yellow

And you slip on fuzzy slippers as soon as your feet are about to hit the cold linoleum, you need a new pair.

He knew the scruff of them against the floor before he ever stayed over for the first time.

Then through your living room window with half broken blinds, while you grab something quick from the pantry to take for lunch where you probably won’t have time to eat it anyway, and start coffee on the Keurig. You always pick the same three mugs throughout the week. And the same K cups, at that.

He already knew your favorites.

And still, at 7:30 am when you pull out of your driveway in a 2007 bucket that he’s changing the oil for next weekend - watching, not necessarily waiting - but learning.

And yeah, you know that the shadow is your boyfriend of seven months, eighteen days, and seventy two hours.

It should be horrifying, right?

It should be uncomfortable to the fullest, most exposed extent. It should make you feel a dread that rots in your insides and comes out in broken sobs - it should scare you to the bone marrow.

And the fact that it doesn’t, that it hasn’t, that it probably never will, is the scariest and most concerning part for you to accept. To truly acknowledge at all.

Because in all honesty, Dex is devoted to you in a way you’ve never known here on this physical earth. He knows the basics, knew them before you even said them out loud, of course.

Your favorite color? Favorite food? Movie, television show, favorite type of fabric to buy your sweaters in because the wrong kind makes you itch? Too fucking easy. He couldn’t fathom why no one else had ever taken the time to get to know you like this.

And then the intricacies - god, down to the most insignificant, trivial tick of the corner of your mouth has taught him what you like and don’t like. A sound you make through your nose can tell him how you’re feeling, like you’re an open paged book and he’s memorized every single paragraph to most infinitesimal detail.

And he does it with little to no effort. Like this ability to know a person is engrained in him, trained in him.

You know about the dark parts of Ben, the ruins and the slaughter and the unrelenting cycle of not being good enough that his mind feeds through the cogs of his brain. That he’ll lose everyone he loves, and it’ll be his fault. At the heart of it, though, he was just dealt an unfair hand. It should’ve never happened to him, any of it.

And maybe that’s why it’s never bothered you. Because the need to be adored, devoured, consumed for your every movement, your every expression, - yeah, that’s why you go to therapy. And truthfully, it might not ever work in this specific category - loving Benjamin.

Because a lot of things never made sense to you before him. All this love wrapped tight inside of you, no one to give it to who didn’t absolutely demolish it, throw it away and act like none of it mattered even if you made sacrifices that stripped everything away from you, your skin and bones. He loved you in a way that split you open and had the most vulnerable parts of you spilling out, and he’d lap it up like it’s what made him strong.

Like it’s what made him whole.

You can cradle his face with an open, gentle palm and he acts like you’re a god, like you’ve exonerated him from any bad he’s ever done and any evil he’s been subjected to. Like you’ve saved him and nothing ever mattered before you and nothing will matter after you because you’re it for him.

You promised you’d wait at his apartment while he was out, that you’d lock the door and do nothing but relax. The fridge has stuff you eat daily, and honestly - you don’t know how he doesn’t realize that it’s impossible for you to not notice that he knows things about you that he only had to have seen while watching you from his car and peering through your window blinds from a yard away with his binoculars.

But he’s so in love it hurts, how could he notice anything else? Taking care of you is what matters. Right now it’s the only thing that matters.

His apartment is neat. It’s not a love letter to himself, more so a confession to how badly things plague him. The need for everything to have a certain spot, the cleanliness. Even the lack of stuff that makes it feel lived in, it never felt like a home until you were in it.

He thinks about that often. He comes home and fuck, everything smells like you. He can feel your warmth in the air where you’ve just walked, where you’ve just lied down. It’s a reminder that you’re real. That you’re here. With him, of all people you could choose and love.

He knows it’s wrong, to do what he does, to follow you around like a lost puppy - but he likes to think of himself as more of a guard dog. The world is cruel, is terrifying - the things that it does to people like you. Beautiful, a heart that aches with goodness, a voice so tender it could make a grown man cry.

It’s fucking insane. And you know that, but it doesn’t actually matter when you’re in this deep, when you’re this in love in mind, body, and spirit.

