your clothes, Ben.”
“R-really?”
“Really.”
His voice cracked embarrassingly high. “This is a joke, right? You’re fucking with me—”
You didn’t bother answering with words. You just stood up, reached behind your neck, and pulled the bow. The knot came undone with one easy tug. The pink bikini top slipped down and you tossed it onto the couch.
Dex’s eyes went wide and inhaled sharply. “Oh my god…”
Your breasts were right there—bare, nipples already tight from the way he was staring. He couldn’t look away. His cock throbbed hard against his sweats. His hands fisted the couch cushions so tightly his knuckles went white.
You planted your hands on your hips, completely at ease. “Do you want to get off or not?”
That snapped him out of it. Dex yanked his hoodie up and over his head in one jerky motion, then stripped off the white t-shirt underneath. He sat there shirtless, and holy shit—he was ripped. Broad shoulders, defined chest, abs flexing with every shaky breath, that sharp V-line disappearing into his low-slung sweats.
You drank him in like you’d been waiting years for this exact reveal, eyes darkening, lips parting. A slow, hungry smile curved your mouth, like you’d always known the shy, glasses-wearing roommate was secretly built like that under the hoodies. Like you’d been imagining peeling him open just as much as he’d been imagining you.
“Fuck, Dex,” you breathed, stepping between his spread thighs. “I knew you were hiding all that.”
Dex swallowed hard, throat bobbing. A tiny, shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He still couldn’t believe any of this was happening to him.
“What… what do you want me to do?”
You hummed, dragging your gaze over every cut line of his torso while you decided. “Why don’t you get on your knees and make me come? Then I’ll let you play with my breasts.”
His eyes blew wide, like a kid who just got told Christmas came early. “Really? You—you actually want me to—?”
You laughed, low and fond, cocking your hip. “Are you going to ask me that every single time? Yes, really. Taste me.”
Dex’s breath stuttered out in a shaky exhale. He slid off the couch in slow motion, knees hitting the floor with a soft thud. He knelt between your thighs, looking up at you with those big hazel eyes, glasses-less and wrecked.
“I’m just… surprised you want me to,” he mumbled, adorably earnest. “I mean… me?”
You combed your fingers through his messy hair, nails scraping his scalp, and his whole body jolted like you’d shocked him. A tinybwhimper slipped out before he could swallow it.
“Well, I really need to know what that mouth feels like,” you murmured, still petting him like he was yours.
He leaned in and caught the left tie of your bikini bottoms between his teeth (exactly the way he’d just fantasized) and tugged with a desperate little groan vibrating in his throat. The knot slipped free. He moved to the right side, teeth grazing your hip bone, pulling harder this time, eyes fluttering shut as a muffled “mmph” vibrated against your skin.
The pink bottoms fluttered to the floor.
He was inches from your bare pussy, that sweet strawberry-and-you scent flooding his lungs. He looked up at you one last time, cheeks flushed.
“Fuck… you’re so pretty,” he whispered. He looked up at you so intently, those beautiful hazel eyes blazing through the haze of his glasses-less blur.
For the second time this morning his brain is lagging—this gorgeous, confident woman gripping his hair, looking at him like he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. As if he wasn’t just some awkward, hoodie-wearing loser who’d jerked off to the image of you in his head for six straight months. It couldn’t be real, could it? He was going to wake up any second, cock in his fist, alone in his cold bed again—then he lowered his lips to your pussy and he knew it was real.
The first touch was so delicately gentle, just the soft press of his open mouth, a shaky, whimpery kiss right against your folds. A savouring hum caught in his throat the second your taste hit his tongue. The sensation tore through you like lightning, and you arched hard, knees buckling with a startled cry that made his cock twitch painfully in his sweats.
“Oh wow,” you moaned breathlessly, gripping his bare shoulder. “You’re… surprisingly really good at this.”
You tried to steady yourself on one foot as he brought your other leg up, easing it over his shoulder with trembling hands. His tongue dragged flat and worshipful from your entrance to your clit, then swirled lazy, needy circles, moaning into you the whole time that vibrated straight through your core.
“Mmmph—fuck, you taste so good,” he mumbled against you, voice muffled and desperate. “I don’t deserve this—mmh—so sweet, I’m sorry I’m so greedy but I can’t stop—”
He closed his mouth over your swollen clit and kissed it like it was the love of his life, lips sucking and smacking wetly, moving exactly like he was French-kissing your mouth. His tongue swirled in huge, sloppy circles, groaning loud and shameless right into you as he gripped your hips with those strong hands, yanking you harder against his face so he could grind his nose against your clit.
He pulled back just enough to stare up at you with those worshipful eyes before his tongue started flicking your clit in rapid, frantic little strokes. His gaze never left yours, drinking in every gasp and twitch like your pleasure was the only validation he’d ever need. His hips jerk pathetically against nothing, completely lost in the taste of you, groaning and begging between messy licks.
“Oh my, g-god. Dex—slide your tongue in again.”
You bucked hard towards his nose, a muffled cry slipping through your bitten lips as his tongue pushed deep inside you, thick and wet and pulsing like he was trying to fuck you with it. He groaned into your pussy, the vibration rolling straight to your clit, and your fingers twisted tighter in his messy hair. The second you yanked him closer, he let out the cutest, muffled little laugh against your soaked folds then drove his tongue even deeper, curling, licking, devouring like he’d die if he couldn’t taste every drop of you.
Dex pulled back just enough to drag in a shaky breath, lips glossy and swollen, spit and your slick shining down his chin.
“Please—fuck, please keep pulling my hair like that,” he begged. His hips still rolled helplessly against nothing, the fat outline of his cock straining obscenely against his sweats, a wet spot blooming darker where he was leaking for you. “I love it when you do—”
“Yeah?” You gave his hair a sharp tug, watching the way his whole body jolted like you’d electrocuted him. A wicked smile curved your lips. “You like it when I get a little rough?”
“Yes—yes, fuck, I love it,” he groaned, eyes fluttering.
“Oh, baby,” you cooed, nails scraping possessively over his scalp again. “You’re so fucking sweet when you beg. Almost makes me want to be nice to you…” You yanked harder, and his moan cracked into a needy whimper that made his thighs shake. “…but it’s way too sexy when you fall apart like this. I also like my men strong, Benjamin. Are you strong?”
