Perhaps, that’s why you cling to the idea of Karen Page. She’s between your legs more than she’s beside you, and you have long stopped apologizing for it. Her tongue finds the rhythm you need before you can ask, swirling around your clit. Karen’s fingers pressing and curling inside you until you’re gasping—begging for a release that feels less like pleasure and more like permission to stop feeling at all.

Karen knows you don’t love her like that, though she knows you only do this because you needed to. She’s a warm body and she’s here, you give her that. It’s the cruelest thing you do and she simply lets you.

She’s told you one night, you go somewhere else when she’s fucking you deep. She had asked where but the silence from you was the only answer Karen could ever get. The truth was, you don’t know either. Somewhere Julie isn’t. Somewhere Julie is everywhere. Same thing, really.

“Can you pass me the cigarettes?” you murmured, swollen lips barely forming the words. You could see a bead of red still pooling there, when you bit her too hard at the peak of your orgasm.

Karen’s fingers leave you slowly, her nude in view as she reaches over to the nightstand, finds your pack of cigarettes, then shakes one loose. She moves closer, placing it between your lips without being asked. The lighter flicks, and the tip catches. Your gaze glances at her briefly before inhaling, you could feel the smoke filling your lungs, and it burns in your throat—the good kind of burn.

“Something on your mind?” she breathes, fingers brushing against your bare shoulder.

You take another drag and watch the smoke curl toward the ceiling, grey against grey, disappearing into the water stain you’ve been meaning to call maintenance about for eight months.

“No, no. I’m good.” you lie smoothly, turning away from her gentle touch. “I think you should go, it’s kinda late.” 

Karen exhales through her nose. “Call me if you need me then.” 

You listen to her dress; buttoning her jeans, fingers moving by memory, you could hear her find her bra, hear the clasps connect, the soft weight of her breasts settling into the cups. Karen always adjusts the straps. Two small tugs on each side, the hushed creak of elastic settling against her shoulder. You know everything about her body and nothing about her heart as much as Karen does with yours. 

But she lost someone, too. Foggy. 

Karen never says his name around you, just as you never say Julie’s around her. The loss exists anyway, swelling silently beneath the surface of everything between you. Maybe that’s why this works at all—because neither of you speak of the dead. This is how both of you survive, you think, through each other’s skin. 

Her lips pressed against your forehead then, a benediction you know you don’t deserve, and climbs off the bed. In your peripheral, you could see her silhouette hesitant, paused at the door, staring at you. 

“You ever going to tell me who she was?”

Your throat closes. “Goodnight, Karen.”

The door finally closes, and you have finished the cigarette. Completely alone, the smoke burns your insides the way nothing else does anymore. You can still feel Karen between your legs—an ache, this sole reminder that your body exists even when your mind doesn’t want it to. You press your thighs together and the sensation flares and fades, like everything else.

Julie is sitting in the corner.

“You can’t keep doing this.” Julie speaks, and her voice seems distorted, unable to remember what it sounded like anymore.

But you don’t turn around, couldn’t bear yourself to. You wouldn’t know anymore, everything blurs within you—everything except the weight of Julie’s gaze on the side of your face. Curtain blinds are half closed, they’ve been like that since she died, because you can’t stand the morning light and you can’t stand the dark either. You can’t stand the compromise but you made it anyway.

You have become a woman fashioned entirely out of concessions, all your sharpest edges sanded down by sufferance. A series of compromises stitched together. That’s who you are now, you suppose. Seeking absolution in the bodies of others, hoping it’ll wash away the agony through meaningless sex. A woman who hears her dead best friend’s voice and pretends it’s real, clinging on to anything so as to not fall apart.

“Shut up, Julie.” you say instead, only softly. 

Trepidation lodges inside your throat like secrets, all the things you should have said when she was alive and sitting in that same chair, with a smile that made you believe you were worth something. The shame is in the rehearsal, in the hundred times you’ve imagined this conversation and the zero times you have actually had it. 

“You’re being cruel to yourself,” it’s the love in Julie’s voice that breaks you, thin as a spider’s web, spreading outward from the spot where your name lands along with the words.

So are you, you want to argue back to a ghost. What did being good ever give her—a grave, dirt filling her body? A few dozen people who cried at her funeral and then went back to their lives? 