It’s all consuming. Rationale is forgotten, doesn’t exist.

However, his couch is really comfortable, and your blanket from your own apartment is fluffy and big and swallows you whole and - the rain outside is pattering against the window with just enough force to lull you to sleep while you started mindlessly scrolling on your phone - tv on for the extra company, another voice so you didn’t feel so alone while he’s out.

Falling asleep, don’t worry the door is locked. I love you Ben

Sent two hours ago, and he’s still staring at it periodically. Even when he pulls up to his building and checks his surroundings, when he’s walking upstairs and stares down both hallways of his floor, and then unlocking the door gently so that the noise doesn’t rouse you - locking it back with tentative fingers.

Every time he hears you say it, every time he sees it in writing it stuns him. Deep, behind his navel, knocking at his ribcage - it makes him feel like a real person again. If you can love him, what can’t he do? It makes him feel like he’s floating.

And he’s home, home cause you’re in it, and really you wouldn’t even know that there’s a person underneath the mass of fluff that’s on the sofa, but he knows it’s you. He feels your warmth from all the way over here, your presence.

He slips his shoes off and places them in their designated area, slides his black jacket from broad, strong shoulders and hangs it on the rack behind the door.

His big socked feet are quiet as a mouse against his floor, he wants to soak this up. Seeing you in such a peaceful state, and being right here with you and it not be a terrible and dirty thing that he’s doing. Cause you’re his girlfriend, in his apartment, and boyfriends come home and admire their partners sleeping. It’s normalcy. He never thought he’d find anything close to it.

You feel his weight dip the couch, but you’re still in a dream like state - so a soft hum reverberates in your throat as acknowledgment. Until you feel a warm, calloused hand cover the side of your face, a thumb softly stroking your cheek that isn’t squished against the arm of the sofa.

You lean into it, nuzzle against his palm and it’s then that your eyes flutter open. He’s a blurry image of dirty blonde hair and big, curious hazel eyes and a white dress shirt that’s hugging his body a bit unfairly. And then you blink again, and he’s perfectly tangible. You smell a peppery cologne and something sweet, almost smells like your perfume.

“Benji,” you yawn before leaning in to kiss his wrist. “you’re home. You look so beautiful.”

You pretend not to notice the shudder that ripples through him, the way his lips twitch and a sweet smile starts to spread across his face. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he does, but there’s still a hesitancy because he’s still worried about scaring you off with his excitement towards you.

A simple fucking nickname anda compliment has him hooked, heart racing. How could he ever admit that?

There’s an intense blush beginning to burn his face cause you say it like it doesn’t destroy him to hear it. Like it doesn’t get blood pumping through him at an alarming rate.

“I uh - fuck you threw me off with that,” he laughs, and you chuckle back, starting to stroke his bicep over his shirt. He swallows hard, and you’re getting severely distracted. He just got home.

You act like complimenting him is the most casual thing in the world, cause it is to you.

“Good nap? You go anywhere?” His voice is curious despite the shake, and he’s getting distracted too because you’re still clinging to his thick forearm and holding it against your chest. He feels a thousand nerve endings firing at once.

You let go and his heart drops to his stomach for a split second like he’s done something horrible - till you’re opening your arms, lifting your abnormally heavy blanket and silently inviting him to climb on top of you. In the safety of your fortress.

One heartbeat is all he waits, then he’s maneuvering his tall, bulky body to lay on you. He knows you like the weight, but he’s still careful, slotting his torso between your thighs and arms on either side of your waist while his cheek finds comfort on the plush of your chest.

Your fingers find his scalp and you’ve disarmed him completely. You feel his muscles relax, melt into you. He’s so hot to the touch, so whole and complete. He’s almost forgets that he asked you a question, a really important one at that.

And like the symbiotic being you two have become, you practically read his mind.

“You know I didn’t go anywhere honey.”

His head rises and falls with your breaths, and you feel his heartbeat against your sternum. It’s starting to thud, and you’re not sure if it’s from the proximity, which never ceases to be intensely flattering for you, or because of your statement. It was blasé enough to not be obvious.

“I wouldn’t know, was out all day.”