“Oh fuck—”
He surged up from his knees without warning. Big hands grabbed your hips and spun you around with barely an effort. You barely had time to gasp before he lifted you and tossed you back onto the couch. Your back bounced against the cushions, and before you could even speak he was right there again, down on his knees between your spread legs.
His palms shoved your thighs up and back, folding you neatly in half until your knees pressed to your chest. Your pussy was completely open, glistening and dripping right in front of his face.
Dex dove back in like he’d lost his mind. His tongue dragged up to your clit, flicking and sucking with fresh, desperate hunger. Just when you started missing the stretch of him inside you, he pushed two thick fingers deep, thrusting slowly at first, then harder, curling them exactly where you needed them.
“Oh my god,” you moaned, head falling back. “You’re such a good boy—I don’t even have to tell you what to do.”
He was devouring you now. Every time he sucked your clit between his lips he made wet, filthy slurping sounds, humming deep and greedy in his throat.
“Mmmph—fuuuck,” he groaned right against your pussy, the vibration rolling straight through you. “You know this pussy owns me now, right? Owns my face. Owns my mouth.” His tongue lapped messily through your folds, slurping noisily at every drop, chin already shiny and dripping. “I could kneel here and lick you all fucking day. You’ve made such a mess out of me.”
He hummed louder, eyes squeezed shut in pure bliss, fingers pumping faster, curling hard against that spot that made your back arch clean off the couch and stars burst behind your eyelids.
Pleasure slammed through you hard enough to rip a loud cry from your throat. Dex’s tongue kept dragging those slow, filthy circles around your clit, savoring every twitch, while his fingers drove deep inside you in that steady, ruthless rhythm that had you trying to grind down on his face even though he had you folded in half.
And fuck, you thought with a dazed little smirk, it’s always the quiet ones who turn out to be absolute freaks.
“That’s it—own my face,” he whimpered desperately against your pussy, voice wrecked and needy. “Fucking own it. Come all over your good boy. Come all over your obedient little servant. That’s me. That’s all me.”
“Fuck—Dex, I’m coming,” you whispered urgently, as he rocked your hips against his face. “You’re going to make me come…”
Dex let out a groany laugh, eyes squeezing shut for a second like he couldn’t believe his luck. “Yes, give it to me,” he begged, lips trembling against your pussy. “Come in my mouth, flood my tongue, I’ll drink every fucking drop—”
His fingers drove deeper, faster, curling hard against that perfect spot while his tongue licked you quick and greedy, groaning low and filthy the whole time. He slurped and sucked like he was starving, humming desperately because you tasted so good he couldn’t get enough.
You cried out as the orgasm hit you, sharp and overwhelming. Your pussy clenched tight around his fingers, gushing all over his eager mouth and chin while he kept licking and sucking through every single pulse, moaning like he was coming right along with you.
“Oh fuck that’s it—that’s it, give me everything,” he mumbled between messy swallows, voice thick and grateful. “Fuck—thank you.”
When you finally started to come down, Dex pulled back just enough to press soft, reverent kisses to your inner thighs, lips trembling against your slick skin. He looked up and found you staring into the void, dazed and breathless, lips parted like you’d forgotten how to form words.
His hands itched. God, they fucking itched to slide up and cup those beautiful breasts but he didn’t dare move without permission. He was still your pathetic little servant, still on his knees, still terrified; this was all some cruel dream that would vanish if he got too greedy.
“Um… c-can I touch them now?” he asked, cheeks burning hot. “Please?”
That snapped you out of it. Your lips curved into a naughty little smile that made his cock twitch hard in his sweats. You sat up, cupped his chin, and tilted his flushed face up to you, thumb brushing the mess he’d made of his mouth.
“Of course you can, baby,” you said sweetly.
You pulled him up, swapped places, and pushed him back onto the couch. Then you opened his knees wide and swung a leg over to straddle his lap again. The heat of your bare pussy settled right over the massive bulge in his sweats and he whimpered, hips jerking up helplessly.
“How can I say no after you made me come like that?”
You took his shaking hands in yours and guided them slowly up your sides, over your ribs, until his palms were cupping your breasts. Dex gave them a tentative squeeze, thumbs brushing over your tight nipples.
You laughed softly, eyes sparkling. “You like them?”
He swallowed hard, throat working. “Yes,” he breathed, voice completely wrecked. “They’re… they’re perfect. Fuck, you’re perfect.”
His lips closed around one breast with a loud, wet, noisy suck. He moaned against your skin, eyes fluttering shut, tongue swirling as he pulled you deeper into his mouth.
You grinned, threading your fingers through his messy hair and holding him there while he made those shameless, hungry noises. Only then did you reach down between you and palm the thick, heavy outline of his cock through his sweats. Your eyes widened. A delighted little gasp slipped out as you felt exactly how big he was—rock-solid, fat, straining so hard the fabric was barely holding him in.
“Oh my word,” you murmured, giving him a slow, appreciative stroke that made his head fall back with a moan, your nipple still caught between his lips. “You just keep getting better and better, don’t you?”
Dex’s hips bucked hard into your hand, a pathetic little whine escaping around your breast because your touch was the first real one he’d felt in months.
You squeezed him again, loving the way his ripped abs flexed under your thighs. “No wonder you always walk like that…” Another stroke, thumb circling the wet spot at the tip until he gasped. “Poor baby’s been carrying this around the apartment every day and I never knew.”
Dex’s eyes locked on your hand, watching every lazy movement like it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. “Oh God—oh my God—fuck,” he gasped, hips twitching up into your palm without any control left. “Yeah—your hand feels so good—”
You gave him a firmer squeeze and his whole body jerked, those perfect abs clenching hard.
“Holy shit—uh—oh God. Fuck, you squeezing me like that—oh God—oh—” His head tipped all the way back, eyes half-lidded behind the blur of pleasure.
You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “Poor baby… already leaking all over my hand and I’ve barely touched you. Bet this feels a hell of a lot better than fucking your own fist thinking about me every night, doesn’t it?”
Dex’s whole body jolted. His eyes flew open, wide and stunned. His breath hitched while a shy, embarrassed little laugh caught in his throat as he stared at you like you’d just punched him in the chest with pure affection.
