love, M

Your shared apartment was always the quietest during the late afternoon, the sharp horizon of the Hell’s Kitchen skyline throwing long, stark shadows across the hardwood floor. For Dex, silence was usually a dangerous variable. It was the space where the static in his head grew too loud, where the meticulous, rigid architecture of his internal programming began to fray at the edges.

But lately, the silence had a different rhythm. It was punctuated by the soft, rhythmic click of your platform heels, the crinkle of cellophane, and the bright, unbothered melody of your voice.

Dex sat rigidly at the kitchen island, his long legs extended, his large, calloused hands resting flat on the clean counter space. His cold blue eyes were fixed entirely on you. Specifically, they were fixed on the bright pastel shopping bag you had dumped unceremoniously onto the table.

He didn't really understand your apparent attachment to inanimate objects. He himself never really got this overwhelming need to like something so much that you needed multiple versions of it. To Dex, an object possessed utility, or it was clutter. The closest comparable thing he had to such notions were his weapons. His pristine, balanced throwing knives and his standard-issue sidearm. But his constant need to replace or maintain them was born entirely out of lethal necessity, a calculation of survival and structural order. It wasn't born out of consumerism. It wasn't born out of... fun.

You had always known there was something a little off with your boyfriend beyond just his severe diagnosed obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Dex didn't just struggle to understand human emotions; he viewed them like a foreign dialect that required constant, exhausting translation. When feelings did pierce through his armor, they didn't come naturally or easily. They came like a flash flood. It was a hard, beautifully dangerous lesson you had learned early on in your relationship: when Dex loved, he loved hard, with his entire fractured being. You were the center of his world, his absolute everything, the singular gravity well keeping his violent impulses from spinning into total chaos.

So, whatever you liked, Dex tried to accept. He tried really, really hard to get it.

Even your insatiable hunger to keep collecting these stupid, overpriced little things.

"It's a collection, Dex," you had corrected him a few days prior, your lips pulling into a frown because he had worded your hobby far too seriously during a debrief of the apartment’s organization.

Dex reached out, his large fingers gingerly picking up one of the pastel boxes you had on the table. His sharp brows furrowed into a tight knot of absolute concentration, his gaze drilling into the cardboard as if the colorful text on the side held the answer to the universe's deepest, most classified secret. His eyes scanned the bright, cartoonish characters. He didn't understand the appeal of the molded plastic or the soft fabric, but he knew the sheer sight of the packaging made your eyes crinkle at the corners.

It's stupid, the first, rigid voice in his head screamed, a remnant of the sterile Bureau evaluations that dictated what a grown, lethal operative should care about. But he didn't voice it outright. Instead, he kept his jaw set, his large palm sinking back into the bag to pull out the remaining boxes. Four more, exactly. He lined them up in a flawless, perfectly symmetrical sequence, exactly one inch apart from one another.

"But you don't know what you're getting," he said, his gravelly voice carrying a trace of genuine, slight astonishment. The concept of a "blind box" genuinely offended his sense of structural logic. He did the math in his head instantly, the probabilities, the margins of error, the high likelihood of wasted capital. To willingly take your chances on losing was gambling. This was gambling. You were gambling.

"That's the fun part!" you gleamed, your face lighting up as you snatched the first box. "You cross your fingers and hope for the best!"

Dex blinked, his gaze tracing the soft curve of your cheek. Bless your heart. You were always so effortlessly optimistic about everything, moving through the grime of Hell’s Kitchen with a radiant, unbothered lightness that felt entirely unaligned with the dark realities he dealt in. Your light was one of the things he admired most about you; it was the exact gravity that had pulled him away from his old, suffocating scripts and to you.

But as his eyes dropped back down to the five boxes sitting on the kitchen table, his mind had already weighed out the bleak chances of getting one or two duplicates. Immediately, a heavy dread dropped in his chest and his heart tightened. You would be so disappointed. That brilliant, blinding smile he loved seeing on your face would falter, and he knew you would force it back on just to keep him from worrying. Dex took an involuntary step forward, his hand twitching slightly as your manicured fingers tore into the first cardboard flap. Part of him wanted to physically stop you, to intervene before the statistics failed you. Words of clumsy reassurance were already at the tip of his tongue.

But as you kept opening them, the expected disappointment never materialized. Instead, your excitement only got louder and louder, a bright, melodic laugh breaking free from your throat as your smile grew exponentially bigger.

And your eyes... oh, your beautiful eyes that he loved looking into when you were flushed and breathless beneath him in the dark, they just sparkled. They were brilliant, shining so bright under the kitchen lights as you held each tiny figurine up to his face in rapid succession. To his utter surprise, the math had defied itself. You hadn't gotten a single repeat. Not one duplicate of the plush and plastic crap you were currently cradling against your chest as if they were your own flesh and blood.

As you stood there in the middle of the dining room, fawning over your new things in your cutest, softest mini dress, something inside Dex’s brain clicked into place with a definitive snap.

He liked seeing you like that. He liked it with a fierce, possessive intensity that thrummed right beneath his skin. You looked so good-hearted, so completely light and positive, as if the outside world had never once touched you, or as if your own complicated past had never possessed the power to harden your edges. For the fleeting moment you spent opening up those useless boxes, the immense stress and the heavy burdens he knew you carried, the constant fear of the world taking him away from you, were entirely gone.

Dex’s posture straightened, his broad shoulders squaring as his eyes remained trained on you, tracking the way you carefully assessed each plush keychain. He decided then and there, with the absolute finality of a new directive, that he would do everything in his power to give you that gift again. That one small, unvarnished moment where you weren't worried about the government finding him, or the cops kicking down the door, or the bloody ledger he was constantly balancing. A moment where all you did was show him your new keychains.

Throughout the following week, Dex found your new companions absolutely everywhere.

His hyper-fixated eyes mapped them into the spatial layout of your shared life. One was hung carefully on your car keys, rattling against the ignition switch. Two were clipped to the straps of your favorite handbags. One was positioned on the nightstand by your shared bed, its glassy, unblinking stare oriented toward the pillows, while the fifth hung out in the living room, perched symmetrically on the edge of the bookshelf.

Every single time your eyes landed on them, Dex would catch the subtle, beautiful transformation of your features. The way your day got just a little bit brighter, your shoulders relaxing because you felt like you had a tiny, familiar companion with you everywhere you went.

And that was precisely where the thoughts started.

It happened late one Thursday evening. The city outside was a muted blur of rain and distant sirens, but inside the bedroom, the atmosphere was thick, warm, and entirely spent from lust. You were fast asleep, your soft bare frame curled tightly against the broad, heavily muscled expanse of Dex’s chest. Your breathing deep and even as you slumbered in content. Dex remained wide awake, his large arm anchored around your waist, holding you with a protective, unyielding grip. He was exhausted, his body thoroughly satiated, but his mind refused to slip into the quiet.

Instead, his eyes were locked onto the small plush keychain sitting on the nightstand.

He stared at it through the deep shadows of the room, his unblinking gaze drilling into the toy for minutes on end. It was a tiny, ridiculous creature with dead, empty eyes decorated with cheap glitter. In the silence of the night, the ideas began to organize themselves within his brain, assembling with the clean flawless precision of a blueprint.

And low, decisive, albeit highly amused scoff escaped his lips, vibrating faintly against your hair.

"Open it," he said the following evening, his voice a cool, steady register as he precisely slid a brand-new, sealed pastel box across the dinner table, presenting it to you like a trophy.

You immediately pushed aside your half-eaten plate of pasta, your eyes locking onto the packaging with a gasp. You instantly launched into a frantic, excited explanation about how this was a completely new series you hadn't even seen online yet, turning the cardboard over in your hands and excitedly pointing to the specific, rare character you wanted.

Dex watched you, a pleased, thoroughly satisfied smirk gracing his sharp features. He knew exactly which one you would pick, of course. He was profoundly satisfied with his own knowledge of your desires. What you didn't know was that he had spent over an hour at the specialty store that afternoon as he used his awareness and knowledge of manufacturing data to subtly weigh and measure the boxes, calculating the serial codes to fish out the exact plush you wanted.

Your face lit up as the wrapping tore away, and you began to preen over the stuffed keychain, gushing about how it was a "winter moth" and holding it up right next to your cheek to compare the size. Dex’s smile remained fixed, his blue eyes locking onto the toy's face as a sick, intoxicating sense of delight flooded through his chest.

He had spent hours meticulously replacing the plush's cheap glitter eyes with a high-definition pinhole camera.

You loved your little companions so much that you took them everywhere. They sat on your bags, they went to the market, they sat on the dashboard of your car. If you were going to carry them into the world, Dex reasoned, he might as well utilize them in his permanent, singular mission to keep you safe. If he couldn't be by your side every second of the day to neutralize any threat that dared look at you, his eyes would be there instead.

You stood up from your seat, completely oblivious to the surveillance matrix in your hands, and rushed over to his side of the table. You plopped down happily onto his lap, wrapping your arms around his large frame as a torrent of sweet, breathless thank-yous spilled from your lips.

"You're welcome. Anything for my girl," he muttered into your skin, his deep voice vibrating against your neck as he breathed in the scent of your perfume. His large hand moved to stroke your hair, though his cold, calculating gaze remained locked entirely on the plush in your hands, watching the tiny lens catch the light.

Over the next few weeks, the project became a quiet, methodical obsession. Dex worked tirelessly in the late hours while you slept, using his surgical precision to dismantle, modify, and re-stitch every single plush keychain you brought home. Some were significantly harder than others; certain characters had asymmetric eyes or mobile fabric features, but his hyper-focused mind always engineered a solution.

Every new box you brought home was no longer just clutter to him. It was a new soldier in his private, invisible army.

You had come to understand his sudden, intense interest in your collection in your own sweet way. You hadn't picked up on a single shred of the darker, deeply possessive intent behind his involvement, simply assuming it was just Dex being his supportive, loving self, learning to participate in the things that made you happy.

"I want this one because it looks like you in your suit," you murmured day, your finger tracing a tiny, brooding character on the back of a new box.

Dex froze for a fraction of a second, his jaw tightening as he stared at the little drawing. He had to physically force his hands to remain flat on the counter, actively restraining himself from reaching across the space, pulling you against his chest, and smothering you with the sheer, unadulterated weight of his affection.

That was by far the sweetest, most devastating thing you had ever said to him. You wanted to carry a miniature version of him around in your pocket.

Little did you know, you had already been carrying him everywhere you went.

Dex knew according to the scripts of normal society, that he should probably feel a semblance of guilt or shame for what he had done. He was monitoring your every movement, cataloging every street corner you turned, mapping every face that came within five feet of you through the dead eyes of your keychains. But truthfully, as he looked at you, all he felt was an absolute, pure sense of satisfaction.

You loved your messed-up killer boyfriend, that he had no doubt. But Dex had a very distinct feeling that you didn't truly know the terrifying extent of how far he would go to protect you. You didn't know how truly, beautifully ruined he actually was. He had been very, very careful to keep certain aspects of his obsessive nature hidden from you, having learned the hard way from Julie and the bloody disasters of his past.

So he held his breath, his blue eyes tracking your fingers as you eagerly tore the cardboard open in anticipation.

But as the plastic wrap came away, your face fell. The familiar, bright excitement dropped from your features. You hadn't gotten the one you wanted. You hadn't gotten him.

"Oh... that's okay," you said softly, your voice carrying a brave but disappointed little lilt as you lifted the plush up by its metal ring. "This one kinda looks like me! So it's okay."

Dex’s eyes hardened instantly, the blue in his irises turning to chips of ice as a brand-new, unyielding directive programmed itself into his brain. No other options. Not when you wanted him. And only him.

It took him exactly two days to correct the mistake.

The bedroom was bathed in the lazy, amber glow of the late afternoon sun, the heat thick and comforting. You were leaning back against the headboard, a blissful thoroughly fucked out smile on your face as you ran your fingers through Dex's short hair. He was resting heavily between your legs, his broad shoulder blades pressing against your thighs, his head pillowed softly on your bare stomach. His large, calloused hand was moving in a slow, lazy rhythm up and down the soft skin of your thigh, his touch possessing a quiet, grounded familiarity. Dex tilted his head up, his sharp jawline tracing against your skin as his eyes locked onto yours.

"Got a gift for you," he nodded, his gravelly voice dropping into a low, quiet register.

"You have a gift for me?" you asked, instantly sitting up. Your body was thoroughly sore and beautifully spent but your eyes were wide and eager.

Dex offered a single, precise nod. Reaching down with one long arm, his hand slid beneath the edge of the bedframe, where he had kept the thing hidden in the shadows for the past twelve hours. When his large palms unfurled, revealing the object within, your heart completely melted.

It was the exact plush you had wanted from the box. The one that looked like his suit.

Except, it wasn't standard factory issue anymore. Dex had spent hours straight meticulously altering the fabric with tools. A miniature, flawlessly stitched dark blue mask now covered the doll's entire face, the infamous Bullseye emblem embroidered perfectly over the forehead. Branding the little creature entirely as his. He had even crafted a ridiculously adorable, functional leather gun holster and a microscopic tactical knife belt, fastening them securely around the plush's waist.

You had to physically clamp a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from letting out a loud, embarrassing scream of pure adoration. Your six-foot, deadly, globally wanted assassin lover had just spent his free time customizing a tiny, soft doll to look exactly like his alter-ego, just to make you smile.

You were barely keeping your composure together, your eyes misting with affection, before Dex’s expression shifted, taking on a rigid, deeply serious alignment.

"There's more," he nodded, his voice entirely deadpan.

With a smooth, deliberate twist of his large fingers, Dex gripped the plush's head and popped it cleanly off the torso, exposing a gleaming, three-inch black metal dagger hidden inside the stuffed body.

Your jaw dropped half an inch, completely speechless as the tiny, lethal blade caught the sunlight.

"I need to know that you always have something to protect yourself with when I'm not with you," Dex nodded firmly, his tone carrying the absolute unyielding weight of a universal law.