It’s cute, because if you didn’t know it would be so convincing. And you know, you know that the lie is to protect himself. And to protect you from himself. From the truth about his obsessiveness, his inability to be fucking normal about anything for even a second.

His inability to have you out of his sight, because how else do you cope when anything, everything good has been taken from you? When the world has shown you nothing but selfishness and leaving and forgetting and confirming the fact that he’s just unlovable.

You sit with this for a second, toying with the golden strands on his head, feeling the softness wisp through your fingertips. Your legs lift and they’re wrapping themselves around his torso, a cage, a sanctuary. He hums, so deeply you feel it vibrate against your chest.

“Thought the tracker on my phone was one of the best on the market?”

God, maybe you’re evil for it. But you need to get this out of the way. You sound so innocent when you say it too, like it hasn’t caused him to completely stop breathing for a solid ten seconds. Like his body hasn’t tensed ten fold, and his heart hasn’t started pounding inside of him.

It feels like the world stops. Or maybe it’s been turned on its axis and he’s falling off it finally. At first he thinks his sick mind and his trained ears have failed him, you couldn’t possibly have said what he thinks you said, right?

There’s no way. He is smart, careful, more careful than he’s ever been because you’re the most important person in his life.

He starts shaking, it starts from his hands like a tremor in his bones and spreads to his body like a wildfire in dry brush. You’re starting to shake with it, hands still steady in his hair, scratching his nape gently. You feel his Adams’s apple bob against you when he swallows, hard.

“W-what’d you just say?” He’s out of breath, like he’s run a marathon with no water and no break. Your heart starts to ache like an open wound for him, the fear he must be feeling.

“Let’s sit up, Dex, hmm?” You say it gently, like you’ll ruin him if you raise your voice any louder, if you let even a hint of annoyance bleed into your tone.

He’s weak in the arms, the knees, the torso. You move to scooch upwards and then he’s moving, freed from the cage of your legs and he instantly turns away, runs a big hand through his hair and over his face and starts anxiously rocking himself with his elbows on his knees. It’s just slight, the beginnings of what you know to be a massive panic attack.

“I don’t know - I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You feel sick when he stands up, starts pacing back and forth back and forth back and forth. You can’t imagine, fully, what it’s like to be in his head right now. What it must mean for him that you know, expecting the absolute worst. A catastrophe, his world ending, a person he would just have to let you go cause he would never harm you in any realm or reality that exists. He’d have to take it. To bear it.

God, it feels like his body is on fire, and you’re just watching patiently, waiting for him to tell any semblance of truth.

His face and neck are so red, you hear the hiccups of a breath not being caught - and then with each pace and glance of his pretty face you get, you see the wet streams cascading down his cheeks, the furrow of his eyebrows, the pulse in his throat.

You can’t let him be alone in his head.

“Ben, I’m not leaving,”

He inhales deeply, exhales, finally. But the panic in his body is still there - wrecking him, unfolding him. He still can’t look at you. He feels too guilty. In fact, he turns his back to your completely, clutching at the back of his neck.

“come here, please? Just come to me, baby.”

You could kill him, you really could, and he’d let it happen. He’d help you shove the knife right through his scarred chest, no questions asked, and he’d know with certainty that was his salvation of the gentlest kind.

But your voice is so soft, you sound so worried. He’s so confused, so hurt by so much at once - like reality has punched him square in the jaw, and when he turns around, you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone so sad. So defeated.

You could cry, really. You didn’t know someone could still be so stunning when they’re falling apart. And you have this aching, gnawing urge to make it all better.

He moves like a dog who’s been hit his whole life, like he doesn’t know why you’re being so gentle, so kind. It’s confusing him in a way that he’s never been confused before - and usually his emotions are reoccurring, deep and visceral wounds that have been there since he was a little boy and have just gotten ripped open again and again.

So this is new, and it’s got him trembling fiercely.

His long legs are unsteady when they saunter towards you, like he’s just now learning how to walk.