“Oh, it’s just… no one’s ever, uh, talked to me like this before,” he stammered, flashing that sheepish little smile that made your chest do something stupid. “No one’s ever said stuff like that to me. I—I’m sorry, I sound so stupid, I just—fuck, keep talking to me like that, please? God, it’s so hot I don’t know what to do with myself—”
You smiled against his ear and gave the shell a soft, wicked nibble that made his hips jerk again. “Well then,” you whispered, “has no one ever played with this fat cock the way I’m gonna?”
Dex opened his mouth to answer, but the words died the second your hand slipped under the waistband of his sweats. Your fingers wrapped around his bare, throbbing length and gave one long, slow stroke from base to tip.
“You’re so… Mm—you’re so—fuck—” His sentence crumbled. He tried to keep going, tried to tell you how no one had ever touched him like this, how he’d jerked off in the shower every single morning just so he wouldn’t walk around the apartment hard for you, but every drag of your hand wiped his brain clean. “I was gonna say—I mean—no one’s—Jesus Christ your hand is so soft—I can’t—I can’t even think when you—mmph—”
His head fell back against the couch while he kept trying anyway, lips moving, desperate to finish a single coherent thought, but every slow pump of your fist stole another piece of him. His abs clenched, thighs shaking under you, cock twitching hard in your grip as you stroked him nice and luxurious, spreading all that pre-cum until the wet sounds filled the room.
“I’ve never—no one’s ever touched me like—fuck, like that—slow—oh my god, please don’t stop, I sound so pathetic but I— I’ve dreamed about your hand—every night—and it’s so much better—I can’t—I can’t even finish a—fuck—”
You watched him with adoration in your eyes, tilting your head and shut him up with your lips, kissing him so eagerly it stole the rest of his broken sentence right out of his mouth.
You swallowed it instantly, tongue sliding past his lips like you already owned every sound he made. He tried to kiss you back, clumsy and desperate, but you took control so completely that all he could do was whimper into your mouth while you explored him with strokes of your tongue that promised exactly what that same mouth could do somewhere much lower.
“Mm—fuck—mmph—” he tried again, the words vibrating against your lips, but you just kissed him deeper, twisting your wrist on the upstroke until his whole body jerked and another moan spilled straight into your mouth.
You pulled back just enough to reach for his glasses on the cushion beside you. With gentle fingers you slid them back onto his face.
“There,” you murmured, sweet as sugar. “I think you need to see me suck this dick in high definition.”
Dex blinked hard behind the lenses, the world snapping back into sharp, perfect focus around your wicked little smile. Before he could even try to form words, you slid off his lap, dropped to your knees between his spread thighs, and settled in.
He watched, completely helpless and shaking, as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweats and boxers and dragged them down his hips in one smooth tug. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, and your fingers curled right around the base.
Dex’s hands flew up to cover his face, glasses knocked crooked. A muffled, delirious little laugh slipped out between his palms. “Fuck… I’m the luckiest man alive right now.”
You gave his cock a slow, appreciative stroke, then looked up at him with that firm, commanding glint in your eyes. “Look at me, Ben. Never take your eyes off me. Got it?”
Dex nodded so fast his glasses slipped down his nose again, eyes wide behind them, locked on your face like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
You leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to the flushed, leaking head of his cock. Then lower. And lower. Before you smacked the heavy length against your cheek with deliberate, filthy slaps.
“God, you’re so heavy,” you teased, rubbing the thick shaft along your cheek while your eyes stayed glued to his. “How the hell do you think this is supposed to fit anywhere, huh? You’re gonna have to split me open, aren’t you?”
Dex let out a long, wrecked groan, thighs trembling on either side of you. He couldn’t look away. Not when you stuck your tongue out flat, laid his cock across it, and started smacking the shaft against the warm, wet muscle in solid, teasing taps.
He was going to die. He was actually going to die right here on the couch with his glasses on and your pretty mouth teasing the absolute hell out of him, and he’d thank you for it with his last breath.
“G-go choke on it first,” he blurted in a sudden rush of bravery, then immediately looked mortified. “I-I mean… if you want to…”
Your eyebrow snapped up, a wicked little grin spreading across your face as you nodded like you were proud of him for saying that.
Dex’s heart slammed against his ribs so hard he felt dizzy.
You leaned in closer, lips brushing the leaking tip as you looked up at him through your lashes. “Is that what you fantasize about when you jerk off in your room at night?” you purred. “Me choking on this fat cock? Gagging all pretty for you while you watch?”
Dex’s mouth fell open, hips twitching helplessly toward your face. “Y-yes—fuck, yes. Every night. Every single night—”
You didn’t let him finish.
The second the words left his lips you took the head of his cock into your mouth, and Dex gasped so hard it felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs.
It was too much. Too good. Velvety and hot and so fucking lucious that his whole spine lit up like a live wire. A strangled groan left him as pleasure streaked through every nerve ending at once. His hands flew to the couch cushions, knuckles white, because if he didn’t hold on he’d probably float straight out of his body.
You sank down slowly, taking more of him, tongue pressed flat underneath as your lips stretched tight around his thickness. Dex’s glasses fogged at the edges. His abs clenched hard, thighs shaking on either side of you.
You licked your way back up to the head, suctioning hard, then swirled your tongue over it, dipping into the slit to taste the steady leak of pre-cum like you were savoring him. Dex’s head fell back for half a second before he remembered your order and forced his eyes back down to you, chest heaving.
God. How many times had he imagined you on your knees just like this; sucking him slow and deep while you looked up at him with those pretty eyes?
Every single one of those fantasies paled. They were pathetic little shadows compared to the reality of you. The intense, electrifying heat that scorched every nerve ending as you lowered yourself again, sliding your sweet, wet mouth further down his shaft until he felt the back of your throat flutter around him. His hips jerked involuntarily, a choked “f-fuck—” ripping out of him before he could stop it.
Pleasure surged through him and he arched back sharply, the feeling so intense he nearly yanked out of your mouth. But he rode those waves, blood pounding hot through his veins as his cock throbbed with incredible bliss. You sucked him hard and sensually, lips stretched tight around him and cheeks hollowing as you milked more ecstasy from him than he'd ever felt in his life.