She poured herself out for everyone—for you, especially for you. 

That’s the real tragedy, perhaps. Julie was good and it didn’t matter, you're angry and it doesn’t change anything. She’s still dead. You’re still here. You, with your disdain for the world and your cold heart. You’re the one who gets to keep going, the one who gets to make mistakes and be cruel, still waking up the next morning and doing it all over again.

But you are the keeper of Julie Barnes’ memory, letting it go feels like another kind of murder. If you let go, who else will hold it? There is no urge in you to kill her again—once was enough.

You had so much love for her. Julie was gone, so it couldn’t change, it couldn’t turn into indifference. You were stuck with all that love, and it overflows. Floods the empty rooms of your chest and keeps rising. 

Where is this love supposed to go now?

Dex has spent a lot of time thinking about monsters during his imprisonment at Rikers Island. What makes them. What unmakes them. Whether a monster can choose to be something else, or whether the monster is all there is, has always been, will always be. 

The situation was extraordinary—how someone like Benjamin Poindexter could have wrought such a change in himself; the most worldly of men was difficult to understand. However, Dex had learned that the mysteries of reparation could not always be explained through logic. 

If man had his way, the plan of redemption would be an endless and bloody conflict. In reality, salvation was bought not by Jesus’ fist, but by His nail pierced hands. Because here was the truth Dex kept turning over; one good deed does not erase a thousand bad ones. But neither does a thousand bad ones erase the possibility of one good deed.

The world surrounding him was quick to lash out and assign blame, and yet mankind also drew from deep reservoirs of forgiveness. It won’t absolve him from anything, Dex already knows that. 

Perhaps, he’ll do this for himself instead—this one good deed. Besides, he’s not Jesus Christ anyway, not even close, though presumably the principle of it was the same.

Leveling the scales. Making amends. The blood of violence and the blood of sacrifice. Apropos of the way Jesus bled so that others could be saved, Dex has bled others so that he could survive and regain control over his life once more. 

Get his mind back. 

This also must be the reason why he tried to find where they had Julie Barnes buried, Dex regretted involving her unknowingly to Fisk’s labyrinth of lies and calculated manipulation, killing her in the process of it all. 

The way Dex dragged her frozen dead body into his car seat, driving to crash Fisk’s wedding all those years ago, but his mind tries to repress the lucidity of what happened afterwards—learning of her death. He knew he was a goner himself.

Julie was the closest thing Dex could have had in gaining some structure in his psyche, after Dr. Mercer’s death—life seemed a series of black and white in a world that’s somehow grey. Remembering the times where he’d listen to Mercer’s recording of their sessions, all of it a distant memory now, fossilized somewhere in the back of his mind. 

He never wanted to be with Julie, he wanted to be her. 

She made it look easy, being a kind person, and watching her had been different from listening to recorded tapes. Dex thought that if he studied her hard enough, some of her goodness might spill on to him. The living proof that people like Julie existed, that being dignified wasn’t just a concept nor a lie people told themselves to feel better about the things they have done.

Clearly, he was naive back then—begging society that would never hesitate to eat him alive if they learn what he really was. And then they did. They broke him. For this, Dex learned his most valuable lesson. He doesn’t need anyone for structure, he’ll be a good person by himself. 

Now he’s standing at her grave, the wind cold against his face, it was eerily quiet at night, there’s no one around. 

JULIE BARNES. BELOVED DAUGHTER, DEAREST FRIEND.

Dex was finally here, and yet he didn’t know what to say. Instead, he remained silent. Then, his gaze lowered down at the grave. The dirt has settled now, years later, grass beginning to grow over the wound. Soon, no one will be able to tell that anyone was buried here as the earth will heal. The grass will cover the scar, and Julie Barnes will become another name on another headstone, forgotten by everyone except the people who loved her.

He sensed the sound of footsteps until they’re almost upon him. Yet, Dex didn’t move from his position. 

You brought her flowers this time around. 

Julie would have hated anything ostentatious. Just put me in the ground, she said at your dining table, laughing, back when death was a joke and not a before-and-after in your life. Plant something pretty over me. 