But then he’s right in front of you, big and tall and wilting like a sunflower when it’s overcast, and he doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what else to do, so he drops to his knees with a heavy clunk against the hard wood floor. Cause if anything holy exists, you’re it. And he’ll do whatever he needs in order to be saved.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.” His voice is shattered, tears getting caught in his throat, words clipped by hiccups yet again. His face has contorted to a pained expression that makes your lungs feel tight.

You reach out, and his brain is pure static. You’re holding him by his hot, tear soaked cheeks, pulling his head up so his glassy red eyes can meet yours. His pink bottom lip is trembling, and you make a sound close to a cry but softer than a whimper - cause it breaks your heart, badly.

“Shhh, shh, don’t cry baby,” you wipe his face with your palm, move his sweat soaked blonde hair from his forehead. You scoot to the edge of the couch so that he’s right between your legs, peering up at you like he’d let you do something horrible to him.

“I’m here, I haven’t left. I’ve known the whole time and I’m here, don’t you understand? I know why you do it, Ben,”

He’s hanging on to every word with rapt attention, and your voice alone has soothed the onslaught of tears - now he’s just observing like he always does, trying to understand. You feel his fingers picking at the legs of his sweatpants that you’re wearing, a nervous tic. Then he’s gripping your calves to steady himself.

You place a flat palm against his solid chest. It’s like he’s connected to earth again.

“No one’s ever protected me like this, like you have. What we have, it’s so different. You feel it, right? Just wish you would’ve told me sooner, but I’m not mad, Dex. Everytime I’m at work and feel your eyes on me - cause I know that they’re there, I feel it like it’s pulling at my ribs, and I know I’m safe. Do you get it?”

You keep your hand there, worried that his heartbeat hasn’t gone down - but the softening of his expression, the surrender, it soothes your ache. He looks dizzy, but calmer. He places a hand on top of yours, firm and tight and presses it harder against him like he wants it inside his skin.

“Sometimes I don’t think you’re real. How? How? How did you find me? Please stay, please. I love you. I love you.”

It’s said quietly, desperately like despite the fact that it’s only the two of you in the room, someone might hear. He’s getting flushed and frantic again, and you don’t know what else to do to show him.

You lean down, just a little cause that’s the only proximity you need with his height on his knees, and press your lips to his wet, swollen mouth.

A broken sound echoes in his throat, and you swallow it whole. Consume it like it never even happened, and then you cup the back of his neck, start working the top lip and then the bottom, till your warm tongue finds his as it’s peeking out to greet yours.

He tastes salty and desperate and sweet and real and you wish you could bottle it up and keep it forever. His nose rubs against yours with the movements.

Normally you’d take more time, kiss every bit of scarred skin like it’s to be worshipped and suck bruises over his carotid artery but you don’t have time. You need him to know, you need him to feel the way you want him.

“I love you, Dex. I love you too.”

He’s got both hands on your thighs now, still and unmoving for all intensive purposes but his fingertips are pressing into you like he’s scared you’ll just dissipate in front of him.

He’s lost, lost in the way you’re kissing him like you haven’t in years, lost in the way that you’re massaging the back of his head while you do it, and he’s making noises that are so petulant. It’s like he physically can’t help it, the hard exterior wasting away at your feet. He kills people, literally murders them, and yet he’s a mess in the arms of the person he loves. He’s nothing but flesh and bone and a soul lit on fire.

“Stand up for me.” You ask, and though your demeanor is urgent, your tone is soft. He complies with a wobble, till he’s towering over you again and staring down with kiss bitten lips and big, imploring eyes.

You follow suit, doing your best to pretend like you’re not already intoxicated by desire and love and all the other things that have dopamine receptors firing in your brain, telling you that you need him inside and all over - placing your hands on his sturdy shoulders, gripping the tense, thick muscle there and resisting the urge to nibble, to pry, to cover in bruises that you’d suck into his skin with your mouth.

You guide him with an urgent touch to the couch where you were just sat.

If he didn’t want to, you wouldn’t be able to push him on the couch cushion of course. He’s got a solid build, an intimidating build that’s been made this way for battle and combat and brawling and eliminating.

But he does it anyways, for you. Let’s his knees buckle and his backside hit the softness because his need for you is like a wild animal trying to claw its way out. Vicious, starving.