When you came back up you let him go with a wet pop and smiled up at him, eyes sparkling like you were enjoying the hell out of wrecking him. Your smile made his cock throb and jerk, and you chased it with your tongue and laughed, taking it back in with that delicious, silky warmth.
“Just like that—” Dex moaned, voice tight with ecstasy. He slid one hand into your hair, caressing first, then gripping the back of your neck like he needed something solid to hold onto.
“It feels so good holy shit.” he breathed as you gradually increased your pace. You wrapped both hands around the base of his cock and started stroking in time with your mouth, faster now. Dex’s head dropped back against the couch again before dragging his gaze back down. He couldn’t miss this. Not for a single second.
His hand gently cradled and guided your head, fingers weaving through your hair as the overwhelming desire to lock you in place and thrust into your mouth consumed him.
His free hand joined the first, sinking in and tightening his hold as the raw sensuality left him dizzy and breathless. He started rocking his hips slowly, testing, mesmerized by the way your eyes fluttered as you took him deeper.
But then you smiled around his cock and sucked harder. That was all it took.
Dex drove in faster, deeper, his cock slick and shiny with your spit as he thrust up your throat. You took him beautifully—until he forced just a little too far. Your throat fluttered, then clenched like a fist as you choked, the sloppy, gagging buzz shooting down his entire cock.
He froze for a second, glasses slipping down his nose, panic and lust warring on his face.
“S-sorry—fuck, that’s so hot, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry but don’t stop—please don’t stop—” He was panting, glasses fogged, hips still rocking again and again, savoring the way your throat squeezed every time you gagged softly around him. He couldn’t help it even while apologizing.
You just hummed around him like you owned every inch, eyes watering but never breaking that locked-in stare, taking him even deeper on the next thrust, letting him fuck your throat raw.
He was going to come. God dammit, he was going to explode like a firework in your mouth any second now.
But nope. You pulled off with a wet, filthy pop, lips shiny and puffy, a shiny string of spit still linking you to his throbbing tip like a naughty little bridge.
“W-why’d you stop?” he blurted, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. “Did I—did I do something wrong? Fuck, I’m sorry, I got carried away, I just— I was so close.”
You shook your head, flashing that wicked little grin as you crawled straight up his body and swung a leg over, straddling his lap like you were claiming the throne. One hand cupped those full, heavy, aching balls, rolling them nice and slow while you dragged your soaked pussy along the underside of his cock, slicking him up marking your territory.
“I’m not wasting a single drop of this,” you whispered, all husky and low, thumb stroking that crazy-sensitive spot right behind his balls. “You’re spilling every bit inside me.”
Dex looked like his brain had officially powered off. “I-inside you? Holy shit—aren’t you scared you might—?”
You chuckled and ground down harder, sliding all over him like you owned the ride. “Got any condoms stashed somewhere, cutie?” you asked, all innocent and sweet while your hips kept rolling.
Dex just gaped, fish-mouthed and speechless. “....no.”
You let out a bright, delighted little laugh and climbed off his lap, “Guess we’re doing this raw then, huh?” You flopped onto your back on the couch, hair fanning out across the cushions, and hooked your knees up high, feet planted on the edge.
With zero shame, you reached down and spread yourself open for him, two fingers parting your slick, puffy folds so he could see everything. Your little hole clenched visibly under his stare, shiny and dripping from how much you’d enjoyed choking on him.
“Look at what you did to me, Benjamin,” you purred. “See how fucking wet I am? It’s because of you. My poor little pussy’s been clenching around nothing the whole time I was sucking you off, just thinking about how you’re finally gonna stuff me full.”
Dex made a strangled noise, eyes glued to the way your fingers teased your entrance, dipping just the tip of one inside before pulling back to circle your clit. You were so ready and glistening and open for him it hurt.
“Mmm, you like the view, don’t you?” you teased, tilting your hips up a little more so he could see even deeper. “Look how this little hole keeps fluttering. It’s so empty, Dex. Been waiting months for this fat cock to stretch it open. You gonna give it to me? Gonna give me all that cum you’ve been saving for me every night? Or are you just gonna sit there staring like a cute little pervert while I play with myself?”
Dex’s glasses slipped down his nose again, “No, I’m going to give you anything you want.”
You just grinned wider, “Then come here and take what’s yours, nerd.”
He scrambled between your spread thighs like a man on a mission and a panic attack at the same time, knees sinking into the couch cushions. His hands shook as he gripped the backs of your thighs, lining himself up. The fat head of his cock nudged against your slick entrance and he actually whimpered at how hot and wet you felt.
“Okay, okay. Look, I’ll just… m-maybe, maybe you should be on top, you know?” he blurted. “S-so you’re, um… yeah, so y-you can, like, control it? I don’t wanna hurt—”
You laughed softly, reaching up to tug him closer by the back of his neck. “It’s fine, Dex.”
“I don’t—I don’t wanna squish you—” he tried again, eyes wide behind his glasses, cock throbbing against your pussy like it had a mind of its own.
The head slipped inside you, stretching you open in one smooth glide. Dex’s eyes dropped to where your bodies met and he forgot how to breathe entirely. You threw your head back and moaned as your pussy parted for him, taking every thick inch until he was buried to the hilt, heavy balls pressed against your ass.
“Oh shit,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “I’m inside you—you feel so fucking good.”
He pulled back slowly, and your pussy clenched around him like it didn’t want to let him go. Then he drove back in until his tip met a dead end, stretching you open all over again. You grabbed his right wrist and slapped his big palm straight onto your breast. His fingers squeezed hard on instinct. At the same time you caught his left hand and pressed his thumb against your bottom lip.
The second he felt the wet heat of your mouth close around it, Dex’s eyes flew open wide behind his glasses. You sucked on his thumb like it was his cock, matching every thrust, moaning around it shamelessly.
“Jesus Christ,” he whimpered, voice cracking. “You’re—fuck, look at you. I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that, baby. I swear I’m trying but you feel too good and you’re sucking on my thumb and I—oh my god—”
You just smiled around his thumb and sucked harder, never breaking eye contact, letting him feel exactly how much you wanted every desperate, awkward, perfect inch of him.