He held the decapitated head of the plush, which now served as the textured handle for the hidden dagger, waiting for your reaction.

For a fraction of a second, the silence in the room stretched. Dex’s fingers tensed against the grip, an instinctual, raw anxiety flaring in his chest. Was it too much? Had he crossed a line? Did his unrefined, violent nature finally freak you out? His hand began to instinctively lower, preparing to hide the weapon away in the shadows again, his internal self scrambling to find a script to fix the mistake.

But before he could retreat, a loud, unbridled laugh broke free from your lips.

"This is the absolute cutest thing you have ever done!" you exclaimed, leaning forward to snatch the modified plush from his hands, cradling it as if it were a priceless, irreplaceable artifact.

Dex froze, his sharp brows furrowing slightly as he processed the reaction. "So... you like it?..." he asked, his voice cautious, parsing the data.

"I love it! It's so adorable, oh my god—" You covered your mouth to shield a genuine gasp, your fingers already tracing the tiny leather straps of the knife belt, completely enchanted by the detail.

Dex let out a slow, quiet breath, the tension leaving his broad shoulders as he leaned back against your legs. A dark, thoroughly proud and satisfied smile spread across his scarred face, his blue eyes crinkling with a deep, unsettling fondness as he watched you toy with the miniature version of his executioner suit.

You leaned down, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss against his lips, murmuring about how lucky you were to have such a supportive, protective boyfriend. Dex leaned into the touch, his large hand wrapping around your waist to pull you closer, his thumb stroking your skin in perfect, rhythmic intervals.

He didn't say a word about the micro-camera embedded into the center of the stitched target on the doll's forehead. He didn't mention the encrypted feed currently streaming directly to his private monitor, or the fact that the tiny soldiers on your other bags were currently capturing every angle of the room. You were completely blissful, entirely safe within the bright, happy parameters of your collection. You didn't know the terrifying depth of his sickness, and as Dex laid his head on you, listening to your soft laughter fill the quiet apartment, he knew he was never going to let you find out.

A/N:

Sometimes, though, he spirals so badly during sex that you have to stop.

“Dex,” you whisper, taking his face in both hands when you notice his eyes are unfocused. “Baby, are you with me?”

He blinks up at you, dazed and ruined, his hands locked around your hips like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

“Who taught you that?”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“That,” he says, voice raw. “The way you move your hands. The way you— fuck. Who taught you how to make me feel that good?”

Poor jealous, pathetic Dex.

You don’t answer him. You never gave him a name, never soothe him with details, never say it didn’t matter. You only kiss him until he stops asking, which of course means he has to find out for himself.

Dex, who stays late to research your past.

Dex builds a timeline. Dex finds addresses. Dex memorises faces.

And then Dex goes to work.

He knocks your exes out, ties them to a chair, and sits across from them in some dark room, gun resting loose in his hand as if this isn’t personal. 

“What did she like?”

They always thought he meant in your day-to-day life at first. “She liked— she liked coffee, I don’t—”

Dex would tilt his head, and sigh. “In bed.”

Sometimes they cry.

Dex hates that. Crying wastes time.

“What did you do in bed that she liked?” He rolls his eyes, already irritated.

Dex wouldn’t need to shout. Dex is patient. 

One of them says he remembers you liked being handcuffed.

Dex goes still, visibly enraged.

Yes, he asked for the info, but now he was seeing it. He’s imagining you in bed, trusting this stupid man with restraints, and it hits him so hard his vision narrows. Eventually, at the end of the night, he pulls the trigger.

He buys handcuffs on the way home. The first time he uses it on you, you squirm and whine. Music to Dex’s ears.

Another ex says he remembers you like blindfolds.

Dex has to look away for a second, breathing through his nose, because the image of you blindfolded for this man makes his blood boil. 

He slits his throat and buys one anyway. When he uses it on you, he’s pleased with the mess you made.

Another one says you like shower sex.

When Dex comes home that night, he's determined to test the theory of the man he just killed. You could barely get his name out before he grabs you by the wrist and pulls you into the bathroom.

He was right, Dex thinks an hour later, as he wraps a towel over you in the over-steamed shower, watching your legs wobble a little, you do like shower sex.

And then there’s the other question, the one right before he kills them. The one that proves Dex has gone fully insane.

He would crouch in front of them and ask, “How big are you?”

Imagine that from your exes’ point of view.

Bullseye has a gun between your eyes. Point blank. He’s standing there with that dead calm on his face, head tilted slightly, like this is a work meeting and not the last conversation of your life.

The man tied to the chair stares at him like he has misheard him.

Dex presses the barrel in a little closer.

“Show me with your hand.”

Fuck. Imagine having Bullseye standing over you, asking for your dick size because once, years ago, you fucked his girl before she was his girl.

The man’s hand comes up, trembling, thumb and forefinger spreading in the air.

Dex looks at it, then his eyes go cold.

“Don’t lie,” he rolls his eyes. “I’ll know.”

And no, Dex will never actually know.

It’s an empty threat. He would rather gouge his own eyes out than make them prove it. They were disgusting to him by default, because they were not him.

One ex actually started to desperately shift his tied hands to his zipper like he was actually going to show him.

Dex shot his foot.

“Ugh,” he scoffs. “No.”

That was not the point.

The point was that Dex knew men exaggerated. He knew the first measurement was ego, not truth.

So he waited and watched the answer get smaller.

Dex smiles to himself then, like the fucking psychopath he is.

Because he remembers the first time you sank down on him, breathless and squirming, nails digging into his shoulders, so pretty when you whispered, “Baby, wait— slow down, I need to adjust— ah, Dex, you’re s-so much bigger than I’m used to.”

He had believed you then because he wanted to.

Because he needed to.

Because he was a virgin and pathetic and so in love with you that one little sentence from your mouth could rearrange his entire brain chemistry. 

But now, he knows for sure you were telling the truth. He knows he is the biggest you ever had. He knows he was not just your sweet, nervous, pathetic virgin boyfriend that needed to be comforted by white lies. He knows you were not being kind.

You were being honest.

And boy, does it make him unbearable.

After all, his little extracurricular activities did wonders for his confidence!

He stops touching you like he’s asking permission to exist inside your body and starts touching you like he finally believes he belongs there. He's still needy, still pathetic in the sweetest way, but now there’s this ego in the way he pins your hips down.

He gets meaner about it, too, smug enough to murmur, “Too much?” with his mouth against your throat with a smile. “Need me to slow down, baby?”

And you smack at his chest for being arrogant, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on.

Because he’s your Dex.

Dex, who got there last and made himself the only one that counted.

Dex, who can hold a gun to a man’s face and ask the most humiliating question imaginable.

Dex, your pretty little psychopath. 

Dex, who comes home and melts the second you kiss him, because all that proof, all that blood still means nothing compared to you cupping his face and whispering, “You’re the best I’ve ever had.”

Because he’s attentive. Because he cares more about your pleasure than his own. Because he worships you.

And Dex believes you now.

—

You're annoyed at first. "Dude. Why do you keep repeating everything I say?"

Dex doesn't answer, but a week later, you catch him calling another agent "dude" over the phone after they screw something up.

And just like that. Your words? Being stolen again.

After a while, the annoyance turns into fondness, and you start teaching him what to say and when to say it.

Honestly, it's kinda cute.

Dex has social media, but he hasn't been keeping up with trends. He's there only because you're there. So when he comes home one day and casually drops a slang you've never taught him, it makes you pause.

"Where did you learn that?"

"What?"

"What you just said. Who taught you that?"

You swear his head grows bigger when he straightens up next to you on the couch. "I can be hip, you know."

You burst out laughing, head falling back against the couch, hair brushing his arm. Dex narrows his eyes at you, heat creeping up his neck, but he doesn't move away. He likes being in your space. "What's so funny?"

"Hip," you wheeze, wiping tears from your eyes. "Nobody says that anymore."

Turns out he's been secretly looking up "Slang terms and how to use them like a pro" because he thought you'd like it. You always say things he's never heard before.

The tips of his ears turn pink, and it only makes you laugh harder. You grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer. He automatically shifts so you can sit in his lap, your hands looped behind his neck.

"Hip," you repeat and peck a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth, where a smile is threatening to appear despite his fluster. "You're hip. The hippest person in the world."

A crooked smile finally tugs at his mouth as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck to avoid your gaze. The embarrassment lingers, but your laugh and sweet kiss quickly melt it away.

he in turn holds you close, large hands settled on your waist — grip directing your winds and grinds over his aching cock. the inners of his thighs hook at the outers of your own, legs bent and pressure firm as if to keep you close, close as humanly possible with his lounged position against the headboard.

your grip intensifies around the lower of his face, and it's then your thumb and fingers dip further into the hollows of his — pressure making his lips part against yours. his breath is ragged against you, pants hot and desperate in a way that matches your own. 

you itch in slightly and brush your lips over his. though you don't connect them, instead they ghost his, mouth agape as he swallows the gasps he earns from you with each pump he fucks up into you with. each upward wind making you splutter on choked-out whines.

with your mouths merely connecting, you swipe your tongue over his bottom lip and then nip at it, latching on lightly. you hold it between either set of your teeth, tugging on it with the most gentle of pressure. he chuckles, noise low and lewd while his pawing tightens around your waist, his grasp growing with extremity. desperate hold guiding you down on onto the cock he dicks up inside you.

you release your toothed hold from his bottom lip and press a kiss to where you had momentarily bitten into, giving him something slightly sweet and heartfelt. though your kisses drift from his bottom lip and teeter outwards, reaching his cheek. pointing your tongue, you trace over his scar — trailing the joined fusion of skin. haste non-existent.

but that's short lived and you soon feel absence grow around your upper hips. 

instead, he places them around your neck, one on the side, one nearing the back as he directs you to meet his eyes once more. he's mindful as he tugs you, thick fingers encompassing the base of your throat like it was no effort at all. he lowers you down, making you meet his lips so he can speak against them. 

"you're my dream girl," he utters, voice low and gruff. it sounded honest. or as honest as you believe dex to be capable of.

"yeah?" you hum, smiling against his lips.

the hand around the back of your neck itches upwards, fingers swirling at the root of your hair at the base of your neck. and it's then that he gives it a considerate tug. his hold like an effort to keep you close, to keep you right there.

"yeah," dex affirms, eyes cast up at you — gaze heavy and wanting. He nips at his own lip, it's like a redirectional effort for the slipping self-control, you believe.

his hands snake from their placement and pause at the either side of your face, grasp encompassing your head within two of his very thick hands. he retains your position and itches up to meet your lips; the connection rough and sort of desperate as deep breaths muffle between from either one of you.

your winds grind to a gradual halt when you feel dex's hips still beneath you, the motion of his upward fucking ceasing completely. you pull back to look over him, like it was to question the reasoning for such a sudden stop. though by the time you're able to figure out what his expression meant, he's pushing you backwards, grip firm on you as he repositions with you — cock still plugged inside you. 

he lays you down, pushing you back just under 180 degrees so the position you're each in is the same, only reversed. he's on top, like how you were only a mere moment ago.

his hands have since retracted from the sides of your face and one instead finds itself anchoring your pinned wrists into the mattress, his hold keeping your interlocked pinkies above your head. though the other has situated itself at the top of your throat, just under your jaw. he angles your face, making you look him in the eye as he rebuilds the pattern of thrusts from before. each one grows, and a system of deep and equally strategic pumps fall into place. 

dex keeps his eyes cast down on you below, gaze focusing on your growing fucked-out expression — the one that he's a direct cause of. and it's then that he nods down at you, encouragement building across his features as he gives your lower cheek a few light taps. ones that were again, some means of encouragement.

his thumb slips aside and reaches for your mouth, and it's there that he hooks onto your bottom lip, tugging on it slightly so as to keep your gasping mouth agape. he leans in nice and close, lips brushing past yours as he spits between them, laying saliva on your tongue for you to swallow. 

"attagirl," he coos against your parted lips, eyes as smitten as he can manage. "attagirl."

Valentina insisted after making sure he could still do his job medicated. Dex didn’t complain. He finally has what he wanted back so desperately. It’s just now it’s under his own conditions. For the most part.

Now all Dex needs is camaraderie.

Something similar to what he had with Ray back in his FBI days. Hopefully, without the killing him part.

“You’ll know when your next assignment is.” Is the last thing Dex hears before communication goes silent. He gets ready to text you about the knife when a message beats him to it.

‘I heard you need a new knife.’

‘Yeah. Lost one during the mission.’

‘I got you.’

That’s it. No other follow-up message, asking him about his mission. You are all business with hardly any talk.

It’s not like you’re difficult to deal with. When Dex joined the team, everyone joked about how easy it was to talk to you behind the professional barrier you put up. Like you want to leave work and everyone else in it when you go home each day.

Dex didn’t see a problem with that. He’s the same way. Well, was. He’s trying not to make the same mistakes as he did back in the FBI. He had people to talk to, but hardly anyone was in his corner. He didn’t want it to happen again. You’re one of the closest people he can make that effort with.

After a sixteen-hour flight and a forty-minute drive because he wanted to stop and get breakfast, he made his way to your office. Waving to the other team members, his “squad”. Just to provide support if he needs it. Dex hands them a bag filled with breakfast sandwiches and a tray of coffee.

“Hey, wait a minute.” Dex’s coworker, Alana, notices the separate bag and iced coffee with whipped cream and caramel drizzle, “Who’s that for?”

“Someone more important than you guys.” He snorts at the collective groans.

“Yeah sure, butter up the handler.” Jason says, taking a bite out of his sandwich.

Dex rolls his eyes, “So, what I’m hearing is to not bring donuts next time.”

Everyone immediately shuts up, thanking him for the food before gorging on it.

You’re stationed far in the back, in a large, box-like area. Surrounded by glass. No one would be able to miss a single thing you’re doing. Maybe you like it that way.

Dex catches your eyes through your glasses, a small wave in his direction. Then you dart to the food in his arms and quickly stand up.

“Oh my god is that food?”

“Yeah. Iced coffee and a breakfast burrito, right? With extra salsa?”