But you never planted anything, you couldn’t bring yourself to do so. Instead, you bought magnolias from the old woman outside the subway station, drawn to them only because it looked like something Julie would stop for. She collected wounded things so naturally it almost seemed instinctive. Stray cats. Broken people. You.

The flower stems perspire against your palm, clammy and cold. By the time you pass through the cemetery gates, your sweater feels too heavy across your shoulders, your body taut with the effort of continuing forward.

You nearly turned back twice already—once beneath the jaundiced lights of the subway station, and again at the sight of the rusted iron archway looming ahead, when your lungs suddenly forgets how to draw a full breath.

You don’t come here often as much as you used to. 

There is always going to be some part of you that doesn’t want to feel the finality of her life, seeing where they’d put her. 

For months after the funeral, you kept imagining her underground. Flashes of images consumed the inside of your head; dirt settled into the concave of her collarbones, maggots eating around her rotting flesh, soil filled her mouth with her hollowed eye sockets wide open, screaming. This obscene impartiality of death, stripping Julie Barnes to something nature could digest. 

You would wake up sick over it, your fingernails raking against your own neck as though you’ve been buried alive alongside her.

Eventually, your mind learned a new trick for survival.

If you didn’t visit the grave, then some part of Julie could remain untouched, suspended somewhere outside of reality. Not alive exactly, but not fully gone either. A childish thing to believe, but grief made children out of everyone.

Even in the midst of your tribulations, you wanted to see her. Perhaps it was selfish, the way you nurtured your grief for years, indulging in your own misery while the rest of the world kept moving forward without her, and you were the only one who hasn’t.

A shadow appeared almost spectral from where you were walking, his outline blurred by distance and possibly your deteriorating eyesight. Cursing under your breath, blaming the hours you doom scroll on your bed so now you can’t see for shit. 

There was a man, this tall imposing figure, standing solemnly at the grave of your other half. For a second, you were nearly convinced your mind has flooded you with these cluster fuck of hallucinations—was he Death then?

Has he come to take you, too? 

But your feet kept moving despite every sensible thought urging you to retreat. The Zoloft in your system is doing wonders; muting every survival instinct and softening terror until it becomes bearable. 

“Hi—sorry,” you hear yourself say, voice hoarse. “Who the fuck are you?”

When he turned around, there was a fleeting moment before he spoke. You could feel the way his eyes seemed to assess you whole, coldly methodical rather than openly curious. Slotting every observable detail into place before determining whether you posed any real danger to him. Who did he think you were anyway? 

You wish you could beat him up with magnolias, it’s a stupid impulse. The flowers are soft, fragile, and most likely to disintegrate on impact. This stranger’s presence feels like an intrusion—a violation of the invisible bubble you’ve constructed around Julie’s grave. Who in their right mind visits a grave at two in the morning? You were the only one who was supposed to be here. 

This was your time to ugly cry. You know it’s not healthy, but it’s yours anyway, now you couldn’t even do that anymore. Couldn’t see his features clearly as the streetlights are dim low, some flickering; barely enough to navigate by, certainly not enough to make out details. You briefly wondered if he was one of those creeps who has these weird and fucked up fetishes, getting off on other people’s graves.

“—Dex.” 

You blinked hard, startled back to reality by the husky cadence of his voice. “What?”

“I said my name is Dex,” he repeated, his eyes lingering on you knowingly. “You zoned out for a bit.”

“I wasn’t exactly… zoning out,” you were quick to defend yourself, clutching the magnolias tighter. “I was just thinking.”

You held his gaze, and Dex held yours in return. The moment stretched awkwardly, saturated with tension neither of you seemed interested in breaking. You hated being caught off guard like this, his expression stayed frustratingly unreadable despite yourself, and uncertainty gnawed at you—was he amused by you, or merely indifferent?

“You knew her,” you started again, though it wasn’t a question. “How? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.” 

“Something like that, yeah.” Dex says, drawing back his gaze towards the headstone instead. “I worked with her briefly at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center.”

“You were a hotline operator?” you couldn’t hide the skepticism in your voice. Dex didn’t look like the type. 

“For about a year,” he replies. “Julie was there longer. Three years, I think.”

“Three and a half,” you corrected mindlessly. “I still remember she started in February.”

His eyes flickered back to you. “I’m guessing you knew her very well, huh?”