You’re enraptured in the worst way, too. Being able to take care of him, to have him in this way despite all the confessions and painful realizations of the night. He’s just a man when you go to crawl on top of his thick lap, with unsteady hands that hesitate before they touch you, shaking at the side of his face thick thighs like he’ll break you in half with his fingertips if he makes another move.

But your weight is so comforting in top of him, it’s a reminder that you haven’t run away, told him he’s disgusting, a freak of a human being, unworthy of anything let alone love and touch like this.

“You can touch me, please, I’m yours. I’m yours, Dex.”

He whimpers when his mouth reconnects with yours, uses his hands to hold your waist firm against him, until his strong arms are pressing you flush to his trembling body and he can feel the outline of your hardened nipples through your shirt and the warmth of your sex between his thighs.

It’s like a dream. He can’t fathom it, not viscerally.

And he tries not get greedy, really, but you’re starting to grind yourself against his lap - spurred by the hardening, thick length that’s suffocating in his dress pants and pressing against your crotch. And your mouths are still going at it, smacking together in a symphony of lewd and loud noises in the quiet room. Not even the incoming storm could quiet the noises you’re making.

“Let me take care of you,” you plead, breaking free from his tongue and finally kissing across his handsome face, his high cheeks and his aching temples, then his neck. He cranes his chin upwards, giving you access with breathy pants.

“need this shirt off.” You mumble, moving his collar to try and get his collarbones with your tongue. He helps you, deft and nimble fingers starting to hastily undo the buttons, shakily but expertly. Each sliver of skin revealed is such a reward, it has your pupils dilating and you don’t notice that you’re slack jawed like he is, too.

Once it’s done he sits forward to slip it off his shoulders, struggling just a little because of the position - you’re afraid he’s gonna rip the garment all together, but with your help it’s slipping from his wrists finally and being tossed to the floor.

You can’t hide your expression, the awe and the desire and the inability to grasp that it’s all yours to touch. He sees it, feels it, smells it on you. It makes him feel like a wild animal, completely feral.

Now he’s tugging at the hem of your shirt, with a look that says hey, not fair. You pull it off and toss it along with the steadily growing pile of clothes - and it’s his turn to be in awe, to look at you like he’s never seen a woman naked in his life. Your tits are perfect, nipples hard and swollen and he can’t help but to cup the fat in his big palms and lean in to nip at the flesh.

You yelp, but it’s followed by a whimper and pushing your chest towards his face and mouth further. You can feel the light blonde scruff that decorates his face, barely there but it’s scratching the surface of your skin deliciously.

He sucks bruises, too hard for submission, but too sweetly for complete dominance. He revels in the fact that no one will see these but him, your little secret. A shared moment of intimacy that exists between only you two. It makes his stomach fill with heat.

And then he’s taking your nipples into his mouth while you’re pawing at his abdomen, admiring the taut tension of muscle there, and over his firm chest and then down bulging biceps and - he feels too good already.

He’s lost in how pretty the hardened buds look covered in his spit, gleaming in the setting sun that bleeds through his curtains, or how you’re mewling against him, not even realizing he can feel you pulsing against him - a live wire.

“Dex, pleaseeee.” Your whine is a song, sweet and high and satisfying and mind boggling. You’re begging for nothing specific, but he knows the feeling. Knows exactly what it is you need. It makes his balls tense with the urge to fill you completely. But he needs retribution, he has to be patient.

He’s sucking harshly, haphazardly because he doesn’t know what else to do. It’s all his body can generate, this visceral desperation that’s seeping out of him in perspiration and precum in his pants and glistening tears in his eyes.

He moves from one breast to the other, till you’re covered in hickeys and saliva and sin. You’re grabbing at his locks, pawing at his back, scraping red stripes over scars and freckles.

His eyes are closed, so he doesn’t see it but he feels it when you reach between the warmth of your bodies to paw at his dick. To grip the hardened shaft where its slanted to the right and threatening to burst from his waistband. It’s tight and rough through the fabric, and he has to press his forehead against your sternum to steady himself when you rub him up and down. He can’t get a breath in.

