⋆˚꩜｡

The door barely clicked shut behind you before Rafe was on you.

No hello. No “how was the trip?” Nothing but his hands—rough, desperate—grabbing your waist and yanking you against him. His mouth crashed into yours, all heat and teeth, while you shoved his suit jacket off his shoulders. Fabric tore. Buttons pinged across the hardwood floor. You didn’t care. Neither did he.

He walked you backward through the foyer, stripping you as you went. Your top ripped open; you heard seams give way. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your skirt and shoved it down with your panties in one rough motion. You kicked them aside, already soaked, already aching for him after weeks apart.

Rafe didn’t even get his shirt all the way off. It hung open, exposing the hard lines of his chest as he lifted you onto the console table. Your back hit the wall. His belt buckle clinked, then his zipper. He shoved his pants down just enough to free his cock—thick, hard, leaking at the tip. No foreplay. No teasing.

He spread your thighs wide, lined up, and thrust in deep with one stretching stroke. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. He groaned low in his throat, forehead pressed to yours, hips already snapping forward. The table creaked under you. Each thrust was punishing, perfect, filling you so completely you couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. All that could be heard was the wet slap of skin, your broken moans, and his ragged breathing.

Your legs locked around his waist. He fucked you harder, one hand around your throat, the other gripping your ass hard enough to bruise. Sweat slicked between your bodies. Your back arched, pussy clenching around him as pleasure coiled tight and vicious in your core. Rafe’s rhythm faltered for half a second. His lips brushed your ear, voice wrecked and low.

“I missed you.”

Benefits can come in all forms

a/n: I’m back…? Exams season is officially over, you guys don’t know how bad I suffer but i survived ayyyy. Anyways I hope you enjoy it cause my writing needs a little training :D! (Requests are open!)

warnings: angst(-ish?), p in v, oral (f!receiving) , rough sex, unprotected sex, they’re sexually starved.

Good gosh, did it feel so good, his head underneath your skirt, his mouth devouring your cunt, his tongue flicking your clit. Your fingers intertwined with his curls, and your back arching. You were almost there, and he knew it.

“Fuck Patrick!” You fall back onto your desk; it’s messy, objects are falling to the floor, and you could swear you heard your mug fall and break. Patrick grabs your hips even tighter, making sure you’re not going anywhere as he keeps sucking on your sensitive spot.

“Shit! Shit! Shi-” your voice cracked, and there it was. You came undone all over him, but that didn’t stop Patrick from continuing as he made sure to lick your soaked cunt before standing back up.

“Holy smokes.” he says, out of breath, with a cocky smile creeping across his face as he pulls your legs closer to the edge. He leans in to kiss you. It’s rough, you both fight to slide your tongues into each other’s mouths, and you can taste the whiskey mixed with the bitterness of your cunt on Patrick’s tongue.

30 minutes earlier…

“Make sure the new tournament’s regulations are sent for tomorrow morning.” You sigh. “I’ll send it tonight; I just need your signature here,” your assistant replies as she hands you a copy.

If you had known becoming a board member of the I.T.F (International Tennis Federation) would be so exhausting, you might’ve had reconsidered the offer. It’s your first tournament as an official member, and all the pressure is on your shoulders.

You glance at your watch, 10:37pm. You rub your eyes before sighing, “you should probably go home and get some rest… no need to be here at 8, I’ll be here at 10 tomorrow.” Your assistant looked even more exhausted than you, which made you feel guilty.

Once your assistant left your office, you leaned back in your chair and closed your eyes. Silence, at last. You'd been rushing all day, and now it was finally time to relax. But just as you were about to drift off to sleep, you hear a knock.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but he begged me to let him in,” your assistant quickly says before Patrick pushes his way in. “Missed me?” Patrick asks. You stand up and can’t help but smile. “Patrick? What are you- uhm, it’s fine. Olivia, you really can go home now.” You send your assistant home and walk over to hug Patrick.