This time, it was your turn to tear away from Dex’s gaze, there was a plethora of things you don’t talk about anymore. The words used to come easy, back when everything was, when you had someone who understood you deeply. Now it felt like extracting bloodied teeth—pulling truths out of yourself that had calcified in place. 

All the strings inside you broke somewhere along the way, you’re not certain exactly when, but you’ve been held together by her for so long that you’ve forgotten how to stand on your own, at the back of your throat; your voice choked by disquietude. 

“I didn’t come here to upset you,” Dex spoke, like he’d read your mind.

“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” 

“Pay my respects, same as you.”

You don’t buy a word of it, and judging by the look on Dex’s face, neither does he expect you to. Who is she to you? You wanted to ask, but then again, you don’t care about this stranger enough to call him out. Dex’s truth would feel like another burden you’d have to carry, and your limbs are already tired. 

“She never told me about you… or mentioned anything about a Dex,” you admit, or maybe you’ve long forgotten. 

“Does that bother you?”

“I don’t know, really—should it?”

Dex gave out a shrug. “Julie must’ve had her reasons then.”

“What kind of reasons exactly?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

You could feel your chest ache, but it’s light and something tender, then a laugh of grief breathing out through your nose. “Oh, fuck you man.”

“Are you always this friendly?” 

“Only when strange men show up at my best friend’s grave in the middle of the night.”

He nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth forming into a half smile. “Sounds fair to me.”

The flowers shift precariously in your hands, damp stems slipping against your fingers. You should put them down, that’s why you came. But the presence of a stranger, Dex changes something fundamental. Suddenly, the gesture feels exposed, theatrical—something you’re doing for an audience rather than for Julie.

“You can put those down,” Dex says, nodding toward the headstone. “I’m not going to watch.”

“Feels like you’re watching either way.”

Dex says nothing in response. He shifts his weight onto one leg instead, shoulders loosening as if trying to appear less imposing beneath the cemetery shadows. He neither advances nor retreats, giving you space without truly leaving it.

Your knees crack painfully as you crouch, the sound startlingly loud against the surroundings of the grave. You grimace instinctively, embarrassed by the evidence of your own exhaustion. You wonder if Dex can hear how worn down you are—not emotionally, though there is plenty of that, too. Rather physically. Your body has carried pain for years like an extra organ.

You place the magnolias carefully beside the stone, their pale petals almost luminous against the surface, and briefly convince yourself that these small acts of remembrance might still matter. You run your fingers over the carved letters, tracing the curve of the J, then the slope of L. 

As it turns out, the depth of love a person inspires has very little to do with the amount of time you have known them. Because time means nothing against closeness.

“I’m gonna be here for a while,” you declare, pushing yourself upright, dusting off your palms, turning to face him.

Dex’s blank expression doesn’t falter. “If you want me to leave, I can do that.” 

“No,” you’re holding his gaze a bit more intensely. “I want you to tell me how you really knew her.” 

“Hm,” he contemplates, nodding slowly. “All right, I’ll tell you.”

And so, Dex tells his story, or at least, partially. Fabricated. A few truths survive intact among the lies, enough to anchor the whole thing in plausibility. What you don’t know, he reasons in his mind, can’t hurt you. 

Dex doesn’t follow you home, though it takes more restraint than he cares to admit.

He wants to, there’s an urge, very insistent in his mind. It would have been effortless, really; hang back fifty yards, match your pace, and easily disappear into the shadows when you glance over your shoulder. You wouldn’t even know. 

But Dex has already lived through the consequences of attachment once before. Look where it got his North Star, dead. Both Julie and Mercer fucking dead. Their graves stand as evidence to the contrary, and everyone he places on a pedestal eventually ends up beneath one.

Whatever strange gravity exists between you, he refuses to feed it. And yet, he can’t ignore what he noticed—that you are nothing like Julie Barnes. You were damaged, too, much like him. Dex recognizes pieces of himself reflected back in the deep sense of lassitude etched across your face. 

It occurs to Dex then that you are perhaps the worst kind of person for him to meet—you who mirrors him too closely. That isn’t good, you’re not someone that’s going to be good for him. There is no softness left in you to idealize, only survivability. Only like him, he supposed. 