You blink, thoroughly surprised. “Whoa, yeah. That’s…on point.”

You typically come in ten minutes early to set up. Eating your burrito while typing on your computer with one hand. So effortless. Seamless. Like you’ve done it a million times before, but with no one to pay attention to you.

He went on a whim that you’d missed breakfast, and he’d swoop in to save the day.

“I figured since it’s early and you probably haven’t eaten yet…”

“Didn’t you have a long flight? I know you’re tired.”

He shrugs. He is, but he wanted to score some brownie points first. Raise the imaginary scale in his head that shows your relationship with him is getting better. He likes to think he earns ten points because of it.

“Thank you.” You smile, “I didn’t eat yet. Was running late. Slept in.” Dex nods, watching you take a sip, gloss staining the straw when you give a thumbs-up, of approval. “I have your knife. I just need to report the missing one and you’re good to go.”

The new weapon is right next to your computer mouse. All in its sheath. Dex could come clean about not actually losing the knife, but he’s managed to make you happy today, so he doesn’t.

“I didn’t mean to lose it.”

“It happens.” You wave him away. “I had a feeling you might lose them due to your abilities. You can’t miss, but that doesn’t mean you can’t lose weapons. It’s…actually pretty funny when you think about it.”

He releases a short laugh to match your amusement. Ah, so him losing his knives is funny. Good to know. “I’ll try not to next time.”

Dex shifts once the new knife is in his possession. What else can he bring up to express he wants to expand on his relationship with you? The momentum from bringing breakfast lowers with each millisecond that passes. And this is the most he’s gotten with you besides going over mission reports and providing him gear.

Was it really this hard back in the FBI?

“No troubles during the mission, right?” You ask, looking up from the screen.

“No.” He immediately clears his throat, “No problems. Target went down easy, everything…worked. Didn’t have to use my gun. Yet.”

“Nice.”

The corner of Dex’s lips twitches upwards, “I appreciate the high-quality gear. I don’t have to make do with kitchen knives anymore. They’re for cooking not for combat.”

“While I agree with you there, when you first came in, you were not using kitchen knives for weapons, Dex.”

“They felt like it.” You snicker and he knows five more points are added to the score. This is good. He should leave before he overstays his welcome. “I’ll see you around.”

Now to go home, shower, and rest.

It takes approximately fifteen minutes from headquarters to his apartment. The clean, sterilized scent relaxes his shoulders as he drops his duffel bag. Before he can get ready for a shower, his phone vibrates. A message from an unnamed user.

‘$10,000 is wired into your account.’

Life is great.

Dex needs to be careful. He knows everything can turn around in an instant if he didn’t dot his i’s and cross his t’s. Make sure the safety isn’t on before he lands the kill on his target.

Making friends is his own mission in a way. He watches them; their routine, what they like, don’t like, what they would die for, what they can’t live without. Anything to break down the walls and be receptive to change. Before he swoops in and makes the change for them.

With you, you’re very simple.

There’s not much on in any of your social media pages. Besides the occasional selfie, where you show where you went long after you’re gone. You’re a homebody, as people like to call it. You hardly go anywhere if it’s not work or home, as he’s seen for the past couple of days following you.

No, this wasn’t stalking.

During a meeting the day after, you commented that you didn’t like how dark it gets early. You make a weird face to lighten up the mood, but Dex knew from your bunched shoulders that you’re uncomfortable. He didn’t want his future friend to be uncomfortable.

It’s why he was watching you from afar, making sure you got home safely. There are no missions and he’s done all the bird watching and cat feeding in the world.

It’s what a good person would do.

He likes that you’re so simple. It’s what he has in common with you. You don’t need to go to ten different locations in two hours. It’s just you and your dog, Lady.

Dex gets the reference when the dog greets you at the door every day, tail breaking the speed of light. He’s never taken too kindly to dogs, but it’s something else to talk about - something to get you to open up.

He rehearses what to say to you on his way to work. Mr. Charles organizes routine marksmen tests, just to make sure the medication isn’t losing Dex’s sense of skill. He never likes the tests. It shows there’s still a hint of doubt from him. Whether it’s the CIA or Valentina herself. But it’s an excuse to see you again and start conversation.

In the weapons room, targets spawn across the makeshift scene. A park, similar to Central Park, where the bad guys are amongst the civilians. All decorated with a giant, red target. He needed to hit one with at least 95 to 100% accuracy.

Easy peasy.

“I was thinking about getting a pet.” Dex says after his knife hits the target dead on. A screen in front of him beeps 100%.

“Oh? You think having a pet is okay? Sometimes you’re gone for days…almost a week.”

“Yeah. I think it’s a good step to quality companionship. I even have a lonely neighbor so it would be good for her if she wanted to stop by and watch it if I’m gone.” Two knives hit the targets by the picture of a mother carrying her child. Two more beeps with 100%. “Besides, I didn’t have a pet back during my FBI days. Think it’s because I was too…I don’t know…”

“Wired?”

Dex blinks when he bounces the knife off the floor to another target by a tree. “Huh, yeah.”

You hum, watching him hit another target. “If you think that’s the right step, go for it. Pets are great company, especially the ones with personality.”

“Speaking from experience?”

Another target, another beep. “Yeah. I have a dog named Lady. She’s cute, busy as hell, but she helps keep me sane.”

“So I shouldn’t get a dog.”

You laugh and Dex likes how it goes up in pitch. “A chill dog, maybe. But you scream cat person to me anyway. Maybe a hamster.”

“A hamster is a smaller target…” He flings three knives at three targets spread throughout the crowd. Each blade hits that tiny red dot dead center. “But a cat might be good. They’re more independent.”

“Exactly. Perfect fit for you.”

One last target and the 100% pops up as if he hasn’t been getting them this entire session. You whistle at the perfect accuracy, noting them down on your tablet. Dex should go, but then the statuses of acquaintances would remain. When he should take the next step.

“I was thinking about going to this shelter on 38th and 10th. Heard they have a lot of animals there.”

You perk up, lips curling upwards in thought. “Oh hey, that’s like ten minutes from me.”

“Oh?” Dex matches your surprise, “Wow, that’s…wow. I was planning to go on Saturday if you’d like to go with me. Give me tips?”

You pause, shifting where you stand. The lack of eye contact is apparent that you didn’t want to go with him to the shelter. As a bonding moment. He probably came on a bit too strong. He should’ve just left it at he was planning to go on Saturday, leave the opportunity to invite yourself be up in the air.

“That sounds fun.” You say, “I don’t have any plans.”

“Great.” He flexes his fingers, not wanting to smile so wide that his face hurts.

Ten more points to the friendship scale.

The shelter opens at 9 am, but he wanted to get there at 10 just so it didn’t look odd. Plus, it gives you time to eat some breakfast. Not rush as much to meet up with him. He didn’t want you to hurry because of an outing he suggested.

He stands right by the shelter at 9:55 am. Early enough to scope the scene out and to bail if you don’t decide to show. The crowd wasn’t too bad. A handful of people coming and going, only a third leaving with a new companion.

Dex is serious about having a pet. Another friend in his life to prove how well it's going. He just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

You arrive at 10:01. You’re panting, clutching two smoothies. “I’m sorry! The line at the cafe right beside my building was a little backed up.”

“You’re okay.” He takes a banana-orange smoothie. He wasn’t expecting you to notice him. Since when did he bring up the fact that he likes bananas?

“Heard you boasting one time about the banana milkshake back at a diner you went to. So I had a feeling you’d like bananas.” You say, like you’ve read his mind, sipping your smoothie.

“Ah. Thanks.”

So, you’re paying attention to him, too? Interesting.

Inside the shelter, clipboards are lined up across the desk, slightly crooked. Some employees, dressed in scrubs, lead other people to the back while some man the desk. In line, Dex nudges his finger against the clipboards he can reach, lining them up straight. Perfect.

“You think you’re gonna find your forever friend here?”

Dex nods, “This shelter has excellent reviews. The animals are well cared for here.”

“Still, you can always go to another one if you can’t find a pet.”

“Will you come with me if I can’t find one?”

“Sure. We can turn it into an adventure.”

He smiles a bit. Now he hopes he can’t find a cat here. If it meant more bonding time with you. And enjoying how great you smell today. Like a clean spring? It matches the cool weather.

“Hi!” The receptionist greets, “Are you two lovebirds looking into adopting today?”

Lovebirds? Wait…

“Oh!” You laugh, immediately getting rid of any awkward air. “We’re not together. We’re just friends.”

Friends? Already? Whoa, that was fast.

“Yeah. Just friends.” Dex doubles down, laughing with you. He likes how yours fits his own. “She’s helping me find a pet.”

“I’m so sorry.” The receptionist fans her face, embarrassed. “You two just looked so cute together. Sorry, about that.”

You’re tugging on your blue scarf, your laugh taking a nervous flit. Dex takes the clipboard and fills out his information, ignoring the faint blush on his cheeks.

It was bound to happen. Men and women becoming friends can be easily mistaken for romantic interest. He didn’t want you to think any more than that. It’s already great enough that you think you’re friends.

And all it took was shopping for a pet.

“Did you mean it?” Dex asks after getting a ticket number. He had to wait to be called and go into the back. “Are we really friends now?”

“Ah.” You fix your glasses, taking an unusually long sip from your straw. “I guess we are. I don’t know, I just didn’t want that lady to assume.”

Yeah, that makes more sense.

“Right. I get it.”

Two points go down in the friendship scale, but it didn’t mean defeat. It wasn’t a great space to announce your friendship to him anyway. Dex wants it to be more memorable than that.

When he’s called, he follows the employee to the back. A sterile mixed with animal smell hits his nose—the dogs are off to a huge area to the left, with a play area outside. Cats were to the right. All in cages with another smaller area that leads outside and inside.

The employee remains on standby as he browses through the selection of cats.

Each one, big and small, fat and tiny, all in cages. It’s a lot, almost too many to deal with. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

“This is…a lot of cats.”

“I know.” You cosign, “Let’s start by reading the descriptions first and go from there.” You carry his smoothie. Just so he can focus on the task at hand.

Dex goes through the cats available. Hardly any kittens or younger cats. A lot of are older from teens to adult life. Some were given away from an abusive household or because an owner died and no one wanted to care for the cat. Each one locked away in hopes of finding their forever person.

Can he be that type of guy?

His track record with animals hasn’t been the greatest. Killing birds for fun in his youth isn’t worth telling anyone unless he wants to be looked at differently. He doesn’t want to. A cat he can handle. He likes them. They’re hardly bothersome.

Maybe that’s why he likes the one who hardly pays him any attention.

Clover. An all-black Maine coon. She’s licking her fur, not giving him the time of day. The description says she’s not very sociable, but can get comfortable in any home. Great. Just what he wants.

“Really?” The employee says, opening up the cage to let Clover out. “She really is what the description says. It’ll be amazing if she notices you’re there.”

“I’m sure.”

The employee carries Clover to the play area just so he can get acclimated with her. Maybe change his mind once he sees how she acts.

It never came.

Clover does a gentle brush to Dex’s leg before sitting beside him, grooming herself. All mundane, like she doesn’t care much about what’s going on in her world. He gets it. Kind of. She does let you pet her head, leaning into the touch before going back to do what she’s doing.

“Well, you like her?”

“Yeah.” He says, giving a little scratch on her head. “Told you cats are independent.”

“Yeah…I see.”

After signing some paperwork, getting a complementary basket filled with cat treats, food, litter, and toys, Clover is put in her cage and to her new home.

Dex doesn’t point out how you actually follow him back to his apartment. He’s expecting you to go your separate ways back home. But no, you walk with him. Take the train, sit next to him while he carries his new cat.

“Do you need to get any more cat stuff?”

“Nah. I bought plenty.”

A cat tower, a litter box, and an automatic feeder. Just in case he’s gone longer than usual.

Dex lets Clover out of her cage and she steps out slowly. Looking around at the new scenery, her new home. She makes a point to rub against his leg again, then yours, before exploring the house. The cat tower isn’t out the box yet. He wanted to put it up after the shelter.

“Congrats on your new baby.” You say, watching Clover jump on the couch and lie in it. “May she keep you company.”

“She will.”

You motioned to the boxed up cat things in the corner, “Want help with that?”

“Oh, uh…sure. If you want.”

“Of course. I asked.”

Dex lets out a laugh before motioning you to the pile. Your head glances over at the simplicity of his apartment. The single, clean couch. The TV is centered directly in the living room, aligned with the coffee table. His bedroom is off to the left, a decent size. Not too big or small.

Just enough for him. And Clover.

You help set up the cat tower. It’s placed right beside the entrance to his bedroom. A cat bed goes on the foot of his bed, but he has a feeling Clover might not use it. The automatic feeder is also set up, but took a while as the instructions aren’t clear. You come to save the day though, setting it up so she’s fed every eight hours.

The light hits his eyes through his curtains. It’s a little past one and neither of you has eaten yet. A lot of the groceries in his fridge are only good for one. He can try to add another portion though.

“Wanna get food? I’m kinda craving a sub.”

Dex perks up, “Yeah. There’s a bodega a block away from here. Although, I’ve never tried.”

“Well, we can try today.” You grab your coat and bag, blowing a kiss to Clover who’s currently asleep on his rug.

Dex chuckles, “She likes you.”

“And I like her. She’s actually perfect for you. Mysterious, calm…”

“You think I’m mysterious?”

You hum, hands in your pockets as you two stroll down the sidewalk. “When I first met you, yes. But it was just because of your persona. You have to know what you look like when you put the suit on.”

He does, but he never thought mysterious. He preferred menacing.

“I guess I should think about that for the future.”

You shake your head, “No, it’s okay. I’ve gotten to know you now and I don’t see you as mysterious. Well, not as much.” When you two go in the store and place your orders, you continue the conversation. “I’m surprised you didn’t see me that way. Since…I’m…you know…”

“You’re all business. I get it. You deal with dangerous people and you don’t want to take work with you.”