“Have you seen what time it is? How did you even know I was here? An-and you said you wouldn’t be here until next week, what happened?” You don’t even let him answer as you keep rambling with questions. ““How are you, Patrick? It’s been so long, Patrick!” Is what you should say.” He cuts you off before walking to your mini bar to serve drinks for the both of you.

He walks back and hands you your drink before the two of you sit down on opposite sides of your desk. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect to see you so soon, but what brings you here?” you apologize before taking a sip of your drink. “It’s alright, it’s just that things got complicated and I started to miss so you know…” That’s when your brows furrowed.

He wouldn’t admit it, not because his ego was way too high but because he was ashamed. “By complicated, you mean your loss against Donaldson?” you hint. “There’s no need to beat a dead horse, alright? But yeah, that happened, and… that’s actually why I’m here tonight,” he replies.

Confusion flashes across your face. "What? Why?" Patrick stands up. "Well, we’re friends, right? And friends are here to help each other out, or in our case, fuck each ot—" realization dawns on your face.

“Just get to the point, Patrick,” you cut him off. “Let me register for this tournament." He asked. "What? You’re joking, right?” You started laughing but Patrick’s expression was far from a joke, which makes you stop. “You know I can’t do that, and you're full of shit if you think I’m gonna risk my job for you again. I haven’t forgotten what happened last time.” You add.

Patrick stands up and walks over to you before setting his weight on your desk. “Listen, I know I fucked up last time and I’m sorry that you had to take responsibility for me but i need to get in this tournament, it’s my last chance to play and you know it.” He leans forward, his gaze is stern and you could tell he was more than serious.

“What you mean by that, is that it’s your last chance to play against Donaldson but you know damn well that you still have time” you say before standing up to match his height. “Come on sweetheart don’t do this to me, this time it’s really my last chance to beat him.” He wraps his arms around your hips bringing you closer to him.

“That’s exactly what you said 2 years ago and last year but this year I can’t risk-“ you get cut off. “You won’t risk anything, just trust me one last time” you wrap your arms around his neck and as you look into Patrick’s eyes, you could tell how genuine he was this time.

“What do I gain from this? And don’t bullshit me.” You knew damn well what you were getting. You could see Patrick face light up with a subtle smile as he hears your question. “We’ll go on vacation.” Oh? That’s not exactly what you thought he was about to say but it was even better. “Where ?” You reply. “Anywhere. As long as you let me play this tournament. I’ll take care of everything and you won’t have to worry about anything.”

“I’ll have to think about it.” You smiled. Patrick scoffs as he pulls you even closer, your faces now only a few inches apart. “You’re torturing me right now.” He whispers, and you could feel his breath cooling over your neck. “Isn’t this the point of our little arrangement?” You close your eyes feeling more and more sensitive to this feeling.

Patrick traces a path of hot kisses on your neck, slowly coming up to your mouth. You take hold of the back of his neck as you both deepen the kiss. Patrick lifts you before switching positions and sets you on your desk. The kiss quickly turns into a heavy make out session and you could feel the temperature rising with the warmth of Patrick hands roaming over your body.

30 minutes later…

Patrick quickly unbuckles his belt and drops his pants, followed by his boxers. He pushes into you unexpectedly, causing you to gasp. “Oh—” your moan is cut short as Patrick rips your blouse, revealing a lacy white bra. You could see Patrick's pupils dilating as his hands travel from the center of your chest up to your neck.

You feel his grip tighten slightly as he starts to push into you. He’s not holding back, and you can definitely tell. “Fucking hell,” Patrick moans. Just the sight of his expression makes you whimper. His lips are slightly parted as he tries to catch his breath, his brows furrowed, and his eyes are fixed on yours.