You could never become the kind of person Dex needed—someone steady enough to build himself around, someone foolish enough to believe he could still be salvaged. You don’t carry that kind of faith inside you, it seemed. There was no warmth in your grief nor blind compassion that would look at him, and mistake him for a man deserving redemption. 

What unsettles him instead was the certainty that you would simply understand him.

And what’s more terrifying than the ordeal of being perceived? Understanding is far more dangerous than adoration—and simple adoration, he can manage, as it fits neatly into the framework of his fixations, it creates structure, and keeps relationships uneven, safely contained within roles Dex understands intimately.

Yet the former implies a two way street. It forces two people to stand equally exposed before one another, stripped of its dim illusion.

The mission in his head is what matters, Dex tells himself. Killing Fisk is what matters. One good deed, the only thing that might balance the scales, the closest he’ll ever get. You were a distraction he hadn’t accounted for, Dex went to Julie’s grave for his own atonement, that’s all. 

Although, when you gave him your name, Dex finds himself holding onto it carefully despite every instinct telling him not to, rolling each letter across his tongue in the privacy of his own mind.

He suppose old habits die hard. Fuck.

The bell above the door jingles, this tiny sound you’ve learned to drown out months ago. 

Sandy was the only old woman who could tolerate your aloof nature, who maybe even had a soft spot for someone as young as you. Besides, Bel Aire Diner is also the only place you’ve managed to stay.

There were jobs before this, different uniforms and break rooms, sets of coworkers who watched you with growing concern and some with contempt. Managers who eventually pulled you aside with careful voices, and practiced sympathy to ask whether things were okay at home. 

You stopped showing up to them, one day your name existed on the schedule, and the next it didn’t.

So when you showed up at the diner seven months ago, she simply handed you an apron and pointed to the coffee machine. You at least know how to make coffee, right? she said to you, and Sandy never asked anything personal. 

You’ve been here ever since.

It’s nice to have some sort of routine and not constantly be on your bed, caged from the world. You’d spend hours serving different people, making milkshakes, cooking eggs, and filling coffee—but the repetitive aspect of it didn’t bore you. 

Maybe it’s the invisibility it gives you. The way customers look through you like you’re part of the furniture, no one that matters, merely a hand that delivers their food and refills their coffee for them, disappearing back into the kitchen. No one expects you to be anything at all. 

You appreciate the noise, too. Clatter of plates, cars and trucks passing by outside, the soft chattering of people that never rises above a certain volume. It fills the spaces where your thoughts would otherwise live, keeping your sanity at bay. 

The golden sun seeps through the windows, harshly bright, and you squint against it, turning your face away. You have always preferred the night shift, but Sandy needed you to cover a double, and you don’t say no to Sandy. 

The griddle hisses from the kitchen, and somewhere in the back, you can hear Sandy shouting at the dishwasher about the difference between clean and sanitized. Despite yourself, amusement flickers briefly across your face as you polished the mixer clean.

You don’t turn around but you could feel the weight of presence taking a seat on your counter. 

“I’ll be right with you,” your tone slightly higher to seem friendly, dipping the sponge into the tub filled with fresh warm water. 

“Take your time.” 

Your hand freezes over the tub, the sponge drips soapy water back into the bucket, and only then, you can feel your heart start pounding. 

Motherfucker. You recognize that voice from weeks ago, one that couldn’t escape every corner of your mind. It’s him, there’s no doubt. The man from the cemetery—

“Oh,” you rasped out, eyes widened slightly. “It’s you.”

“It’s nice to see you again,” he beams, along with your name accompanied by a grin that shows too many teeth. “You’ve been doing well?”

“Yup, fucking fantastic. You?”

“Never been better,” Dex folds his hands on the marbled counter, fingers interlocking, thumbs pressed together as he lifts his gaze to stare at you. “What are you famous for?”

“… Milkshakes, I guess.” you blurt out, uncertain.

“Excellent. Thank you. I’ll have…”

You observed as his attention drifted over the menu while you studied him openly for the first time. Daylight altered Dex somehow. The dim flickering lights from the cemetery no longer obscured the planes of his face, and the scars tracing visibly across skin that was unexpectedly striking—these imperfections only seemed to emphasize the severity of Dex’s features. 