“You’re…not work, Dex.” You state, getting closer to him. He doesn’t mind the closeness. It gives him a chance to smell your honey scent again. “Not anymore. I should try to know the people I handle. Make sure I’m taking care of them.”

“You are.” He says, full body towards you so you know he’s serious. “I wouldn’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Still alive but using kitchen knives.”

Dex chuckles at your joke. You really mean it. You are putting in effort just like he is. So you do want this to turn into friendship.

He takes in that high when you two go back to his apartment. Eating your sandwiches, letting you get a sneak peek of how particular he is in his home. Making sure the dishes were aligned perfectly after doing the dishes. How he organizes his books on his bookcase by size. Big, medium, and then small. The pillows on his couch perfectly fit against the cushions.

Well, until Clover pushed them off.

Overall, he can call this outing a success. He got a cat and he has a better understanding of you. Good enough that he can use when he sees you at work.

Whenever Dex comes in there’s always something in his hand.

It varies depending on the time of day. If it’s early in the morning, it’s your usual breakfast order. In the afternoon, he gets you a lemon scone and warm green tea. Late at night, pizza or maybe Chinese if you have to work late.

Every time he’s met with a smile from end to end, saying thank you for whatever gift he gives you that day. Genuine appreciation. It leads to you talking to him for a while. First about Clover, but then it shifts into hobbies. Like his books, what bird he saw today, if he’s going to watch the upcoming baseball game.

He always answers with care, never lying to you. He returns the attention. He asks about Lady, what’s happening in the TV show you’re watching, or if there’s anywhere you wanted to go, so he can go with you. Natural conversation.

The days when he comes in feel better. He gets to see you, talk to you, and pretend to understand who you are as a person. How you talk about the close relationship you have with your mother, how you like being alone a lot, and it takes time for you to hang around other people. Dex gets it.

It’s why he ignores the teasing comments from the team, pointing out how close you two have gotten. He doesn’t mind, even when you’re clearly embarrassed at the obvious attention. But don’t discredit it. Which was…interesting.

Dex doesn’t bring it up, not when he’s alone with you during the trek to your apartment. The city still gets dark sooner, and your discomfort never changes right when it’s time to go. So he makes sure he’s there when you get off, taking you home every time. Your shoulders lower whenever he’s beside you, proof that you’re relaxing in his presence. As a true friend.

He meets Lady, who is true to what you’ve said about her.

She greets him like a new friend, jumping at his waist, letting out little yips of excitement. You laugh, mentioning she’s finally meeting the new person she’s been smelling lately. And she likes what she sees.

Dex takes the dog’s excitement as a good sign. He was hoping she did like him, knowing dogs had a sense of someone’s character.

“Oh, you’ll be hearing from me soon about a mission.” You say, watching him play with Lady. “Charles said it’s important so we gotta take this seriously.”

“Okay.” He says, throwing the ball so Lady can chase after it. You shift in your boots and he pauses throwing the ball again to look at you. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” You immediately say, “I just uh…want you to be careful. I’ve never said it before so I want you to know. Stay safe.”

Your eyes glimmer against the kitchen light, filled with concern. Dex tilts his head before fixing himself. “I will.”

He’s…hardly seen that before. Worrying isn’t lost on him; he’s witnessed it countless times throughout his life. But towards him, it was rare. And it felt…good. Like he needed to care, so you didn’t worry any more than you had to.

You shouldn’t need to worry about anything. Ever. As long as he can help it.

The mission is overseas. The target, Adrian Murini, is holed up in a grand hotel in Brazil. A broker and a witness for an upcoming trial connected to a governor who can overthrow it with his testimony. Security is locked tight, and Dex has to be close to make the kill.

You supply him with his gear and make a joke not to lose another knife while he’s out there. To ease the stress at the thought of him going to some dangerous place. You know he can handle it, but it makes sense to be worried about your friends.

The flight is long, the hotel is less desirable, despite being ten minutes away from the target’s. Adrian is stationed in the middle of the hotel, on the 16th floor. It was off. Dex would’ve liked a prime number instead.

You send him plans of the hotel layout, and he’s able to get access to the security cameras. Five guards in the room, two stationed outside. There’s a switch every six hours, and they’re in the adjoining hotel next door.

The new knife you gave him is in his right holster. The easiest to reach, the one that can quickly get him out of trouble if he needs it. Dex smiles when your face pops into your head. His friend. You’re probably still worried and will be that way until he’s back at headquarters.

He sends you a text, hoping to distract your racing mind.

‘Send me a picture within eight hours. Smiling.’

He chuckles at the eyeroll emoji before a message says, ‘Eight hours is too long.’

‘Six then.’

‘Four.’

‘Five.’

You stop texting for a minute. He figures you got pulled away. One of the team members is asking you something stupid, like how to work the coffee machine again.

It’s his cue to leave anyway. The window to get Adrian is closing and Dex plans to kill him right after dinner. Where his body won’t be discovered for a while and Dex can get out more easily.

Another message and he opens it before walking out.

He freezes. His eyes go as wide as they can past the irises of his mask. Your face is bright, clear, and radiant. A smile that takes one of his knives and aims right at his chest. You’ve…never looked that way before.

‘You’re pretty.’

Dex immediately sends without a second thought. It’s possible to say that about women friends without it having an underlying reason. Right?

He doesn’t look at your message, not when the notification pops up. He has a job to do. And you’re waiting for him to come back. He didn’t want to keep you waiting.

Dex finds a way in the hotel through the workers’ entrance, right when most of the staff are busy serving dinner. He slips through pristine white shirts and smooth black skirts, avoiding cameras until he has a way up the stairs. Hardly anyone uses them, so he counts the floors until sixteen arrives.

Here’s the fun part.

The guards by the door didn’t stand a chance. Two knives sink into their neck without a delay and he catches their bodies so they won’t make noise. Dex slips in with the room key. The guard's position never changed, so he hurls a knife at the guard at the door before he can notice him. The second one faces the window so an easy kill.

Slinking past the mini kitchen, Dex grabs the guard that’s by the target’s bedroom and slits his throat. As he bleeds out, staining his suit while his body jerks, the last guard comes out of the bathroom. Where a knife is between his eyes.

He opens the main bedroom and the target quickly stands up, hands raised.

“P-Please. Don’t kill me. What I can do will change the fate of this country for decades. Maybe centuries.”

Dex doesn’t speak, eyes tracing the room. A half-eaten dinner of lamb and rice, TV low and playing whatever action movie is on. He takes a closer look and sees it’s a racing one. He’ll have to ask you if you’ve seen that one.

“Whatever they’re paying you, I can double it. Triple it even.” Adrian sputters, his slender form quaking in his pjs. “You look like a man who has sense.”

“Not anymore.”

Two knives hit Adrian square in his chest and head. Dex catches the body and places it neatly on the bed. Then snaps a few pictures.

See? It all worked out in the end.

Dex walks out, a bullet hits his shoulder. One of the guards. He must’ve gotten out for another rotation. But it’s too early.

“I have the suspect, repeat I have the sus-”

A knife knocks the gun out of the guard’s hand. Another hits his neck. Dex quickly runs out of the room right when the rest of the guards see the mess he’s made. Shots are fired and he’s bolting down the stairs. His shoulder stings, blood leaks from his wound and leads a trail. He’s been shot before, but it still fucking hurts.

He makes a call to you, sharply inhaling to hide the pain. “I need the closest safe room.”

“What happened?”

“Got shot in the shoulder. I’m fine.” He doesn’t want you to worry. Even when he had a close call.

There’s no panic in your voice, just urgency. “There’s one two miles away. It should be enough to get you away from the heat. There’s also supplies there to patch you up.”

A guard goes up in his direction and a knife stops him.

“Thanks, sunshine.”

“Dex-”

He cuts the call. He’ll bring up how rude it was of him later. He just needs to get out alive first.

Police arrive on the scene, and guests are clamoring due to the sudden noise from above. Dex cuts down any other guard in his path, bursting through the back doors. Sirens ring in his ears when he breaks into a nearby car, driving it off and away from the scene of the crime.

Blood trails down into his suit, getting all over his chest and arm. He shakes his head during the drive to stay awake. He can’t pass out. Not like this.

The safe room is at an abandoned house.

Dex opens the bulky, metal cellar doors, quickly going inside and lock it tight. There, he gives you another call, panting.

“I made it.”

“Thank goodness.”

The safe point had a cot, some supplies in a drawer, and a mini fridge. He pulls off his shirt, mask coming off with it, before digging through the list of supplies. The bullet went through so no need to worry about finding it.

“Tell Charles that the mission went well.” He hisses when alcohol spills into his wound, “He’ll like that.”

“I’ll tell him later. Where did you get shot at? Do we need to send a medic over there?”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just my shoulder. Bullet went through clean.”

“You’re not doing this by yourself.”

“I’m not.” Dex grabs some bandages, “You’re here with me.”

“I’m not physically there.”

“But I can hear your voice so it’s good enough.”

He grins at your sigh, holding back any other noises to prove how much pain he’s in. He means every word. A friend like you at his time of need? He couldn’t ask for anyone else to be here. To keep him company.

“I’m telling Charles you need a raise.”

“Like Valentina will say yes to that.”

“She will after a strong recommendation from me.”

Dex chuckles, finishing bandaging himself up. He washes his hands by the makeshift sink and digs into the fridge for something to eat. There wasn’t much besides a fruit cup and water. It’ll have to do.

He takes two painkillers and lies on the cot. Distant sirens are heard nearby, but they shouldn’t find him. He got rid of the car a few blocks back and made sure to go through the grass to lose the blood trail. He wasn’t going to stay here long anyway. He needed to go back home.

“Stay with me.” He says, not giving you room to say no. “I need to hear you.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything. Just…don’t hang up yet.”

Silence lingers on your end. For a moment, Dex thinks you might’ve hung up on him. “I checked on Clover earlier.”

“Oh? How’s she doing?”

“Okay. She was on your bed before I left. I think she misses you.”

“I miss her too. I’ll be home soon.”

“You will. I’ll make sure of it.”

He smiles, knowing you can’t see his face on the other side. “You’re the best.”

“Keep flattering me. I also like matcha from that cafe up the street.”

“Noted.”

More silence, but it’s comfortable. Your breathing on the line lulls him in a way. He leans against the screen, picturing you right beside him. Checking out his bandage, brows lowering with worry. Your lips in a cute pout.

He thinks back to your picture and blood rushes to his cheeks. “Did you wear makeup today?”

“No. Why?”

“Nothing…” He mutters. “You just looked…nice.”

“You said pretty.”

“You did look pretty. And bright.”

His stomach churns at your giggle, “Thanks.”

Even your laugh is nice. It always has been. He doesn’t know why he’s noticing it now. He might’ve took too many painkillers.

“It’s clear you’re not going on a mission any time soon.”

“I know…”

“Which is good. We can hang out more often.”

“Yeah? And do what?”

“Whatever you want. It’s only right since you got hurt on the job.”

“Of course.”

As expected, Dex had to take some time off from missions until he heals.

The doctor gave him two weeks to make a full recovery and to take advantage of resting and relaxing. Not to do much physical labor to increase the recovery time. Dex shouldn’t like that. His work involves helping people, getting rid of the bad ones to make the world a better place. Now, he can’t do that.

If this were eight years ago, he wouldn’t know what to do himself. In all the get-well cards and flowers, it hardly meant anything in his empty apartment. But there are visitors.

His team stopping by to check up on him, give him food, update him on what’s been going on in the office. Saying they missed him. He missed them too. Especially you.

You who is always at his place before anyone else. Who gives more food than he needs, make sure Clover has everything she needs in case he can’t give it to her. It was funny. It’s not like he was hit by a car or thrown off a building. He is still capable of taking care of himself. But you, how you try to take care of his needs before you work, it’s…He doesn’t know how to describe it.

His heart thumps faster than normal whenever you’re there. When you’re close. So close he can smell the peach scent from your lotion. That makes him want to lean in closer for more.

When you dress, it’s all very nice.

Despite the colder air, your style with sweaters, jeans, and boots looks good on you. Splashes on orange and brown every time you come over. He wants to say how good you look, but doesn’t. The reaction you had when he called you pretty was unexpected. And don’t get him started on the nickname.

You bring light to his life like the sun, rays peering past the suffocating darkness that surrounds him. Sunshine was…harmless. Obviously, you didn’t think so.

He just got good at being friends with someone. He didn’t want to mess it up because you look prettier than usual. Smell better than usual.

Dex just wants to take walks with you and Lady. Enjoy the park with just the three of you. Lady running after the ball he throws, you laughing at how fast she’s going. He wants to make you laugh like that all the time.

When you’re exploring a new restaurant, he likes when you coax him into trying your food, wanting him to enjoy whatever you just ordered. He doesn’t miss when he eats from your fork and then you use it, not caring that it came from his lips. He simply watches, a question about their evolving relationship lingers. But nothing is said. Just laughs and your lovely smile.

“Charles is thinking about taking you out again.” You say, scooping some cheesecake and eating it.

Dex follows how your tongue swipes across your lips, catching any whipped cream. “I need to get back in the game again. Makes sense he wants to take me out now that I’m healed.”

“The doctor cleared you yesterday.” You grimace, shoving another bite in your mouth. “You shouldn’t rush back into things again.”

“Don’t wanna get rusty.” He locks onto the spoon you hand out to him to try the cheesecake. Dex slowly nods, like he’s making an important decision in his life. He takes the piece, lime and graham crackers dancing on his tongue. He doesn’t leave your face when you lick the spoon, diving in for another taste. “I’m useful. Don’t want anyone to think otherwise.”

“No one will. I’m just saying it’s okay to take a few more days off.”

Dex chuckles, “So, you can have me all to yourself?”

“Yes.” You wink, eating another piece.

“Careful. If you keep this up, the team will think we’re dating.”

Your brows raise, “Oh? Is that what people are thinking? That we’re dating?”

It was meant to be a joke, but you’re asking with such intrigue that makes him shift in his seat.