Dex couldn’t stop staring down between your bodies. His thick cock was sliding in and out of your pussy in these dragging strokes, shiny and glistening with how wet you were. Every time he pulled back he could see the way your folds stretched around him, clinging tight, and every time he pushed back in he watched himself disappear inside you until his hips met yours. He was completely obsessed with the sight, breathing hard through his mouth like he’d never seen anything so hot in his life.
Without thinking he slid his hand down from your breast and pressed the heel of his palm firmly against your lower stomach, right above where he was buried deep. The sudden pressure made everything feel impossibly tighter. You whined loud around his thumb, the sound vibrating against his skin as your pussy fluttered hard around his cock.
“Fuck—did that feel good?” he panted, eyes still glued to the spot where you were joined, pressing down a little harder as he thrusts.
As if guided by that lust alone, he began to thrust into a deep, forceful rhythm, his rigid cock stretching you each time. You moaned hummingly with each stroke, feeling the power of his hips as they slapped against you, imagining the strong muscles of his thighs flexing and straining to drive his cock into you deeper and harder every time. He crashed against you, his short breaths matching his pace, his moans of pleasure spiking as senseless words spilled from his lips.
You pulled his thumb from your mouth with a wet pop, grabbed his wrist again, and swapped it for the two fingers he'd buried inside you earlier, sucking it until your cheeks hollow.
Dex’s rhythm faltered for half a second, then slammed back in even harder.
“Holy shit I don't think I can’t take it,” he panted, voice cracking high and desperate. “I can’t take it. Ugh, you have to come soon. You have to come soon. Oh, fuck—”
He was panting and groaning as he thrust and bucked, hips snapping forward like he was chasing something he couldn’t quite catch. His eyes brightened with this wild, pleasure-pain look you’d never seen before; glassy, almost frantic, like he was right on the razor’s edge and hanging on by a thread. His glasses were crooked, hair sticking to his forehead, mouth open on every broken moan.
“I’m so close— I’m so fucking close but I need you to come first, please, I need to feel you coming on my cock before I fill you up, I can’t— I can’t hold it— fuck, please come for me—”
He was so close. You could feel it in the way his cock swelled even thicker inside you, the way his thrusts turned sloppy and urgent. He needed your release, your surrender, and he would detonate the second you gave it to him.
You reached up, grabbed his face with both hands, and pulled him down so your foreheads touched. “You can take it—keep going,” you gasped, voice shaky but firm. “Put your mouth on my neck, baby—right now.”
He obeyed instantly like the good, desperate boy he was. A quiet, “o-okay—yeah, fuck, okay” tumbled out of him as he dipped his head. You gasped and swallowed hard, tilting your chin back to give him more room, your whole body shaking with the force of every thrust. One of your hands slid between your bodies so you could rub tight, frantic circles over your clit, chasing that last spark.
Dex’s lips found your throat first, kissing the throbbing pulse there, then his tongue dragged up the side of your neck in one long, wet stripe. When it danced along the shell of your earlobe you shivered hard, a full-body tremble that made your pussy clench around him. And when he dipped the tip of his tongue right inside your ear you sobbed.
“F-fuck, I love it when you moan like that.” he whimpered against your ear.
You grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged, forcing his mouth back to your neck while your fingers kept rubbing faster. “Say dirty things to me, Dex,” you panted, voice husky. “Tell me how good I feel. Tell me what you’re gonna do when you come inside me. Don’t stop talking.”
“Yeah—fuck, I’m trying,” Dex panted against your skin, hips snapping forward in these desperate little thrusts. “If I talk to you, you’ll come, right? Yeah? I want that. I want you to come so fucking bad—”
You nodded hard. “Yes—fuck, yes! Just say all the nasty shit you say to yourself when you jerk off thinking about me.”
“Fuck, listen to you,” he groaned, suddenly finding his rhythm. “Sucking my cock earlier like you wanted to steal my soul, choking on it like a greedy little whore, and now you’re begging me to pump you full?” He slammed into you hard. “You want this fat load in your pussy that bad?” Another brutal thrust. “After months of prancing around in those tiny dresses, bending over right in front of me just to watch me lose my goddamn mind?” Slam.
“God, you’re such a dirty fucking slut for your nerdy roommate’s cock, aren’t you?” He licked into your ear, hips pounding harder. “That’s it—rub that clit faster, baby. I’m gonna flood this sloppy little cunt until it’s dripping down your thighs. Come on my cock—come on, come on—”
“Oh fuck—Dex!” Your whole body seized in a convulsive orgasm, pussy clamping down around him, milking his cock as you screamed against his shoulder.
He cried out and flooded into you, bucking and thrusting as your pussy drained him. Slick with sweat you writhed together, your voices echoing through the room, your cries and moans mingling as you milked him, drained him, sucked every drop of cum from his pulsing cock as he emptied himself into you completely.
His rhythm finally gave out and he melted into you, still shuddering deep inside while the last of his cum spilled free. Every twitch was met with your walls hugging him tight, like they were determined to wring him dry and keep him forever—the same way you’d just been completely his. Both of you panting hard, bodies flushed and shiny with sweat, you lay there pressed together, still connected, floating in that beautiful, ageless after-sex haze.
You were heaving, chest rising and falling under him. “Holy shit…”
Dex lifted up on shaky arms, glasses crooked, hair a sweaty mess, and gazed down at you like you’d personally hung the moon. His hazel eyes were soft and dazed and so full of wonder it made your chest ache. He leaned in slowly, lips parting like he was about to kiss you for real this time—
—and then the unmistakable sound of a key sliding into the front door lock echoed through the apartment.
Both of you froze.
“Shit—shitshitshit—” Dex whisper-yelled, scrambling off you so fast he nearly fell off the couch. While you both snatched up whatever clothes you could reach.
“My room—now!” You hissed, dragging Dex who is clutching his sweats and hoodie like a lifeline as you yanked behind you as fast as your shaky legs would go. Your room was closest and didn’t face the front door—thank god.
You barely made it inside, slamming the door behind you just as the living room lights flicked on. Dex pressed himself flat against the wall right behind the door, stark naked, cock still half-hard and glistening, one hand clamped over his mouth so he wouldn’t breathe too loud.