You back arches as Patrick fastens the pace, hitting that sensitive spot harder. Both of your moans are combining, making music with the cracking noise of your desk. “Patrick I won’t hold any longer” you whine. Patrick grabs your hips and pushes himself deeper into you, causing your eyes to roll back. “Shit I’m almost there.” He replies.

You grabs onto the border of your desk, pushing more objects on the floor. You suddenly feel a strong wave of pleasure as you feel Patrick’s finger on your clit. You don’t even get time to warn him that you let out a loud deplore. As your orgasm continues to reach his peak Patrick desperately keeps thrusting into you as he reaches his own peak before coming to a complete stop as he moans into your ear.

You both are out of breath, staying still in the moment. The room gets quiet as your breath settles, Patrick kisses you one last time before removing himself and straightens your skirt. He pulls his pants back as you sit up do the same with your blouse.

“I’ll place a word in,” you reluctantly say. Patrick smiles, grabs your face, and kisses you. You quickly stop, “but I can’t promise you anything,” you try to hold your smile. “That’s more than enough for me, sweetheart,” he replies, eyes on your lips before kissing you again.

🏷️ : @spookyfunhottub / @glassmermaids /@tchalametishot / @stsrfujid / @lilahthedoll @sweetnastybunny / @hrtshapedblg / @pinkglitterpuss69 / @allaboutstarkycameron /@itsmadamehydra / @valevv30 / @ilyjune / @spideysimpossiblegirl

Click here to join the taglist !

hear me out:

dex with reader who’s equally crazy mr. & mrs smith type shit, he’s still in fbi and finds out his da assistant wife is actually a red room widow or something like that it’s been cooking in my head and i needed to share that idea

they go on assignments/missions together, indulge in craziness then each other 😏

the person who tips him off is definitely like matt or fisk, and at first dex is so infuriated that something like this was kept from him — by his wife of all people.. like he doesn't also have his own skeletons.

once he's over that.. mm mm MM! relationship is never better, they both feel more free with each other than they have their entire lives. he adores seeing his wife fight, get bloodied and sweaty and that spark in her eyes she saves for destruction and dex. he'll rarely interfere with her own battles; he's so confident in her abilities and there's just something about it that gets him going..

the dance the two of them do when fighting together is number one on dex's things he would kill for. they match each other so deftly, like they're on a stage and the spotlight is on the two of them, a golden buzzer ringing in dex's head.

he is elated he no longer feels he has to hide a part of himself from his wife. he feels on cloud nine that she can match his freak, that the two of them can indulge each others darker sides and come together in their own light.

and of course, he knows now his wife isn't as innocent or gentle or fragile as he may have once believed... so he's ten times rougher in bed! 😇 naturally his wife's thought process is the same.. new and exciting kinks are introduced so quickly into their sex life any normal person would call a psych ward for them! (the neighbors do complain a lot about the noise, now..)

my girl, he introduces you to colleagues sometimes. my perfect baby, he breathes into the space between you at night, sweat-slicked chest pressed to yours. so good to me, for me. in the mornings, while cooking breakfast: my pretty girl sleep well? mine, mine, mine.

and then, other nights, he's begging you to say it back, pleading for you to acknowledge that he belongs to only you, pressing your hands to his neck 'til your fingers wrap around it and euphoria fills his veins and you lean down to kiss him and call him yours. when he's bored, maybe at the checkout queue in the grocery store, or waiting in his car at a red light, he presses kisses to each of your knuckles, murmuring something against them you never quite seem to catch—i'm yours. my benjamin poindexter, you say once, in passing, and he's always hated his name, but he's just so flustered, cheeks flushed the prettiest pink, and just this one time, just this once, he might be okay with it.

or he overhears you talking to your friends when he's working in the other room—he doesn't mean to, really, he's just attentive, a good boyfriend—and you say you don't know how you got so lucky; you don't deserve your beautiful boy, and his brain short-circuits, because how dare you say that first part, and what did you call him? you don't make the correlation, though, that night, when he's somehow even more devoted to you than usual, telling you how obsessed with you he is, his gorgeous, gorgeous girl. must be a little pent up, you think, but you don't know how wrong you are.