“No, well…you’ve heard the jokes. The teasing. Everyone thinks we are, but we both know it’s not serious.”

You snort, “Jeez, you don’t like the idea of dating me, Dex?

“I didn’t say that.”

“It’s okay if you are. I get it, I don’t do much. I just work and go home and sleep. I’m boring.”

Dex scoffs, “You’re not boring. I like that.”

“But not enough to date me.”

“Do you want me to go out on a date with you?”

“Maybe.”

“So, let’s go on a date.”

You blink, dropping your spoon. The room gets small. Suddenly, he realizes there’s a lot of people in this restaurant and he just dropped that he wants to go out with you. What the? How the hell did this happen?

“Shit.” Dex shakes his head, “I didn’t mean to-”

“You didn’t mean to ask me out?”

Silence. Just you and him staring at each other.

“No, I didn’t.” He covers up, unable to see you past the rapid blinking, “We’re…just friends. Right?”

“Right.” You force a smile, but he immediately sees that its fake. Not the one that makes you glow every time he sees you. Crap.

Dex pays for dinner and walks you home. Hardly anything is said, besides work, him mentioning he was going to bring breakfast tomorrow. Nothing about what happened in the restaurant. That he didn’t want to date you.

It’s not that he didn’t. That would just mean you two won’t be friends anymore. Just more.

He’s never had more before. He can’t think of the last time the opportunity of having more was given to him. This was too different. He’s already doing a lot by having a pet, making the effort to make friends without disguising himself as someone socially acceptable in society. What will this mean? If he became more with you?

Dex isn’t sure. Not when he’s in the headquarters in the next day, bringing breakfast as usual. You take your usual order, saying thank you with a smile. You’re still faking. Even when he tries to make conversation with you. You indulge, but don’t go further as usual.

He doesn’t like that.

When he offers to visit Lady, you shut him down, saying you’ll be tired later. He pretends to understand.

Were you looking forward to going out with him? Dex didn’t see why. He’s boring. He’s the one who needs help in reclaiming his mind. You? Anyone would be lucky to go out with you. So out of all people…why him?

A mission to Canada does little to stop his rushing thoughts.

You’re doing your job, as you’ve always done when you handle him. This time it’s brief. No follow-up questions, jokingly telling him not to lose another weapon, text him to be careful. It feels off. Weird.

‘No picture?’ He sends a brief text, lingering by the front door of his hotel room. Not running out to kill his target yet.

‘Now? Don’t you have a target to eliminate?’

‘I’m early. There’s plenty of time for a picture.’

‘If you’re early, you can kill the target now and get the next flight out.’

‘Not until I get a picture.’

There are three dots, then it’s gone. It pops up again, then it’s gone. Dex’s heart slowly creeps, almost like when he’s about to catch his prey. But this time it’s waiting for the moment of truth. To see if you’ll indulge him or not. Have proof that you’re not mad at him.

Five minutes and nothing.

Of course. The friendship is gone now. Points have been erased from the board and the sign flips from friends to acquaintances. All his hard work. Gone.

His phone vibrates and he immediately opens the message. It’s you but…very different.

You’re looking up at the camera, showing off more of your body. Your blouse is unbuttoned, not too much to show off more than you want, but just enough to see your cleavage. You’re wearing a push-up bra and everything is…highlighted. Defined. Did you always wear push-up bras?

Your lips are parted, your eyes wide. He doesn’t know what to say. You look nice. No, more than nice. Nice doesn’t apply in this instance. Same thing on why he doesn’t think you look pretty. You’re more than that.

‘You look sexy.’

Dex doesn’t leave yet. Not when his phone vibrates once more. He doesn’t look at it. What he said starts something he can’t help but start. It’s the truth, you look sexy. The rising tent in his cargo pants is proof enough. Good thing he’s early.

After taking care of himself, killing his target in a park, and take the next flight back home, he can’t stop looking at the picture. And your response to his comment.

‘Thank you. <3’

Is that what you wanted? To be noticed by him? He’s always noticed you, even before the restaurant fiasco. He just…doesn’t know what to do.

Dex isn’t sure what will happen once the friendship twists into something more. It’s because what if you think he’s too much for you? Friends is one thing, being involved requires more commitment, feelings he isn’t sure he’s felt before. Or in a long time.

Are you sure you want that?

When he’s back in the office for debriefing, making sure you send all the important details to Mr. Charles, neither of you brings up the picture. You’re still dressed similarly to what you sent him, your chest profound under the blouse, work pants tight on your legs. Your glasses resting on the tip of your nose, increasing the desire to step forward and push them up for you.

“Are we still on for the film festival this weekend?”

Dex perks up, lining his eyes back to yours. “Yeah. Starts at ten, right?”

You nod, still writing down notes on your tablet. “I have our passes, so don’t worry about that.”

“Okay.” His eyes trace down your frame again. He should bring up the picture and ask what that’s about. But what would he want to hear? “Are you excited?”

“Yeah. Are you?”

“I am.”

A pause. You’re done with the mission debrief notes, sending them out to Mr. Charles with the tap of your finger. Your glasses are still low, your shirt is still intentionally unbuttoned. He should leave. He should leave.

Dex moves forward, pushing up your glasses from the bridge with his finger, making sure it settles perfectly across your face. Your eyes go wide, staying still as he doesn’t move back from his previous spot. Just staring at you. “Why are you doing this?”

“What am I doing?”

He sharply inhales, accidentally taking in your honey perfume. “This…looking like…this.”

You look down at yourself, “Just trying something new. You don’t like it? Thought you’re supposed to support me as my friend.”

“I am.”

“Besides calling me sexy yesterday.”

Dex shakes his head, “I meant it.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay. Then…” You motion him to leave your office. Looking like that. Shit.

He doesn’t move, nor do his eyes. You don’t either. A staring contest that may appear playful to others, to Dex, he’s trying to decide. Whether to leave or to take that next step. To be more.

Friends don’t call their friends sexy. Unless they have an underlying intention.

For Dex…he didn’t want to show his intention in here.

“I’ll see you Saturday.”

The film festival took place on the west end of Central Park.

The air was cool enough for people to huddle up in jackets and blankets outside, ready for the movie of the night to play. Aisles of stalls with food, movies, CDs, and games to help pass the time before the main event.

He wasn’t sure if it was going to be enough of a distraction.

When you met up with him by the entrance, nervous was the first thing he felt since he started this relationship with you.

Your ivy green sweater dress, tights that match the color of your skin, and black boots that dreadfully stopped at your knee. A breeze blew past you, banana and vanilla make him lean into the air. As an excuse to not lean on you.

He should’ve expected you to dress like this. Well, you’ve always dressed like this, but now he wants to keep looking at you. Admire how enticing you look.

“You look handsome.”

Another hit to his heart. Dex was hoping you didn’t notice he put in more effort himself to look nice too. The brown and navy blue suede jacket, black shirt, black pants are a dead giveaway.

“Thank you. You look…great.”

“Not sexy, huh?” His lips part at your teasing but you laugh it off, “I’m joking. I won’t mess with you anymore tonight.”

“Right.” He narrows his eyes, a mix of playful and suspicion.

The movie didn’t start for a few more hours, so he browses with you. Endless selections of DVDs and CDs from some vendors. You browse with intention, aiming to pick out some you need a physical copy of. Some for him, too.

“I think you’d like rom-coms.” You say, going through a huge bin filled with classic movies. “There were so many good ones back in the day.”

Dex peeks through the pile, a mountain of DVDs pushed by your hand. “What makes you think I’d like rom coms?”

“Because experiencing love and laughter is one of the best feelings in the world. Try it.” He doesn’t disagree, but continues watching you go through the pile. Close, making sure you don’t fall in and helplessly flail. “Got it!”

You turn and you’re right in his face. He could practically make out the pores on your skin. Dex takes a step back, not wanting to make the day uncomfortable already. You don’t say anything, but show off the case you picked up.

“Bride and Prejudice?”

“It’s so good. I used to watch it a lot when I was little with my mom.”

“Well, if you’d think I’d like it…”

“You will.”

Before checking out, Dex skims over to the pile of DVDs again. “I’ll pick one for you too.”

You lean over his shoulder and he tries to refrain from pulling you closer. Hold you under his arms. “Okay. What are you thinking?”

He picks up Ninja Assassin and you nod at the choice. “Of course it’s an action movie.”

“We need some variety.”

“Ah so we’re watching these after the festival?”

Dex hums, not realizing this is lowkey an attempt to get you back to his place. Or yours to continue the outing. “Maybe.”

You roll your eyes at his answer.

After the DVD shop, you wanted to browse some CDs, bringing up his CD player. Dex mainly uses it to listen to Dr Mercer’s recordings, indulging in a little bit of jazz classics or two. They were a dollar each, so fair game to you. He doesn’t say anything when you pick up case upon case in your arms. Full of a wide range of genres: jazz, rock, early pop, and r&b. Things you think he’d like.

“I hope it’s enough to add to your CD collection.”

“You don’t have to buy me all of this.”

You raise a brow, “Why not? We’ve been meaning to get you more music anyway.”

“Yeah, but…” He trails off, words that might offend you on the tip of his tongue. “You should get some music for yourself.”

“I hardly use my CD player anymore, Dex, come on.”

Dex grimaces, letting you pay for them.

It’s not that he didn’t want them or the movie. He’s sure he’ll like everything you pick for him. It feels as if you’re trying to get on his good side, like you ever left it. As proof that, despite what’s happened before, you two can still be good friends.

It doesn’t sit right in his stomach. Dex isn’t sure if he can classify this as a friendship anymore. The sway of your hips, how his heart upticks when you point at a new stall in awe. That sweet scent makes him follow you wherever you want to go.

Friends don’t think of each other like that.

In fact, this feels like a date more than a hangout. Maybe he should treat it as such.

“Hey,” He takes a step forward, easily holding your hand, “I saw a stall that sells great tacos. You hungry?”

Your eyes go wide, darting down to where your hands connect and his eyes. “Uh, yeah, yeah I’m getting there.”

“Great.” Dex leads, taking you to the food stand. Your face hardly changes and you don’t let go either. At least until you’re at the truck and you pretend you need to get your wallet out. But he’s paying, as a gentleman should on a date.

He likes this. It’s more natural. Just right.

You don’t bring up the hand holding and Dex doesn’t pry. Your movements are slower, despite your face becoming neutral. Still trying to figure out what just happened while putting sour cream on your taco.

“You smell nice.” He says, realizing he should compliment you more. “Banana smells great on you.”

“Ah…thanks.” You shift on the bench, not taking a bite out of your taco just yet. “So do you. Was that a…new cologne?”

“Yeah. I got it a few days ago.” He figures sandalwood was a good start. For this...date.

You nod, deeming it adequate to eat. He watches, a smile threatening to break at the streak of sour cream on the corner of your lips. As a good date should, he takes a napkin and hands it to you, motioning to where the cream is. You awkwardly take it, following where he’s pointing.

“You have an idea of what the movie might be?”

You shrug, glancing over at your pamphlet. “I’m hoping it’s that AI one. You know where the girl falls in love with her AI companion.”

“…I think that’s been done before.”

“Yes, but this time the roles are reversed. And the girl is blind.”

“Ah, right.”

“Would you fall in love with an AI companion?”

“No,” Dex gruffs, wiping off his hands, “I hardly use my phone, I wouldn’t take my chances with something like that.”

You hide your amusement behind your drink, “But you are open to…liking someone?”

He doesn’t leave your face, waiting for an answer. Dex still has reservations about romance. He’s also never taken that step, unlike other men his age. So many things he hasn’t experienced that he isn’t sure it’s possible for him to. This is a new arc for him. He’s taken steps to show he’s not like he was years ago.

Romantic interests can be possible.

“Yes.” He admits, “I’m just…it’s been…I’ve never really experienced that before. I’m still a bird who hasn’t learned how to fly. Yet.”

“A pretty old bird.”

“We’re the same age.”

You laugh, “My point still stands.”

Dex playfully scoffs, “Will you help me learn how to fly then? The whole works?”

“I can but…” You pause, tongue in cheek. He has to remind himself to breathe, not think of the extremes, “you said, asking me out was a mistake. Do you still think that?”

“No. I didn’t want to ruin what we have. You’re…special to me. I haven’t met anyone like you before.”

You don’t hide your smile this time and he can’t help but smile with you.

“Me neither.”

Dex feels the shift happen in real time. After eating, you immediately take his hand, letting him to sink into the reality of what this is now. What you two can be.

As it gets dark, you two take your seats. On the floor, the fluffy blankets provide enough cushion for both of you. His breath hitches at the random pain that aches his joints while he sits. You immediately hand him some painkillers and a bottle of water. That you had just in case.

Even on a date, you never truly stop working.

The movie is exactly the one you said, which makes you happy. Dex takes in the light in your eyes, how you gently shake him in excitement when the opening credits roll. On instinct and because he saw another couple in front of him, he wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you flush against him.

It’s a little cold and the body heat will help as well as the blankets.

That’s his logic anyway. Not because he gets direct access to your banana scent, but finally able to feel you. You fit so well against him, too like you belong there. And he wasn’t going to let you go. Not if he had anything to say about it.

Something else has an opinion too.

During the movie, Dex’s pants get tight again. You taking his hand, thumb rubbing it didn’t help either. He knows its been a long, long time since he’s gotten physical contact like this. And you saying that you’d be willing to help him.

This? It’s too perverted right now. Dex can’t expect you to help him with something like this. Not when you two just started dating.

It would be too much.

He inhales when you accidentally brush against his crotch, trying to get yourself situated.

“Oh…” You whisper, making eye contact.

“Sorry. Just ignore it, it’ll go away soon.”

“You’re okay, Dex. It’s natural.”

“Really?” He forces out a laugh, “I didn’t wanna scare you.”

“I’ve experienced my fair share of boners. It’s okay.”

Your lips press against his cheek and he feels the imprint of your lips on his skin. Unfortunately, it makes his cock jump. His heartbeat rising. You have his hand stay on your hip. So close to your ass. Your…nicely sized one.