You snatched your short silk robe off the chair and threw it on, barely tying it before—
Knock knock knock.
“Hey, what’s taking you so long?” your roommate called through the door, voice bright and clueless. “We’re all waiting for you at the pool!”
You cleared your throat, trying to sound normal and failing spectacularly. “Sorry! Couldn’t find my swimwear. I’ll be there in a sec!”
Dex’s eyes were huge behind his glasses. He looked like he was one second from passing out.
You heard her footsteps start to retreat...then stop, “Uh… your bikini top is literally on the couch out here.”
“Oh really?” you called back, somehow managing to sound breezy even though you were standing there in nothing but a barely-tied silk robe with your very naked, very well-fucked roommate hiding behind the door. “I must’ve dropped it. I’ll grab it soon! You should go ahead, I won’t be long!”
You heard your roommate laugh under her breath, something that sounded suspiciously like "okay weirdo.” before her footsteps finally padded away down the hall. The front door clicked shut behind her.
Dex let out a huge, shaky breath, shoulders sagging like the weight of the entire universe had just lifted off him.
“You… you should go,” he mumbled, voice all hoarse and uncertain as he rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re waiting for you at the pool and I— I don’t wanna get them suspicious of you or anything…”
You didn’t answer with words.
Instead, you walked straight up to him, rose onto your highest tiptoes, and pressed your body flush against his. The thin silk robe did almost nothing to separate your skin from his.
You cupped his face with both hands and kissed him once—soft and sweet, tasting the leftover desperation on his lips. Then again, a little slower. And a third time, lingering like you were promising more.
When you finally pulled back just enough to speak, your lips still brushed his.
“I won’t be long,” you whispered, smiling up at him with that same sweet, knowing look that always made his stomach flip.
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Summary: when a new tenant moves into your apartment complex, your life changes in ways you had not expected. What starts off as a sweet friendship with your neighbour turns into something much more sinister. Lives become entangled unexpectedly and obsessive tendencies start blooming gradually. He starts to become rather reliant and attached to his neighbour who keeps getting into dangerous situations.
notes: chronicles with neighbour!dex, but it's literally following the events of DD s3 lol, nickname is Star (has a sweet meaning behind it), slow burn? Platonic relationships, Karen is lowkey your unofficial guardian, reader used to work at Nelson & Murdock, symptoms of depression, grief, follows the events after defenders and spoilers for defenders/DD s3. mostly just wordbuilding. any feedback is welcome :) - 3.7k
Part 1 part 2 croc incident part 3 part 4 hold me closer part 5 part 6 the difference never enough
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The small apartment that you lived in was built in an area with little to no surveillance. Easy to slip in and out without being sighted, a place that people wouldn't take notice of.
Therefore, it didn’t cost much compared to other places, and whilst the security was lax, or non-existent more like, it was also the other maintenance lacking within the building that led to a more manageable rent for someone working part-time jobs with a small inheritance your father had left for you. It also did mean that the tenants did not complain too much.
A rat here, or the chipped infrastructure, even the old gym with rusted weights that was located on the top floor, there were only but hushed complaints from your gossiping neighbours.
And oftentimes, when the gossip did meet your ears, that was how you knew what was happening in real-time within the building.
Conveniently, this occurred when the tenants were passing by or conversing in two’s, naturally you caught wind of it, your primary source of news in regards to the apartment complex.
By overhearing the tenants, the ones that lived on a different floor to you, about a new tenant joining the club, your floor was mentioned, piqueing your interest. There hadn’t been many tenants moving in and out as of late.
You had been looking for some files for Karen who had requested you could fish out for her, some extracurricular digging skills you had acquired over the years came into use when you started helping Karen out for some of the articles she was writing. She was doing you a favour asking, because you had nothing more to do and the extra cash coming in was useful.
It was a hobby of some sort, and one you passively indulged in, which came into use for interning at Nelson and Murdock some time ago.
You push through the doors and into the lobby, it was just as cold in the lobby as it was outside. You make your way to the staircase, the elevator has been broken for about three weeks now, with no sign of it getting fixed by the manager of the building. It was better to keep your expectations low, knowing there would be no chance of it getting fixed anytime soon. Or ever, if you look at how nothing was changing around here.
It was good exercise too, taking the stairs, so you’ll take it. Not that you had an option in that manner. Exhausted and in your own world, you perk up a little when the name of your floor is being mentioned. You slow down, catching wind of the last bits of their conversation, piecing together the words, something about the new tenant and floor three.
You think it may be the apartment next to yours that has been empty for the last six months, nobody had occupied it thus far, so maybe it would be that one?
It would be a matter of time till you met the new tenant who would probably be moving their things in, not that you were looking forward to striking up meaningless conversations. It would likely end up with you giving them awkward smiles as you passed each other in the hallways.
Good thing you didn’t have a set schedule. Your odd hours allowed you to often snake through the lobby and into your apartment without exchanging pleasantries with your neighbours.
—
Since you had the day off from work, you had met up with Karen that day, unable to stay away from knowing what was happening, the curiosity getting the best of you.
It hadn’t been long since the disastrous incident. Fresh injuries still healing day by day.
Too close to the explosion, that is how you got a couple scrapes and bruises from the aftermath of Midland Circle. Cuts still healing, stitches to be taken out soon and fading bruises were still visible on your face.
In a place like Hell’s Kitchen, this was not often questioned, but you still felt the need to cover yourself, ducking your head down a little when people did a double take when looking at your face.
So you hid your face with a cap, tugging at it constantly, as if it would hide your face away even more. Disliking the attention you thought it was bringing, yet people were probably not even looking, but you still did it anyway. Who likes being perceived anyway?
Regardless of how much grief surrounded the aftermath, all of you had to move on at some point. That was what Foggy kept saying, but coming to terms with it was not an easy task. Karen still held onto some kind of cynical hope that Matt was still alive. How could she let go of him when there was a possibility he was out there somewhere.
You didn’t know what to believe.
A weird third thing of denial and acceptance, possibly bargaining with yourself. You were unsure of which stage of grief you were experiencing. It was familiar to you, the grief.
Acceptance came late when your father passed, and you were constantly reminded that recovery was not linear.