“Ohhh, baby, baby.” He slurs, gripping your waist like a vice.

“I need to feel you,” you mewl back, thankful for the tremble in his voice, Stunned by his pining, and the way he’s shaking like a leaf. “will you let me?”

You ask so sweetly, like you don’t know the answer.

He huffs a ragged breath, grits his teeth cause he’s fighting some invisible force. Doesn’t even know what it is, really. Is it his inability to let go of the fact that you know? To accept that, truly, you want him like he wants you despite what he’s done?

You kiss his temple, the top of his head.

“Fuck, yeah. Yes. Course’ you can.” He rasps. He doesn’t give in often. Ever. Unless it’s a total and complete mental deterioration.

How different it feels to surrender to this. To you. To the truth.

He doesn’t, however, foresee you letting go of him completely - he feels his pupils dilate and the adrenaline thrumming through him rise all the way to the top of his head. It’s the absence of your touch, your warmth - but then you’re slinking down to your knees.

This is your surrender.

He grips the couch cushions in a way that’s genuinely concerning for the couch in question. It’s rough, his nails nearly rip the fabric from the force cause you’re rubbing up and down his thighs and you start to lean in towards his aching manhood. He can feel your breath hot against him, even through two layers of fabric and he starts involuntarily bucking his hips.

It’s more so to relieve the throbbing, you have eyes so you can clearly see him twitching over and over again like he’s so hard it hurts. You peer up at him, and he’s really a sight for sore eyes.

It’s devastating.

He’s blushed everywhere, alabaster face and neck, ears and broad chest. His taut abdomen is tensed with anticipation and the arousal and the yearning for you. Every muscle is coated with a thin layer of sweat, like he can’t bear it. He’s huffing, strong jaw slack and pretty white teeth shining behind downward curled lips.

You make quick work of his slacks, knuckles against his navel when you undo the buttons, then dragging down the bulge underneath when you’re unzipping them.

He chokes on his own spit a little, swallows it when you look up at him with concern.

“Y’okay Dex? Still want it?”

You’re so genuine, and your voice is so fucking sweet, he can’t handle it. He’s already tearing up again, nodding fervently, cupping your face like it’s antique china. His touch is so hot, searing.

“Yes, yes - please don’t stop.” He couldn’t sound more wrecked, more fucked, more lost. His voice doesn’t even sound like his anymore. It’s so low, so husky and strained.

You tug at his pants and you can’t get them off, so he lifts his hips for you so that you can drag them off, down his long legs and off his feet. The black material of his briefs cling to him unfairly, halfway off already cause his pants got stuck on them- it’s too good to be true. He’s so gorgeous it makes your stomach hurt.

He’s so scarred, but so fragile under your touch. You kiss his thighs, on top of them, feeling the tendons move and writhe underneath. Then you’re spreading his knees apart, kissing between them.

This causes him to almost break and just beg you as pathetically as possible. His cock twitches fiercely, starts from his balls where they ache to release, jerks his whole shaft in the process. Pearlescent beads of his pre arousal seep through the fabric where his tip is protruding against it.

You take one look at him, in those intense and watery eyes, and you start peeling his underwear off. You can’t make him wait anymore, it’s making you feel too guilty. And between your own thighs pressure has built like a dam, making you slick and hot and thoroughly bothered. A heartbeat in your clit.

He hisses when his manhood touches the cold air, when the material drags against his sensitive tip as you take them off. His cock slaps against his tensed abdomen, leaves a sticky spot just below his bellybutton on the soft trail of light hair there.

You don’t tease anymore, you wrap your hands around the hot, thick base and immediately move to mouth at his frenulum on the underside of his head.

“Oh fuuuuck.” He groans from his chest, toes curled and the soles of his feet pressed into his living room rug. His head lolls back and all he can focus on is the warm wetness of your mouth. The plushness of your lips when they encompass him, the feeling of the roof of your mouth and then the back of your spongy throat.

He finally brings his hands to your hair, doesn’t pull or tug - just places them there and feels your head bob while you start to suck him off.

“Mmmm.” You hum around him, and choked noises keep leaving him, like he’s trying to breathe properly and his own drool is getting caught again.