It irked you to realize how handsome he actually is. 

A long scar cuts cleanly across his right cheek, pale against the rest of his skin, while another slices right above the line of his left eyebrow. There are probably more hidden underneath his clothes, mapped across his body in places you cannot see.

Each one feels heavy with history, little remnants of violence preserved permanently on one’s flesh. You wonder briefly about the stories attached to them, but why would you care about something so trivial? That, and the way Dex also seemed different from the first time you have met him. Keeping your mouth shut, you wait for him to order instead.

“One banana milkshake, please.” 

You nodded, then asked, “Uh… you also want whip?” 

“Doesn’t everybody?” 

Did he know you were working at the Bel Aire Diner? No, he definitely did not. The diner appealed to him for practical reasons, of course; wide sightlines unobstructed by decor, multiple exits within easy reach, predictable flow of civilian traffic at this hour, and scattered across nearly every table sat utensils capable of becoming weapons if required.

And also, The task force would never move recklessly inside a diner full of witnesses, not unless they were desperate enough to risk collateral damage. You being there was coincidence. Pure coincidence. Ironic how Dex believes in coincidence now, after spending most of his life convinced the world operated only through cause and consequence.

The plan is set in motion, he made his call when you were busy making his milkshake. Dex knows the agents are already en route, and if he walks away now, abandoning the mission because of you, with your sad miserable eyes and magnolias in your hands, then he’s worse than a monster. 

A weak man, that’s what he’ll become. He can’t comprehend how someone like you—someone Dex barely fucking knows and for good reasons, makes him feel so weak. You are dangerous to him, and wanting someone dangerous is the first step toward destruction. 

Twelve minutes dissolves like cream in his milkshake, each second spilling into the next until all that is left was the countdown in Dex’s mind. Six minutes. Five. Four. And the sirens wailing in the distance, strobes of red and blue begin to flash against the diner’s interior. The AVTF is here. Dex can feel them approaching, the vibration of their vehicle—the reality of what comes next. 

Dex can bury these thoughts of you if he tries hard enough. Compartmentalize them accordingly amongst all the other dangerous impulses he has learned to suppress. Perhaps warning you would be the kinder thing to do—a small act of mercy before inevitability takes shape. 

Yet, some part of him wants you to witness him fully. Wants to feel your eyes fixed on him as he sheds the fragile disguise of normalcy and becomes precisely what he was built to become, and he wonders what you would do then.

Would you look away like everyone eventually does? Or would you continue watching despite yourself, unable to drag your gaze away from the destruction unfolding in front of you? 

People have always stared longest at the things capable of ruining them. Are you that kind of person? Dex needed to know, or this doesn’t work at all.

“Yo, you! Milkshake.” An AVTF agent points out to him. 

A red straw sits between his lips casually while both his hands rise into the air. Inside the straw, hidden from sight, rests the toothpick he slipped away earlier. Dex turns slowly toward the agent, movements deceptively unthreatening.

Then he blows into the straw.

The toothpick shoots forward with precision, disappearing straight into the agent’s eye before anyone fully understands what happened. A choking sound follows seconds later as the man collapses backward, crumpling instantly while chaos detonates through the diner around him. 

A second agent was reaching for him, but Dex was quick to throw his empty milkshake glass towards the wall, shattering pieces splashed across the agent’s face. But he did not kill him, no. Dex grabs the man’s wrist, twisting hard he could feel the bones grind against each other as the gun clatters to the floor. 

Dex kicks the gun away, using the agent’s body as a shield against the other one’s opening salvo. Bullets punch through the agent’s vest, letting out a pained scream. He lets them drop, and throws one of his knives—and the third agent goes down with a blade pierced into his nasal bridge. 

Bullets whistle past his ear, chipping the edge of the formica, sending shards of ceramic flying from the coffee machine behind him. Then, Dex throws himself toward the counter, hitting the floor hard, shoulder first, rolling into the narrow space behind the counter. 

His back pressed against the cabinets, knees up, hands already searching for another set of knives, and Dex’s fingers close around three. The way his body knows what to do, each following throws with a trajectory only he can see. The first blade stabs itself in an agent’s larynx, silencing a scream before it can form. Then comes the second; soft gap between helmet and vest, piercing into the clavicle. The third knife punches through an eye socket, and three agents drop without a sound, instantly killing them. 