Some days your body just wouldn’t co-operate with you, and on other days, your body worked on autopilot. A part of you held onto that hope Karen had, the idea that Matt was still alive, but logically speaking it was unlikely, a whole building had collapsed on him after all.
So you were floating around that third thing. Not knowing. Not fully believing anything.
But still you worked, researched at the city archives, asked around for information per Karen’s request. It wasn’t all too bad, just tiring, lonely. Nothing new, it had become a normal aspect of your life.
It had been about a couple weeks since your new neighbour had moved in, and so far you hadn’t crossed paths thankfully. In no way were you the kind of person that gave your new neighbours a welcome gift.
The only thing that you had noticed from your amazing investigative skills is that his work was pretty demanding. Not that you were keeping tabs, but you can’t exactly not listen when the doors are opening and shutting close rather loudly.
Then when your timings did align, when you came back from your shift, he was exiting the lobby, and when you crossed paths in the hallway upstairs, tight lipped smiles were exchanged.
After your day of running errands is when you had a silent introduction to your next door neighbour.
It involved meeting up with Karen at her office, she asked if you could proofread some pieces for her, she knew you had some insight into the Midland Circle crisis situation.
You were able to subtly overhear what some of the officers were saying when all of you were holed up at the precinct, which came in pretty handy for the multiple articles that were published by the Bulletin.
Your time with her was spent sitting in her office as she worked. At times, passing out from the lack of sleep, which would eventually catch up to you due to the relentlessness of night shift cleaning. But all in all, it was nice having her around. Maybe it was the other way around, glad she kept you around.
To stick together despite how difficult the circumstances were and how quickly things were changing around here. For all of your sanity, not wanting to break off the bond that had been forged many years since.
You walked back, grabbing some groceries, as well as passing the library for a new book to read before heading back home. As you make your way up the three flights of stairs, pushing the door to enter your floor, you hear a couple tenants talking amongst themselves.
You walk towards your door, bag rustling as you lightly swing it in time with your steps. As you pass the old ladies, you hear them speaking in hushed tones, only catching a part of their conversation as you reach your door.
Coincidentally, you note that your new neighbour is also at his door, messing with his keys, trying to find the right one to open the door to his apartment.
A short glance his way, seeing as his mouth is quirked to the side, it’s evident that he’s listening. Looking away from him to shove your key into the slot.
Your head is tilted slightly to the side, aware of your surroundings, always heedful of your environment when you are uncomfortable, especially now.
You both are taking your time, ears subtly peeled for the useless gossip that is more amusing than it should be. His eyes stray from his keys to your direction, and just as they land on you, he can see your brows raised at the old ladies’ comments.
Given your reaction, he assumes they were talking about you. Something about being in an accident. The bag hanging from your hand clenches into a fist, and before he can fully register the comment, you're already halfway through the doorway.
The door echoes shut with more force than necessary. A resounding click snaps the small group into silence.
He huffs a little, a small smile present on his face at how easily the tenants had shut their mouths. He then enters his apartment, closing his door with considerably less force.
—
With Nelson and Murdock dissolved, no longer partners in law, but people who had separated into four individuals. A journalist, a lawyer, a cleaner, and one dead. Or presumed dead.
You had to get a new job because you were no longer interning. A job that paid enough to stay afloat since it had been somewhat a struggle up until now with affording things other than food and rent.
Usually the rent was covered by your small salary from interning at the law firm, and the food was covered by Nelson and Murdock's payment that they received through food, or you made do with what you had. Sometimes Karen would lend you things that you couldn't get, she'd always frame it like she didn't need it herself, or that she had it in excess.
From the beginning it was her willingness to help others that then led you to intern for the small law firm. Having convinced the two lawyers that you needed a job along with experience, whilst they needed an assistant/intern. It worked well for both parties, a mutually beneficial partnership.
Your apathy towards slipping into situations was rather perturbing for all of your co-workers that happened to become your friends. That was your reaction when coming across Matt’s identity. Funnily, you handled it well enough in his opinion.
What brought Karen to vouch for you the quality you possessed where you couldn’t rest till you had an answer. Otherwise you would stay awake thinking about what more or how differently it could've gone.
Similar to Karen, yet not similar enough for you to make it your day job like she had. Rather choosing to lend a hand in the investigative process where you could just find and report. You think that you were never meant to be a lawyer, or a journalist, you never really knew what you wanted to do.
Having a dream and working towards a career was not something that you had focused on when growing up, not like your peers did. You just floated around, working odd jobs. Mostly enjoying the present, not looking towards the future when your father was sick. Cherishing the moments you had left with him, despite the sorrow that would soon be dealt with, you had appreciated the moments before they became memories that you would look back on later in life.
Tired, always tired after your father passed.
You needed a purpose, and that wasn’t something you could just find easily. You had to work for it, connect with something, because it rarely lands in the palm of your hand. What did ease your worries was interning at Nelson & Murdock.
It kept your mind busy as you helped people. Making a difference this way was a good and honourable thing, finding the truth, though it ended up in running into trouble no matter how much Karen, Foggy or Matt tried to steer you away. You always did follow in their footsteps.
You think when Karen finally understood why you were relentless in your pursuit of discovering the facts was after how the Frank Castle case panned out. Into the line of fire. It was exhilarating, and for a person with no purpose, this was turning out to be a great purpose to have. It made you feel alive. Skin prickling with goosebumps, those lightbulb moments that allowed the ‘case’ to be cracked, the most important of them all advocating for those who needed someone.
It probably wasn’t a good thing that you felt this way about getting into risky business. Some may say you were an adrenaline junkie, but that was far from the truth.
With one of the people you had looked up to was now dead or presumed dead, you had toned down how you got your information for research purposes. That is what you called it. Research.
Finding a job where you cleaned ambulances at night turned out to be mediocre, systematic. Sometimes it was cleaning blood off the walls of the vehicle, but mostly it was disinfecting everything, the equipment, deep cleaning from top to bottom, then re-stocking it all. It was methodical and mindless work. And you got a lot more days off than the average person due
To the timing of the shift.
The rest of the time you were holed up in your apartment, keeping busy, mostly digging up stuff at the city archive or on the internet.
A new beginning, which didn’t feel like it was. Mindlessly surviving each day, with no direction, and a declining will to live. But you kept waking up each day, so that was something.