His boner remains, difficult to keep all of these thoughts at bay while the movie is playing. Dex should take it easy. Not want to feel all over you behind closed doors. Wonder how you sound against his ears.

It would be too much. Too. Much.

He softens right when the movie ends. The sad ending changes the mood for the evening and you were sniffling a little. Dex gently pats your back, lowkey not understanding the movie at all, but not wanting to ruin how you’re feeling.

“Didn’t expect that movie to be sad at all.”

“Me neither.” He agrees while taking you home. A few blocks and a subway ride away. “Changed the mood a little.”

“Yeah, sad movies aren’t good for boners.”

Dex shakes his head, “Don’t bring that up…”

“Why? Don’t be embarrassed. I told you that’s common.”

“Yeah but…” He shuts up when they go inside the subway car, picking the seats a bit away from the rest of the riders. “I wanted to…do more things. When you kissed me I…I wanted more. Needed it.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize…”

His cheeks warm up and he glances away, pretending to focus on the train car behind them. It’s ridiculous. Feeling all of these things so fast. You shouldn’t witness him being aroused and inexperienced.

Dex wants to get some books to understand what you’d like. Emotionally and physically. It’s only fair.

“Do you still need it?”

He faces you, a hand on his thigh, gently squeezing it. That simple touch heats up his skin, surging down below. “…why are you asking?”

“You forgot what I said before?” You laugh a little and he swallows hard. “Just…helping you learn how to fly.”

Dex doesn’t tear away from your eyes, pleading, awaiting a truthful answer. He should say no. It would be too quick. And he didn’t want to disappoint you. Set any unfair expectations because he’s plagued by salacious thoughts and feelings.

But…what would you want to do?

“Yes.”

Back at your apartment, everything is quiet.

Besides Lady yipping and begging for pets, which she gets after a few tries, before you lead him to your bedroom. Dex takes everything in stride. As you close the door behind you, light from your blinds hits parts of your dress. Each step you take is slow and cautious, giving him room to change his mind if he’s uncomfortable.

He wasn’t. Instead, his heart picks up speed. The gentle sway of your hips boosts his arousal. Dex doesn’t try to fix himself this time. It’s just you and him. Alone.

Your arms wrap around his neck, coaxing him to bend down a little. No kiss is shared yet. He has time to admire the shape of your eyes, their color, the tip of your nose, and your lips. Like you’re sculpted carefully. With purpose.

And he gets to have you. Him. Of all people in this world.

“Is this too much? Too close?”

Dex shakes his head, capturing your lips. A simple peck, so that he can get used to the feeling again. The softness of your lips, the indent of your makeup on his own. He quirks a smile before kissing you again.

More force, more passion. He needs to show that he really likes this. Kissing you, your body against his own. He grips your dress for some restraint, not wanting to lose control immediately. Banana and vanilla live inside his brain. Imprinted so he can remember this moment forever. You’re following his lead, sighing a breath apart.

A small press against his torso. Dex sharply inhales at the roll of your hips, right over his erection. You don’t stop, pushing him towards the end of your bed. He breaks the kiss just enough to land on his back as you crawl on top of him, eyes filled with desire.

Dex doesn’t want to break off the kiss more than he has to. He groans at the fat of your thigh, how he’s able to handle the weight on top of you. The only time he does is when you pull off his jacket, and you kick off your boots.

You take his hands and place them on your ass, causing him to tense up for a moment. You notice, immediately stopping.

“Shit, was that too much-”

He silences you with another kiss, kneading your cheeks in his palms. You gasp against his lips, pushing your hips back so he can have more to hold. You’re rolling your hips again, causing him to let out a guttural growl.

You pull his bottom lip back between your teeth. Dex rolls his eyes back when you close the distance and trace your tongue across it. His lips slightly part, beckoning your tongue to his. Easily gliding against it to help him get used to it. He does, angling his head at a better angle for the tongues to dance.

All while he helps you move your hips over his bulge some more. The tension between his pants and you is becoming unbearable. He needs them off. Now.

You slide your hand between your bodies, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling down the zipper. Without words, Dex lifts up his hips to help you pull down his pants. A very clear imprint in his boxers, but with less tension.

When you grind your hips against his covered cock again, he gropes your ass for assurance. It’s too good that it’s almost criminal. And when you do it again, he expresses that delicious ache with a grunt. You swallow it, grinding against his bulge again and again and again.

The edges of your dress rise; your tights are gone now. The seat of your panties against his leaking tip brings tears to his eyes.

He should say slow down, not have his body ruin this night. But when you’re rotating your hips like that, hitting a spot that makes him bite his lip, he can’t say anything. Dex holds you down, making sure you’re rubbing his shaft at a decent pace. He can’t focus on kissing you anymore, but he likes when you nip and suck his. A trail of spit as a bridge between the two of you.

Breaths are quicker, his joints slightly crack when you go faster, making the bed creak. He’s lost in that sweet scent when he stills, cum coating his boxers. Dex’s cry is silent, his lashes fluttering in disbelief. His entire body is heavy when he comes up for air, gasping against your neck.

“That’s good…you’re okay…” You reassure, parting his hair with your fingers, scratching his scalp.

Dex jerks at the sensation, moving into your touch. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay. I think you needed that.”

He tsks, leaning up for another kiss. A slow one. One with intention. “Your turn.”

“Oh, you don’t have to. We already did a lot.”

“I want to.” You raise your dress, showing off the lacy black panties. As you bend down, he pulls them down to your ankles. “Help me.”

You guide his fingers to your wet hole, a sigh fanning his face. He takes some of your slickness and presses two fingers along your clit. “Slow, small circles please…”

Dex takes your guidance, circling your bud. Your eyes lower, lips part. You’re kneading his hair too at the same time. He dips inside you again then rubs your clit once more.

It picks up in speed and so does your voice of ecstasy. A moan ignites goosebumps on his skin.

“That feels good, Dex.” You coax him, trying to show what a good job he’s doing.

He doesn’t change his pace while figuring out which rubs work and which don’t. The ones that make you sigh and the ones that make you shift. He was worried about not being well-read in this topic, but what’s a better experience than hands-on?

Dex increases the speed of his rubs and focuses on your quickened breathing. How your body relaxes when you stop feeling his hair and grip it with need. You’re grinding against his fingers and he has to keep you still with a hand on your back, unable to help but smile at your reactions.

You tug his hair, back slowly coming into an arch. “D-Dex…I’m…oh…”

“Do it…”

You moan along his face, body tensing up and sending shockwaves across it. Your brows furrow, your lovely lips part in a way that makes him want to kiss you again. Exposing yourself to him until you can’t anymore. Then crash against his chest, panting along it.

Dex looks at the sheen on his fingers and licks them, humming. “You taste good.”

“Uh, thanks.” Your laugh is breathy and alive.

He doesn’t let you move, wanting to enjoy the mess you two found yourself in. Half-removed clothes and a dog who’s begging to come in and see what you’re up to.

Would sex be an upgraded version of this?

“Thank you.” Dex starts, eyes still at the ceiling. “For wanting to be my friend.”

You smile, caressing his cheek so he can look at you, see the care that’s written in your eyes. “Of course. I’d do it all again too.”

“Even the…awkward stuff?”

❀ ── your husband had turned your sex life into something robotic; lights off, two minutes of awkward thrusting, then rolling over to check his phone. that night at the cabin party, the hunter of the yosemite park was there. you didn't even know that was a real job until you met him, and yet shane maguire cornered you like a mouthwatering prey against the wall of the old boathouse. within minutes he had your dress shoved up around your waist, adorable greeny panties yanked to the side and two thick fingers buried deep in her already dripping cunt. "been starving, haven’t you?" he growled against your neck. "poor thing" you came hard on his hand before he even got his cock out.

❀ ── when he finally turned you around and squeezed half of your face, still pretty red and warm, against the wall, he pushed inside you — raw, thick, and relentless —. you had to bit down on his hand in order to keep the party going on outside. shane fucked you like a man, not a husband. he smelled like sweat and like the soft ground after the rain pounding you against the wooden wall until your legs shook and his cum was leaking down your underware.

❀ ── without being able to walk in a straight line or remember your own name, you only had one thing on your mind, and it was shane, shane, shame?

❀ ── days after that unspeakable event, your husband was gone on another work trip. shane, who was keepin an eye on you, didin't knew you were married and he wouldn't even mind. he knocked your door under the excuse of fixing the faucet. ten minutes later he had you bent over the kitchen counter where you served eggs and coffee to your husband hours before, dress rucked up, bare tits pressed against the cold granite. he didn’t bother with foreplay and neither did you. he spat on his cock and thrust in hard, stretching you in one brutal stroke. "so fucking tight," he grunted as he railed you, one hand fisted in your hair as if you were young. the other slapping the fat flesh of your ass hard enough to leave red marks. making you whimper and bite back your moans

❀ ── you did something you couldn't believe it was actually real: you came twice. each one more fucking loud than the other, messy orgasms that soaked his balls before he buried himself deep and pumped full of hot cum. using the hands he had buried in your ribs to lean towards you, pressing his chest against your back and putting a thick arm over your stomach to breathe a little, smelling the hair on the back of your neck

❀ ── "pretty thing" it slipped out of him by mistake, because your home was all soft things: drying herbs in the windows, sun on the floorboards, and a place set for someone to come back to. and his words froze you in place, because you didin't knew if he was talking about the house or you. guilt branched out inside, sealing your lips.

❀ ── it was twisted and horrendous, but the thrill of almost getting caught made you reckless. shane texted you to meet him behind the abandoned mill. and you climbed into his truck and he immediately pulled you onto his lap. no talking. he shoved your laced panties aside and impaled you on his thick cock in one go. but, fuck, you learnt quickly how you wanted to rode him. desperately, tits bouncing in his face while he sucked hard on you nipples and gripped your ass, guiding you up and down, slowing your high a bit. "your husband ever make you this wet?" he taunted with a cocky smile that you hated. you slap him hard on the face and came shuddering around him with your last strength, clenching so hard he groaned and flooded your pussy with rope after rope of cum.

❀ ── what started as "just once" became an addiction. now you crave the way shane acts. the way he chokes you lightly while fucking you, the filthy things he whispers about everything your husband doesn't deserve, how he makes you beg to be filled. you started wearing the lingerie your husband never notices just so shane can rip it off, you buy new bottles of perfume insted of beers, you comb your hair in pretty braids or buns, you even caught yourself smiling at your own reflection sometimes.

❀ ── you always say the night before was the last time. but every time your husband comes home and and sits down on the sofa to turn on the football like another plant, the urge to shake him by the shoulder and yell at him for being so passive with life, turns into sighs full of longing, for a man who is not him.

❀ ── you two rented a cheap room on the edge of town, out of sight of the gossips. and shane spent time devouring you like he trully wanted to do it. he ate your pussy until you were grinding against his face, kicking and trying to push him off by the shoulders. then he smiled at you, naughty and greedy, cleaning his wet lips before flipping you over. you rested in your stomach with a gasp, feeling his big harsh hands running down your legs to position you the way he wanted, fucking you from behind, deep and punishing. he pulled your hair until your scalp stung, slapped your ass, and licked your spinal cord till pecking your sensible spot on the neck. almost crushing you beneath his body.

❀ ── "jessus christ, you’re dripping down my thighs," he grunted. “your husband ever make you this wet?” “shane...,” you gasped, nails digging into his biceps. “shane i love my husband. i do. he’s been my life for years." shane’s eyes darkened with something between lust and pain. he bit her shoulder almost angrily, then slowed, grinding against her clit. “then why does your pussy keep sucking me back in like it’s starving?” "fuck, shane, please" he came inside with a low groan, holding you close afterward longer than he should have, stroking your hair like you were something precious he couldn’t quite have.

❀ ── after, you both waited until you'd regained your composure and had some reheated room service dinner in bed. he made you laugh about something that, at the time, had mortified him in his army years. you told him you'd adopted an orange cat to feel less alone in that house, and he replied, "just like in your dream," in a calm and pleasant way. yes… like that dream you had. you barely even remembered it. but he did.

❀ ── the beggining of the end was on a rainy night. it was pouring outside when he parked his car on your street and you arrived like drops of cold water trickling down the windshield. your husband was home asleep, none the wiser. shane had you straddling him, nightgown bunched at her waist, sinking down onto his thick cock with a wet gasp he swallowed between kisses and licks. “ffuck… you feel like you were made for me,” he growled, hands gripping you hips as he thrust up hard. then softer, almost broken, he couldn't even handle it: “i think about you too much, baby. this ain’t just fucking anymore.” you moaned, riding him slower, tears mixing with rain on the window. “shane… i love my husband. i do. he’s safe. he’s what i always had” but your pussy clenched tighter around him as you said it. shane buried his face between his breasts, sucking hard, and fucked her deeper, almost desperately, like he could erase the memory of your husband from your body. no more words spilled out that night. he came with you with a deep groan, filling you until it leaked down his balls, whispering against your warm skin, "i’m not asking you to leave him… just don’t ask me to stop wanting you either"

❀ ── but will that be the last time? your guilt and your lust whisper to you at the same time.

You, Foggy, and Karen had just left Josie’s Bar to check on Cafaro when the loud crack of a gunshot filled the air and pain hits you from behind. It rips through your right shoulder, taking your breath away before you fully understand what’s happened, as the force of it sends you stumbling forward.

But what made you stiffen was the blood splatter on Karen’s face as you realised that the bullet had exited your shoulder and hit Foggy, who had collapsed onto the ground as people around you screamed in horror, and for a few seconds you froze in pain and panic before adrenaline kicked in and you were moving before your mind caught up.

Yelling for someone to call an ambulance, you press your hands firmly against Foggy’s wound, willing your powers to stop healing you and to heal Foggy.

To keep him breathing, and to keep him stable. To keep him with you.

You were so lost in your panic that you didn’t even notice when Karen put her hands against your shoulder until she pressed down hard enough to make you gasp in pain as she tried to keep as much of your blood where it should be.