And then Dex sees you, crouched against the wall, your knees drawn to your chest with your arms wrapped around your head. He could see your whole body violently shaking through your shoulders trailing to your fingers. You were trying to make yourself small and invisible enough that the violence might pass you by.

Yet, it finds you, always.

“Oh, don’t worry,” his voice came out raspy with your name attached to his lips, muffled by the Bullseye mask, thickened by exertion. “I’m not going to kill you.” 

The reassurance lands awkwardly between you, utterly lacking the social instincts that tell most people how to comfort someone in distress. Then again, Dex has never seemed particularly interested in assuming what others need from him, it simply is not in his nature. He stands before you bloodied and armed, but somehow expects trust to emerge from that.

You raise your head, it caught him off guard. Through the mask, your gaze finds him immediately—those horrific, soulless eyes of his. But instead, something gentler passes briefly over your features, was it altruism? Entirely at odds with the rigid line of your shoulders and the fear still visible elsewhere. What did you see? Dex wanted to ask, but his mind only knows your contradiction lingered unpleasantly in his thoughts.

So, he tries again. “I’m one of the good guys now.”

You don’t call Karen. 

The thought surfaces somewhere between the third and sixth drink—a flicker of instinct, old habit of reaching for warm hands and warmer bodies when everything feels fucked up. Karen would come, you imagined, she’d sit beside you on the barstool, order her own drink, and wait for you to speak first. Karen’s good at waiting, she’s had practice. Still, you don’t call her, and you don’t go home either. 

And you know how the saying goes—if home is where the heart is, then you’re all just fucked. Home is where everything reminds you of her, scent her perfume on a shirt you haven’t washed since she died, old things that she used to give you. Everything in your home was everywhere of her. 

Julie had looked at you then, and called it Weltschmerz, but it wasn’t pitying sadness. It was a larger one that seemed to encompass all the people, the billions you didn’t know, all living their lives, a sorrow that mingled with a wonder and awe at how hard humans everywhere tried to live, even when their days were so very difficult, even when their circumstances were so wretched. 

Life is so heartbreaking, you would say with your head on her lap. It’s so fucking depressing. Julie would smile softly, her fingers running through the strands of your hair. And yet we all do it, she’d say. 

You’ve decided to go to a bar instead, it’s not the one near the diner—that one is probably still cordoned off with yellow tape, crawling with investigators, the kind of place you’ll never be able to look at the same way again. They let you go pretty quickly after giving a statement to the police with what happened hours ago, though you didn’t say much. Your mind elsewhere. 

Drinking yourself into a stupor, by the time then, the shaking had stopped. The bar fills and empties around you. People come and go, laughing, arguing, living their ordinary lives. None of them know what happened this morning, that a man killed a dozen agents. Though none of them know that you watched, you couldn’t stop yourself from seeing. 

There was something vile and compelling about Dex in those moments; the eloquence of his movements, the terrible grace of his brutality. And then knowing that you would have done the same if you had his skills. You wanted him to slice his knife into your skin, your insides unused. Empty and pristine. You pictured your pelvis split open, to reveal a tidy hollow, like the nest of a vanished animal, unappealing to someone so violent in his nature. 

You hate yourself for it. Feel your limbs disconnecting, floating nearby like driftwood on an oily lake—a dead bloated body. With nothing to lash out on, you drain your glass and signal for another, trying not to think about the way his eyes found yours through the mask.

In your lowest moments, you see her. Julie’s looking at you with an expression you know too well. Guilt. It’s painted into every line of her face, the soft curve of her mouth, the furrow between her brows. She looks like she’s trying to apologize for something—for dying, maybe. For leaving. For making your life a perpetual loop of trying to recover from something after something, someone after someone.

No words came out from her mouth this time, and the bar became overwhelming with its crowd. The noise, the lights, the press of bodies; all of it feels like a trap, and you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t fucking do anything except reach for your wallet and throw cash on the counter and stumble toward the door.

You don’t know where you’re going, yet your body makes the choice for you, carrying you through intersections and half-empty streets with the mindless certainty of habit. Walking through Hell’s Kitchen like you're following a red string of thread only you can see. It’s not until you see the archway that you finally understand.