The soft clinking of the wind chime that had been gifted by Matt for your birthday hung outside your bedroom window. The sound puts you to sleep most nights. Your kind of white noise, preferring it over a fan or meditative music to lull you to sleep.
It clinked softly, the thin metal chains that hung at the bottom adding an extra chime. Wafting around in the wind, the little stars at the end of the chain rattling against each other, your favourite part of the whole thing. The stars. And now they all called you Star, it had stuck ever since it had been gifted to you, a reflection of who you were.
The reasoning was simple, you had flourished under their guidance, being useful to building their cases more than once, it had slipped out, but it fit you.
Sometimes when your alarm woke you out of your unconscious state, you’d contemplate your life choices, as one does, you hear the little clinks of the stars at the bottom of the wind chime, the tubes creating such a melodic sound that roused you enough to get out of bed.
The last physical memory of him was what put you to sleep at night.
The chimes were how you got that name, Star. Ironic wasn’t it?
—
The second time you were introduced to your neighbour was about two weeks after the indirect exchange. By now, your stitches had been taken out leaving a red line above your brow, faded bruises were now a yellowish green colour. Enough for you to forgo wearing a cap whenever you left the building.
It was still pretty early in the morning, the time where only a select amount of people were awake, including you. You opted to get a few things out of the way. For example, grab the mail, maybe you’d even grab a coffee later and then go poke around places that were probably off limits to someone who wasn’t even a journalist.
Karen’s hands were full with another Midland Circle piece, so she had politely asked for you to follow up on finding out who had become sick from the release of emissions during the explosion. So rifling through files and reports it was for the rest of the day. Your employment at the hospital granted you access to the filed units upstairs, well more like you snuck in, kind of illegal but no one had to find out.
Shoving the key into the slot, you twist it open and grab your mail. With your eyes glued on the letters in hand, you start rifling through the small stack, only for your eyes to shift to the side where a pair of boots is visible from your peripheral.
Your eyes trail up slowly, only to be met with your neighbour’s eyes, already watching you. Your fingers loosen a little, taken aback from the sudden eye contact and your letters sill onto the floor.
You curse softly, bending down, only to be met with his outstretched hand before you could even pick it up.
“Here.” He hands you the fallen envelopes.
“Oh, thanks,” you give him a lopsided smile, slightly embarrassed at how this interaction was going. So you stay quiet, toying with the corner of the letter, he watches you curiously.
He thinks back on that day in the hallway, overhearing some of the tenants talking about you being in an accident. He can see how they would assume you had been in one.
It definitely looked like it had been nasty, he wouldn't typically keep an eye out for this kind of thing, but the interaction that day stuck with him for some reason, given that he knew you were next door neighbours, he felt it would be polite to keep up appearances and exercise some empathy.
He knew what he did was questionable at times, borderline weird, he didn’t want anyone to assume the worst about him. It was unlikely that someone would pick up on his late night habits, he still had to be cautious.
He had a clean record, people who could vouch for him, the team’s psychiatrist who had already cleared him, partners and coworkers that knew him well enough, trusted him. So he was good. It wouldn’t be a terrible thing if he made himself look a good guy to the people residing in the same building as him.
Over the years he had developed questionable coping mechanisms and really didn’t want the trouble of explaining himself if it ever came to it that someone caught him when his story didn’t line up.
So at least if things blew out of proportion, these friendly exchanges between his tenants may be useful, he had to think further. A persona fit to convince people he was not a bad person.
It was far-fetched, the way in which he would overthink how he interacted or how his behaviour would be interpreted and now it meant he was walking on eggshells all the damn time.
It was exhausting, but in his mind it was a necessary burden he took on, especially now that he lived in a new and unfamiliar place. Not a threat exactly, but he had to take certain measures.
In his mind he had to portray himself as a normal guy, if he’s able to do that then he won’t be questioned. No one questions the guy who smiles, asks about your day and looks like he works a normal job, because he is a normal guy.
“I’m your neighbour, uh.. next door to you I think. Name’s Ben, but everyone calls me Dex.”
“Yeah, I've seen you around, nice to meet you.” You smile and nod, introducing yourself as well.
“I haven't had the chance to ask anyone, but I was wondering why the elevator didn’t work,” he gestures with his thumb. “It’s been out of order for weeks now. Any chance you know why.”
“Um, yeah actually. Remember that earthquake ages ago with a 4.6 magnitude, it caused a lot of damage, and the maintenance of the building doesn’t cover the cost of fixing the elevator. It’s been a real problem for some.”
“Oh I see,” he nods, he pauses before asking, “so you a student or…?”
You shake your head, “no I uhh...work as a cleaner. You?”
“I work in law enforcement, FBI.” He crosses his arms, watching as your eyes crinkle a little after hearing his occupation. He’s curious about what you think, that kind of reaction definitely has a response behind it, but you don’t say anything, rather you avert your eyes elsewhere.
“That surprising?” He probes a little.
“I guess, sure.” you shrug your shoulders, “you do look pretty young to be in the FBI, I mean dunno about age requirements but..”
He’s sporting a smile, mouth quirking to the side, he winces from the cut on his lip that you hadn’t noticed before, “what happened there?”
“Work,” he replies, of course. You assumed so, “you?”
“Accident,” a sort of smirk makes its way onto your face, he huffs out a short laugh, both finding it a little funny. You both knew where he had heard about your little accident.
“Yeah I heard. It looks like it's healing well though.” He nods towards your face, eyes trailing back to the cut where your stitches previously had been.
So he’s been observing you. You didn’t expect any less from a guy who does that for a living. “It’s much better than before.” you check the time, “I have to get going, but it was nice meeting you Ben."
You push into the entrance of the lobby, not before giving him a little wave. You need to get a move on, the files would take a long time to rifle through, best to get an early start before the hospital is flooded with people and there would be a higher chance of getting caught in the middle of it. Wasn’t exactly legal.
Dex stands there, you had called him Ben. A name he hadn’t been called in such a long time.
As curious as he was, there wasn’t much about you that stood out, except the obvious accident you had been in.
He knew you were young, worked odd shifts by the look of your dark eyebags, and a little awkward, endearingly so. No threat, that was clear to him. So he clearly had nothing to worry about.
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