“Stay with me.” Her voice broke as each word filled with more panic. “Both of you, please.”

But you don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when you're forcing everything you have into Foggy. Not when you can hear your brother fighting on the roof of Josie’s Bar, knowing that he’s listening to Foggy’s heartbeat, to your blood dripping onto the street.

With your body begging to heal the hole in your shoulder, your vision blurs as you push through the pain, putting everything you have into Foggy. You hadn’t even realised that you'd been repeating the same things over and over.

“Keep breathing. Just keep breathing. Stay with me.”

But the strain keeps building, becoming sharper with each passing moment, when a heavy impact lands behind you three. Your breath catches as your powers flicker for just a moment as you silently pray that you won’t lose them both tonight. Not Foggy and Matt.

Not your brothers.

Breathing deeply, you steady your hands, channel your powers, and check that Foggy is still breathing as the paramedics that have just arrived rush to help before you turn your head and let out a sigh of relief.

Not Matt.

You slouch into Karen's waiting arms, your pain finally catching up with you as you fully turn to look at Benjamin Poindexter on the ground, barely conscious, and as you make eye contact, it happens.

The pleasant burning feeling on your left collarbone. The sign you've been waiting nearly your whole life for.

The sign that you have met your soulmate.

And yours has just shot you.

Breathing deeply, you push the memory out of your mind, reminding yourself that you’re in your apartment tucked away in your warm bed and not bleeding in the arms of your friend.

But the ache is still there, still pinching, and you realise that no amount of gentle rubbing is going to relieve it tonight. Sighing you toss your covers back, slide your feet into your soft slippers to make your way to your kitchen, where you last put the pain relief balm.

Slowly you push yourself to stand, your aching shoulder throbbing in protest as you put on your fluffy robe, fingers brushing against the scar, and take a deep breath.

Checking your clock that reads 1:44 AM, you tighten the robe and step into the hallway.

The apartment is pitch black except as you make your way towards the kitchen, you don’t bother turning on any lights, using the moonlight to help lead you to the balm left on the center island.

Opening it, you gently massage the soothing gel onto your scar, letting out a sigh of relief as you feel it take effect. Placing the lid back on the tin and tucking it into your robe's pocket, you turn back towards the bedroom when the sound of fabrics moving against each other comes from the darkness of the living room.

Slowly you grab a knife from the wooden block and move carefully towards the sound, slippers gently slapping against the wooden floors. Keeping your breathing as quiet as possible, you slowly crept around the corner and quickly flicked the lamp on, flinching at the brightness and nearly dropping the knife when you saw who was sitting on the sofa.

Benjamin Poindexter was supposed to be imprisoned and serving multiple life sentences. Not casually sitting on your new sofa.

Blood darkening the side of his shirt as one of his hands pressed tightly against it, though a slow trickle of blood slips through his fingers. His head lifts the second the light turns on, and for a moment he doesn’t move; he just stares at you with a look in his eyes that you can’t quite place.

For a few seconds, neither of you speak. You just look at him, cataloguing everything that has changed since you last saw him. He’s bigger and bulkier than before, as if he had nothing to do in prison except gain more muscles. You ignore how it makes your heart stutter.

Dex’s eyes flicker briefly towards the knife clutched in your hand, and a smirk appears on his face as he looks you in the eyes. “Are you going to use that?” he asks quietly.

“Why are you here?” Your voice comes out stronger than you expected. “What do you want?”

Soulmate or not, this is still the man who shot you.

Dex’s eyes lower briefly to the blood staining his side. His hand still tightly clutching the wound. “I needed help.”

Then his eyes lift back to yours. “And I wanted to see you.”

Something tightens in your chest because part of you understands exactly what he means.

For a moment you stay where you are, knife still low at your side, eyes flickering once again towards the blood dripping from his hand and staining your sofa.

“You’re staining my sofa,” you say, placing the knife on the shelf, hands more steady than you feel.

Dex tilts his head, eyebrows twitching in confusion. “What?”

“My sofa is brand new, and you’re ruining it.”

“Oh,” he says, finally noticing his blood soaking the cushions. “So I am.”

You exhale slowly, feeling the last bit of adrenaline leave your body. When your brother told you this morning he was going to see Dex in prison, this wasn’t how you expected your night to go.

“Let me see it,” you say.

Dex stills at your words, his hand moving to his ribs, his eyes slightly hopeful.

“Your injury,” you sharply say, face flushing red. “Not that.”

His eyes stay on you for a second before he slowly moves his hands away from his body. Blood immediately gushes through the tear in his shirt, a stab wound from what you could see and probably a few hours old.

You swear softly under your breath. “You should be at a hospital, especially with those face wounds as well.”

“No.” His answer was quick but certain. “Just you, only you.”

You don’t bother arguing as you step closer, removing your robe and setting it below you on the coffee table. He looks worse up close, pale even in the light of your warm lightbulb, and the left side of his face was bruised.

But his eyes never left you, slowly roaming up and down, taking in your light blue PJs, and smirking at your fluffy cow slippers.

“What?” you ask, reaching for the box of medical supplies you kept in the ottoman. Usually you would have used your powers, but tonight you were too tired and drained from helping out at the back-alley clinic your boss ran.

“Fluffy cow slippers?” His amusement was clear in his voice.

“Shut up,” you say, putting all your supplies on the table beside you. “They were a gift from Karen, and they’re very comfortable.”

Dex snorted. “Sure.”

“Are you armed?” you ask, pulling on gloves and sliding to your knees.

“Yes.” He said, spreading his legs to give you more room.

“… Are you planning on using it?” You ask, facing your supplies.

“No.” His answer was quick and certain again. “Not on you, never on you.”

Again. You couldn’t help but think.

“You’re nervous,” Dex says quietly, still watching you, and you begin to wonder if he’s even blinked.

You snort at that. “You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night and are now bleeding all over my sofa.”

“You’re still helping me.” He says like this means something.

You refuse to answer that as you reach for his shirt because deep down it does.

“Lean forwards.” You say quietly.

Dex obeys immediately and you lift his shirt. The movement exposing his defined muscles, and a few inches above the wound in black letters was your name. Unblemished, like he had done everything to protect it.

You freeze slightly at the sight of it, feeling the rush of emotions that happened every time you thought about him. Shaking the feelings away, you grabbed the disinfectant and soaked a gauze.

Silence settled between you as you dabbed at the wound, soaking up as much blood as you could before grabbing a fresh gauze.

“You didn’t come to see me,” he whispered breaking the silence, his eyes leaving you and going towards his blood-soaked hand.

“Don’t,” you say quietly, pressing the alcohol-soaked gauze harder against the wound than intended.

Dex barely reacts as his eyes move back to you. “Don’t what?”

“Talk like this changes anything.” You whisper, grabbing a new gauze to wipe away the remaining blood.

And for the first time since you walked into the living room, something shifts in his expression. Not anger, not hatred, but something you didn’t expect to see on him.

Hurt.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew, but you never came.”

You still at his words because what was there to say? For months you’ve refused to talk about what happened that night, focusing on your family and pushing every thought or feeling about him away.

For months you’ve kept your bond with him to yourself despite how much you wanted to cry and rant to someone about it without being judged or scorned.

You force yourself to keep working, fingers steady despite the sudden tightness in your chest. “Yes,” you say evenly. “I knew.”

The quiet is heavy as it fills the room before you clear your throat, reaching for the needle and thread in the kit. “You need stitches.”

“Sit up properly if you can,” you instruct, pulling all the necessary items closer to you.

Dex watches you for a second longer before pushing himself upright from the cushions, his jaw as he straightens himself up.

“Take the shirt off.” You say, preparing everything that you needed to stitch him up.

Dex drops the blood-soaked fabric onto the table behind you, exposing the full extent of the wound. The weapon grazed more than it pierced, but it still tore enough flesh to make a mess of his side.

Wiping the surrounding area with a fresh gauze, you gently rubbed some numbing cream around the wound and threaded the needle while waiting for it to dry.

“This is going to hurt.” You say, leaning closer towards him.

Dex goes still at your words, his attention once again focused fully on you.

You try to ignore his eyes on you, focusing completely on stitching the wound perfectly and not on how close he was now that you’re kneeling between his legs and leaning against him to get better access to the wound.

“You should’ve had this cleaned hours ago,” you mutter nearly halfway done.

“I was busy.” He answers as his hand gently brushes against your shoulder.

“With?” You ask, eyes still not leaving the wound but not shrugging his hand away.

His eyes scan your face. “Finding you.”

Your hand slips slightly. Not enough to hurt him, but enough for him to notice.

“You already knew where I lived.”

“I wanted to see you.”

There’s that sentence again. So honest, like there was nothing else more important.

Silence settles between you again, broken only by the quiet rattle of paper as you open fresh gauzes and the sound of rain against the windows. Focusing once again on your task, you quickly lose yourself in what is familiar.

Then Dex quietly says, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You tie off the last stitch before grabbing more gauze and soaking it in antiseptic alcohol. “Most prisoners send a letter.”

“I didn't think you’d like letters from me.”

You couldn’t stop your quiet snort.

“Did you think about me?” he says quietly after a while. Hand tightening on your shoulder like the answer to this question could hurt him more than his wound.

You press the gauze against the stitches, cleaning them and the surrounding area. “You were all over the news, quite hard to miss.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He says cupping your face and forcing you to look at him.

His face is blank, but his eyes are looking at you like he’s already decided you belong in his life.

And maybe you did. But it causes that familiar complicated feeling to twist in your chest.

“You shot me,” you say softly before you can stop yourself. “I waited years for you, and you shot me.”

Your confession settles heavily between you, and for the second time that night, Dex looks away.

“I know.” He says his face filled with something you couldn’t place—guilt, maybe.

The apartment smells faintly of antiseptic, rain, and blood. Outside the storm gets stronger.

Inside the living room, neither of you move.

“You’ll live,” you say, taking off your gloves.

Dex looks down at the neat line of stitches crossing his side before his gaze drifts back to you. “I know.”

Standing up, you move all the soiled items aside so that you can toss them in the kitchen bin. “You should go before the numbing wears off.”

Moving back to the table, you pack up the remaining medical items, making a mental note to restock and place them back in the ottoman.

Leaning down to grab your robe, your breath catches as Dex reaches out his hand, gently grabbing your wrist, his thumb gently pressing against your pulse.

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.

“I’m tired.” You say, making no move to pull away.

“You’re drained.” He states.

You almost deny it. But what would be the point? He noticed everything else about you tonight.

“I’ve had a long night,” you remind him.

“And you still helped me.” He states like this means something.

Before you could reply, Dex’s gaze drops to your shoulder. To the scar barely hidden by your shirt. His expression shifts into the same look as earlier.

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” he says honestly. “You moved in front of him so quickly I didn’t have time to stop.”

You look away at his admission, part of you wanting to believe him while the other part wants to shoot him to make it even.

Rain hits the windows harder as you begin to feel it again, that persistent and wanting pull between you becoming tighter the longer he stays.

“You need to leave,” you say quietly.

Dex looks at you for a long second. “Why didn’t you come to see me?”

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. Months of knowing exactly who he was to you, and you’d done nothing.

No visits. No letters. Nothing except pretend the name on your skin didn’t exist.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew where I was.”

You couldn’t force yourself to hold his gaze. Not when you knew what he was really asking. Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you choose me?

But you can’t answer that. Not honestly. Not when the truth was that every day you wanted to see him, to betray your friends and your family just to get a day with him.

“You need to leave.” You say, instead of spilling the truth, pulling your wrist out of his grip.

For a second, you think he might argue. His stare fixed so intensely on you that you almost cave and spill the truth.

Then he stands, pulling his shirt back over his head, and makes his way towards the window. Pushing it open wider, as storm blows cold air and rain into the living room as he tosses one leg out before he pauses and turns to look back at you again.

“I’m going to see you again.” He states.

Then he disappears into the night, and you’re left standing alone in your living room.

Your fingers slowly brush his name on your skin, and you can’t stop the feeling of wanting to see him again.

A/N: This is my first one-shot written so feedback is welcome!

a part of him would try to go back to sleep, ignore his throbbing boner but touching you made it worse, so soft, warm, and you smell so fucking good. just how you did in his dream. the devastating part, is dex has already developed trouble sleeping if he weren't touching some part of you.

so dex shoves his hand down his underwear. actually, i feel like he's the type (especially when he's trying to be sneaky what a loser) to slide his hand through the slit down the front. it sort of constricts his movements, keeps him from stroking himself too fast or get too caught up in the pleasure.

but then minutes pass. dex's heavy breaths turn to sharp, shaky gasps as he moves on from squeezing his cock tip to base to just twisting his closed fist around his tip. he's copying you but his own hands will never compare to how yours touch him with such tenderness even when being punishing and cruel.

his hips twitch, thighs begin to shake and he can feel the bed jerk beneath him but not that burning sensation spreading from his cock throughout his body

your secret weapon— cupping his balls in your hand and pressing your thumb to the space below his cock— doesn't work. his hands are too big. they aren't soft enough. he's expecting it, knows it's going to happen. he's too in control to find the same pleasure he seeks in you.

you, who've been awake since his leaky dick first started to form a slightly uncomfortable wet spot on your sleep shorts, knows this and waits with a shocking amount of patience for dex to come to this realization as well, biting at your lip to stop yourself from jumping his bones every time he catches a pitiful gasp a little too late

and you really think he's got it this time, when you shift slightly because the pooling slick in your shorts is getting a bit unbearable. the idea of getting caught by you, so delicious in dex's brain he has to clasp his left hand around his mouth to say he at least attempted to muffle the hoarse moan that rattled through his chest

dex's legs would squeeze shut, accidently putting pressure on his balls just like you would and the shaky, surprised inhale he nearly chokes on convinces you he would cum like this. next to you in bed, while he thought you were asleep after having a very obvious wet dream that left your nape slightly damp from all his heavy panting.

then the bed stops moving and all you hear for a while is dex's uneven breathing sounding moments away from crying. you feel him move, lean over you and stare for what felt like eternity as if his thoughts alone could wake you up. then — and with less care than he would have used any other night, flop onto his stomach with his arm flung over your waist

his movements were subtle at first, testing to see if he liked the given friction and pleasure. then his tip slips from the waistband of his shorts due to the slick mess of his lower abdomen, slathered in his own pre-cum.

dex's thrust against the mattress become more erratic, every push of his hips driving his cock into the sheets you picked out together brings him closer to you. literally. it isn't until his cock head is trying so hard to wedge itself between your hipbone and the mattress does dex realize the difference.