after the events of s3 you don't expect him to come home, of course not. who walks out of that?

your boyfriend, apparently. much stronger than the last time you saw him, twice as built—you don't know what to expect from ddba!dex. he's obviously different, because that shit back there changes you, and not always for the better, right?

and yes, he's still your boyfriend, whether you're single or dating someone or you have a ring on your finger—not that it matters much, because if there is someone, he'll take care of them before he comes back home to you. neither of you will have to worry about them anymore.

and you're his girl, after all; even if you're scared or horrified or disgusted by his actions, you'll find yourself completely uncaring by the end of the night, when he's holding you in a headlock, firm bicep pressing into your airway and his chest pushed up right against your back. you're in tears, overwhelmed by everything you're feeling, everything you know is wrong (he's an escaped convict, for heaven's sake), and his breathless words are low and urgent in your ear—who do you belong to, c'mon, say it, that's right, my good girl—

and maybe he's a little scared that you'll still leave him after this, maybe he's gone too far. but you're lying under him, boneless, and his arms are braced on either side of you, and you push yourself up on your elbows (with considerable effort) and say, if he's still really yours, won't he kiss you again? and he smiles the biggest he has in a while, because he knows he won—and with you, he always will.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᐟᐟ ೨౿ ⠀ ⠀ 𝐝𝐞𝐱'𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 . ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

dex always takes such good care of his things. his apartment is clean and organized: clothes ironed and displayed on hangers, kitchen cabinets sorted in alphabetical order, a rotating list of chores on a magnetic whiteboard atop his fridge. the likes. his pretty, perfect girlfriend is of no exception. he memorizes her self care rituals, restocks her used beauty products, even goes as far as to assist with them when needed. she belongs to him, and so she’s taken care of. mostly in practical ways. 

for example, he organizes her undergarments by color and size. pink g-strings, pink thongs, pink briefs, pink boyshorts, followed by, purple g-strings, purple thongs, purple briefs — he’s a man of consistency. and perhaps one of the three people in the entire world who truly wash each article of clothing according to the label. she’d thrown a sequined mini dress in with her soft linens once. laundry was no longer on her chore list after that. 

then, there’s the less practical ways… like the time where she stumbled and landed on all fours against the rough sidewalk. the girl might as well have been speaking an ancient form of greek, each word falling on deaf ears as her boyfriend locked the front door and stripped her naked four steps from the entrance. he’d checked for scratches and aches despite her repeatedly reassuring him that she was perfectly fine. it would have been romantic had she not shoved his hand from her hip, preventing his reaction of gripping her throat, voice heavy with the grit of effort from controlling his volume, “stay. fucking. still.”

but, it isn’t his fault. there’s only so much passion the human body can hold, and the amount of love in his body for his sweet, sweet babygirl floods from his being, completely uncontainable. he can be romantic, too. neither does all mess bother him. he isn’t off put by her drooling down her chin as he curves his cock just right every single time, or the shape of his hands against her ass. the same man whose world trembles on its axis after a tiny fall shows no hesitation in pressing his large hand against her throat, basking in the softening of her moans as she all but fades, only to release her neck in time with a slow, deep thrust. a euphoric breath in, air filling her lungs while he fills her.

he doesn’t mind every mess, no. some, like the mix of spit on their lips as he kisses her, or the sticky spots and puddles on the sheets are signs of a job well done.

⠀ ⠀

He stalks you because he's possessive the way a dog resource guards. You are highly valuable to him and he knows if he doesn't bare his teeth you will be easily stolen from him. He's insecure as fuck and is needy and desperate and entirely pathetic. He barez his teeth, barks, he bites, but kick him and he rolls over on his back as submissive and complacent as a puppy

the dex 1x08 swiffer video has now been found in good quality!