It’s already messy, your spit coats him and gleams in the light, the sounds make him ache even more and he can tell that any ounce of precum that he’s surely leaking is being caught by your swirling tongue.

“O-oohhh, so good, baby it’s so good.” He cries through a shudder that ripples through him.

Two hands pump him while your mouth works. It’s hard work, but it’s so rewarding - you’ve got a big man right here shuttering like you’re doing something inhuman to him. And he’s massaging your scalp like he’s not a minute from coming undone, and the sounds.

God, you never knew he could be this vocal. It makes your body feel like it’s on overdrive, and he’s not lost to the way your eyebrows are furrowed and you’re still moaning around him.

The fact that sucking him off makes you horny is making him spiral.

You leave his cock with a pop, make direct eye contact while you kiss the underside of his shaft, tracing the veins with your tongue, dipping even lower to lick at his balls and he really shutters then.

“M’not gonna last, mmm, can’t. Can’t.” He pants.

You take him back into your mouth, focusing on the tip this time to let him know you don’t care if he finishes quickly. That this is about him. That you want to take care of him, show him how much he’s loved.

It’s soft and wet and tastes like him in your mouth. Your spit bubbles around him, your lips a suction that’s mapping the ridges and shape and flavor of him. Wha makes him tick, what’s making him the whiny mess that he’s become right now.

“Cum for me Dex, please, please.”

You say it between sucks, between laps and throating, and who is he to deny you? Such a request asked to sweetly? So desperately?

His whole body tenses, the breath stolen from him as quick as it came - head falling against the back of the couch and eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Fuck fuck fuck, cumming cummingggggg, ohhhhh fuckkkkkkk.”

He’s writhing, and you can feel the throb against your tongue as he releases in long ropes - and you swallow it all with no pause whatsoever.

You whimper around him with encouraging sounds, milking him dry and working him through his intense orgasm while he tries to clamp his thighs shut and fist the couch and then tug your head off of him cause it’s starting to become overstimulating.

He’s grunting like it hurts now, still not back to reality cause the release is rushing through him like an amped up form of adrenaline. He’s got sweat beading against his forehead, threatening to drip and his stomach and chest heaves long, deep breaths to try and regain control.

You let him go from your mouth, a mess and a vision that he wants to keep engrained in the hollows of his mind forever. He cups the back of your neck, eyes low and dark and vying for you.

“C’mere, kiss me.” It’s not a demand but he needs it. You’re on your feet, knees imprinted with the shape of the carpet and he pulls you by your soft hips onto his bare lap before his mouth is on you.

This is about the only time, other than his usual extracurriculars, where the mess doesn’t bother him. He tastes himself on your tongue, tastes sweat and the sweetness of your lip balm that’s somehow lingered and it only fuels his awe, his adoration, his hunger.

He’s all tongue and teeth and starvation when he kisses you this time. He works the top and the bottom with erratic movements, but you know the pattern all the same. You lean into him, mold yourself against his warmth.

But something shifts, it’s small, unspoken.

You cup his face, strong jaw and stubble and raised scar against your palm. You slow him down purposely, hanging onto his bottom lip with your teeth, stroking the lines by his mouth with your thumb.

And then you’re kissing his face. That same scar, the dimple in his chin, the lines creased into his forehead, his nose. All of it. He closes his eyes, absorbing it like it may never happen again even though you know it’s just the beginning.

“I love you, so much Dex.” You almost whisper it, kissing his ears and the side of his neck before you’re wrapping your arms around his shoulders and hiding in the crook of him.

He sucks in a breath, hugs you back like disconnecting would mean death. He rubs slow circles wit his wide palm, his voice muffled against your skin.

“I love you I love you I love you.”

You don’t know how long you both stay like this. Entranced, at peace with each other. Anchors, or magnets, or both. He’s got so many emotions inside of him, swimming around in circles with no place to go except out.

It’s while he’s holding you like this, pressed to his naked lap, that he realizes something important. Urgent because he feels you shift against his soft cock, and yeah the moment is so sweet it’s making him all fuzzy in the head but -

He never took care of you in return.