"as long as he doesn't wake you up." he'd tell himself. you'd never have to know and it'd be a one time thing. you wouldn't want him to go on like this, frustrated, about to burst and it's your fault really. dex was perfectly able to get himself off while watching you, looking at your pictures, videos he may or may not have taken from afar, imagining your face on the porn he rarely watched because he had you.

and you are so wet when he guides himself between your thighs. fucking soaked. god, were you dreaming of him too? was this all still from earlier when he fingered you so good you were the one that was crying?

the memory of cleaning up those salty streaks with his tongue all but digging into your flushed face has him pushing into you faster and dragging kisses on your shoulder despite himself.

he needed to taste you. he wanted your lips on his, to suck your tongue into his mouth, nip at the muscle or your lip or both and hear you hum and have you spit in his mouth

but for now he'll settle for the faint hint of sweat lingering on your skin from one of new york's warmer nights and instead of clinging to your waist for dear life when your thighs shift just as he's bottoming out, dex white knuckles the sheets while releasing short, hot breaths into your shoulder. unaware if the metallic tang on his tongue is from his tears or if he finally drew blood from how hard his teeth dug into his lip

your shorts did nothing but piss dex of every time the soaked fabric caught on his tip instead of your plush thighs. you could tell he was losing his high again when the arm around your waist came down to furiously rub at his slit every time he poked through

he's start whispering, begging, "please please please please—pl-ah! ah ah ah" sighing with a long drag, imagining its you sweet spot he’s nudging repeatedly, not his fingers. begging you or himself to not let his orgasm slip away, neither of you can be sure. hell, dex does even notice he's mumbling until you're slipping your hand beneath the one touching his cock and circle his head in gentler, slower motions.

dex stutters, his frantic incoherent speech, his hips, the grip of his hand that had flown to your thigh the instant he felt your touch. your name slurred with whimpers and shaky gasps is all he knows. that and how your fingerprints feel dragging down the underside of his cock until you pull at his base like you're trying to draw him closer.

and boy, does he try.

now that you're awake, what point in there was hiding or holding back?

his other arm crawls between you and the mattress, underneath your shirt and straight to rolling your nipple between his fingers all the while pulling you as close as he can

wet, messy kisses are sporadically placed up your shoulder to your neck, his teeth barely contained. by the time dex reaches your jaw, he’s not even lifting his head between nipping kisses.

and when he reaches your face, he'd let you nuzzle your nose to his, bask in your sleepy affection before crashing his lips onto yours. when you'd stop him, because you have been holding in everything you wanted to say for the better part of an hour, with two fingers pressed to his lips, he'd kiss them all the same. from your finger tips, down to your wrist, biting at the pulse jumping beneath his tongue and trailing up your neck all over again

The quiet sound of your living room window opening and shutting stirred you from your sleep. The soft pound of heavy boots around your kitchen had you turning over under the covers, eyes cracking open the smallest bit to look over at the clock on his nightstand.

4 am. You let out a small groan, fists lifting to rub at your eyes. You sat up in your bed after a few moments, listening to him shuffle around the living room. The boot steps get closer and your bedroom door opens slowly, his masked head peaking in like he was in a cartoon.

“You awake baby?” He says quietly into the dark room, voice muffled and modulated from his helmet.

“Now i am” you reply back, waiting for his response. However it never comes as he toes off his boots and pulls his helmet off his head, dark hair damp with sweat and clinging to his forehead.

“Jay?” You call out when he doesnt respond, watching his shuffling form at the foot of your shared bed as he rips away at his armour and suit. He shucks it all to the floor, pulling everything off until hes left in his boxers. He takes a step closer to the bed and you raise your eyebrow.

He tilts his head before groaning out and flopping down on top of you, snuggling his wet hair into your stomach and wrapping his big muscular arms around your waist. You smile at him, one hand resting in his hair while the other moves to turn on the light next to the bed.

Soft golden light filters into the room from the small lamp, lighting up the features of his face in front of you. He looks up at you and your hands fall to trace over his cheeks and nose. Theres a new bruise blossoming against his cheek and his lip is busted, dried blood still coating the skin.

“You ok?” You ask softly, looking down at him.He grumbles, shifting on top of you to rest his head more comfortably against your lower stomach.

“Yeah just really fucking tired” he presses his forehead into your skin, strands of his sweaty hair soaking into your tank top and skin. You run your hands through it, pushing it back until the white strand is barely visible amongst his thick black hair.

He reaches over towards his nightstand, long arms aimlessly smacking on top of the surface until he finds his pack of cigarettes, long fingers carefully pulling one out from the pack without even looking. He turns his head sideways, temple pressed against you as he brings the cigarette to his lips and points to the lighter. You pick it up and flick it on, plucking the cigarette from his lips to light it before holding it back out for him.

He gives you a small grin before wrapping his lips around it, taking a drag of it.

“Wanna talk about it?” You try, fingers running down his arms and back, gently massaging the tension from his shoulders. He lets the smoke release from his mouth as he groans, arms flexing before releasing the tension as your hands work over his shoulders.

“‘Ts nothin’ serious, baby” he mumbles into your skin, kissing your lower stomach before taking another drag of the cigarette. He crawls up further on your body, face pressed against your chest as he kisses over your breasts before resting his head on them.

You giggle as you look down at him, getting the last bit of tension from his shoulders out. You gently tilt his chin up to your face, pressing your lips to his gently. He releases a small burst of smoke into your mouth, the dark cloud slipping past your lips and into the air around you.

He shifts up onto one of his arms, the other aimlessly trying to find the ashtray on the nightstand before finally stubbing the cigarette out. His hand moves to your face, cradling it lazily as he kisses you. His smell invades your senses, musky sweat mixed with the freshly smoked cigarette and something so uniquely him it makes your brain fuzzy.

You pull away slowly, smiling back at him when you find a sleepy grin on his face. He leans in kissing along your face and neck and your fingers slip down his shoulders to his arms, tracing along his tattoos and smooth skin.

“Can i make you feel good, Jay?” You whisper into the small space between you both. His kisses stop for a moment and he pulls back, head tilted in confusion.

“You already are, baby. This makes me feel good”

You shake your head, teeth finding your body lip as your hand presses into his shoulder, signalling for him to switch. He complies, rolling off of you and onto his side of the bed. He watches as you climb into his lap, body so warm and pressed against him. Your hair is lightly tousled from sleep, tank top clinging to your curves and pyjama shorts ridding up your thighs. He feels his face heat up just at the sight of you, cock stirring in his boxers.

“I mean like this” you smile, leaning forwards to kiss along his jaw. Your lips travel down his neck and over his chest, peppering small open mouth kisses all along his skin. Your hips press against his, cock fully solidifying as your heat presses against it.

“You dont have to” he starts but you quickly cut him off with a sloppy kiss, teeth dragging against his lip.

“But i want to” you pull away, hands falling to the hem of your tank top to pull it off your head. His eyes immediately fall to your breasts, watching as they move along with you. He leans forwards to kiss them but you push him back down, shaking your head.

“Dont make me tie you up” you tease, a grin spreading across your face.

He laughs at that, cock jumping at the way you purr it out before kissing along his own chest and nipples, sucking one into your mouth.

“Feels nice, baby” he groans out, shifting his hips under yours to grind against you. You smile into his skin, grinding your own hips against his for a few moments before stopping and lifting off him. He looks at you confused, arms behind his head so he could grip the headboard. You sink your fingers into the band of your shorts, pulling them off slowly.

“Yeah? You like this?” You ask, voice breathless and as sweet as honey as you press your lace panty covered pussy back over his bulge. He lets out a small whimper nodding his head, knuckles going white as they grip the headboard, eyes locked onto how your clothed heat drags along his boxers.

He could feel your wetness as it soaks into the fabric of his underwear, driving him crazy. He tries to rut up into you but you place a hand on his chest, shaking your head.

“Thought you wanted to make me feel good, princess. Why we teasin’?” He lets out a small strangled laugh, eyes flicking from your tits to between your legs.

“Say please first” his eyes meet yours and you bite your lip, fingers moving to pull his boxers down. When theyre finally off his cock springs free, smacking gently against his hard abs. They flex against the smack, leaking tip dripping onto his abs. God he was so big and pretty, you wanted him stuffed inside you so bad.

“Please, baby. Wanna make us both feel good” his voice had a slight whine to it as it came out that makes you clench around nothing. You lean forwards, kissing him as you push your panties to the side, reaching between the two of you to drag his cock through your wetness.

He moans into the kiss, head falling back as you sink in slowly. You lean back, giving him a full view as you sink down full onto him, so full of him as his tip kisses your cervix. You hum out at the feeling, watching him with a smile as you lift off slowly before sinking back down, both of you moaning in unison. His head falls to lean on the headboard, eyes tracking all of your body as you moved.

You watched him with just as much intensity, eyes locked on his rising and falling chest, the way his eyes flutter every time you sink back down on him. His lip was pulled between his teeth, copper taste flooding his mouth as he accidentally resplit his lip open. He thrusts up once into you harshly and you fall forwards, hands resting on his chest as you yelp out.

“D-dont do thattt, im supposed to be m-makin’ you feel good” you whine, hand gently hitting against his chest. He laughs beneath you, hips thrusting up again. “Cant help it, princess. Feels too good, doing so well for me”

You hum at his words, hips lazily riding him. One of his hands moves from behind his head down to between your legs, thumb circling your clit. You moan softly, head dizzy as you watch him. You lean forwards to kiss at his bloody lip, licking at it. The copper taste stains your tongue, but you just lift and drop your hips faster. His other hand moves from behind his head aswell, reaching to grab and squeeze at your tits before hes leaning forwards and sucking them into his mouth.

His hand falls to your hip, helping in lifting you up and down as his tongue swirls over your nipple, sucking it into his mouth. He releases it with a wet pop before kissing along the valley of your breasts to the other one, repeating the same actions. His hand grabs at the fat of your ass, squeezing it as he helps you move against him. You moan out as your chin rests in his sweaty hair, his cock filling every inch of you. Every pull out drags along the sweet spot inside of you and every push in hits him against your cervix. The tension is building under your stinky skin, and your fingers dig into his shoulders. Both of your paces quicken as you near the peak, lazy sleepy thrusts becoming hurried as you moan against each other, sounds filling your shared bedroom.

“Jay- ‘m so close, baby” you let out a whiny moan, his thumb working perfectly against your clit. His mouth finally releases your nipple, looking up at you as he nods.

“Making me feel so good, gonna make me cum. Come on baby, be a good girl and do it with me yeah?”

Your eyes squeeze shut at his words and the pressure in your gut finally snaps, cumming on him. You let out a small cry, body locking against his as he fucks you through it, chasing his own high. Both hands grab at your hips now, blunt nails sinking into your plush skin and bouncing you against him as he thrusts into you. Your juices squelch in the hazy room, so slippery and wet for him. His head rests on your shoulder, looking down at how he disappears inside you, small ring of your cum forming at his base and dripping down his nuts making him go crazy. His hips falter and he bottoms out inside you as he cums, filling you up with a harsh groan as he bites at your neck.

It takes a while before you both come down, leaning back on the bed as you rest on his chest, panting out. You shift up, sensitive pussy twitching around him as you move your hips up and off him. Gushes of his cum drip out of you and onto his cock, his eyes locked on the scene as he groans. He reaches over to his nightstand, silently grabbing the towel that he keeps there and uses it to clean up the mess between your legs before wiping his own dick off and tucking it back into his boxers.

“Feeling better?” You ask as you shift to sit on his abs. He nods, tossing the towel onto the floor and pulling you down against his chest. You let out a small yelp before snuggling against him, head tucked against his body. He reaches over for his cigarettes again, bringing it to his lips and lighting it before taking a drag, still leaning against the headboard.

“I love you” he says through a puff of smoke, looking down at you. He takes your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing all over your palm and the back of your hand before moving down your arm. You giggle and gently tug it away.

“I love you too, Jay but we should probably go to sleep” you gesture to the clock which reads almost 6 am and then to the cigarette and the dark bags under his eyes. He pauses for a moment before quickly sucking down the rest of the cigarette before stubbing it out.

“Yeah.. maybe youre right”

He watches your girly shows with him, getting too invested to a point where he is asking to watch more.

A little too overprotective, always watching you. Whether if its from afar while you hang out with your friends or through the cameras he installed around the house.

Watches your friends that he is suspicious of as well, trying to find any flaws about them to soft launch onto you so you cut them off.

Always buys you something wherever he goes. Sometimes its candy from the gas station he stopped at, sometimes its a cosmopolitan magazine he bought alongside of his newspaper.

He gets too shy to ask for it sometimes but loves getting his back, chest, arms scratched. He could lay on your hours at end if it meant he will be getting scratched.

Buys you lilies but cuts away the ‘male’ part so it wont be poisonous to your cat.

Always on urgent shopping duty. No flour left to make cookies? Give him five minutes. Cant sleep because its too hot? He is pulling on his sweats to buy ice cream.

Lets you lick the scar on his cheek, at first it felt kind of funny but now he adores it and lets you do as you please.

Helps with laundry duty, mostly to smell your dirty laundry before separating them in piles.

He hates when you are on your phone too much #oldman so eighter he grumbles when you’re on your phone too much or watches with his head on your shoulder.

He totally prefers physical media too.

Sorry but this man tolerates almost no male friends. And yes, sometimes including male relatives too. He cant help it, he knows how a mans mind works.