Of course. Where else would you go?

Your knees hit the dirt when you come nearer, a hard impact that sends pain shooting through your joints. But you don’t care anymore. You crawl the last few feet, fingers digging into the soil, the cold seeping through the fabric of your sweatpants, unbothered by the way you appear. 

The magnolias are still there. Their petals have curled inward on themselves, brittle and withered, surrendering slowly to time. You stare at the headstone above them, the engraved letters swim briefly out of focus. You blink hard. When your vision clears, they blur again. “You knew him and you didn’t tell me.” you press your hands flat against the headstone, feel the cold granite bite into your palms. “Did you know he kills people? Did you know he’s—that he’s—,” your voice choked out by an ugly sob.

“I watched him put a toothpick through a man’s fucking eye... I watched him throw knives like they were extensions of his own hands. How can you know someone like that and not tell me?”

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against the stone. It’s cold. It’s so cold. You wonder if this is what she feels like now—not Julie, perhaps, but what remains of her. Always cold, buried deep within the dirt and the grass and the slow turning of seasons with everything left unsaid.

“Did you send him to me?” you whisper, words slurring. “Is this some kind of—of punishment? It must be, right? You—you hate me.”

If Dex’s barbarism can somehow serve as penance for your failure, then perhaps you can absolve yourself from the guilt you’ve been carrying for years. See? Isn’t this enough? Can’t you forgive me now? But the truth is simpler and far worse; there is no answer, only your self punishment. There is simply a world out there that doesn’t care whether you suffer or thrive, because what you really want isn’t punishment either—it’s her. And nothing will bring her back.

“Julie,” your voice empty, quietly strained in tone. “I don’t want to live anymore.” 

“Do you mean it?” 

A voice cuts through the silence behind you, you could feel your heart slamming painfully against your bones the moment you recognize who it was. 

You stumble clumsily, your knees scraping harshly against the ground. Fresh pain blooms through what was already aching from kneeling too long, dirtied hand slides through wet grass, sending a streak of mud across your skin, your back against the headstone. For a moment you remain frozen there, before finally looking up.

Dex’s presence was looming over you, maybe a few feet away, yet you could see the Bullseye mask is long gone—you see his face first; bruises darken the line of his jaw, ugly shades of purple spreading across his scarred skin, dried blood tracks from his temple in crimson red, disappearing into the collar of his suit, and his lower lip is split, swollen around the wound. There is so much blood on him that your gaze struggles to settle anywhere else.

He’s still in the suit. There's a gash on his forearm, with his hands hanging at his sides, fists clenched, and you notice they were shaking.

“Dex,” you manage, his name catching roughly in your throat. 

His eyes narrow slightly. “You haven’t answered my question,” his voice thick, slowly he begins moving closer, the distance shrinking inch by inch then he stops. “Do you mean it?”

“Why?” you dare to ask, lifting your chin despite yourself. “Are you going to kill me here?”

Maybe Dex could. You’ll be his one good deed. Isn’t that what it was all about? Ending one's suffering. The math had seemed so simple when he was sitting in his cell, counting down the days until he could put a bullet in Fisk’s skull. One life for another. Balance. Justice. And people have a hard time letting go of their suffering, out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar.

Your throat is laid open to him, vulnerable in a way you don’t seem to realize. The pulse quivers inside your skin like a trapped bird, a wingless bird that wants to be free. Dex could wrap his hands around it—could imagine the feel of life draining out of you, watching the tension leave your body; your wholeness, your regrets, and your grief finally releasing its hold.

If he couldn’t do it to himself, perhaps he’ll do it to you.

But Dex offers no response, and instead, sinks himself to the ground, one knee first then the other. The fabric of his suit darkens further where it meets the soil, drinking in moisture without complaint as he crawls his way to you. He looks enormous from this angle, predatory in its movement. 

You try to scramble backward but your spine meets the edge of Julie’s headstone, realizing with a terror that there’s nowhere left to go, so you shut your eyes instead.

His breath warms against your face, fanning across your skin in uneven breaths. Dex’s arms come up on either side of you, caging you loosely, his palms flat on the dirt, and he can feel the heat of your body so close to his. Your breath comes in shallow gasps that mingle with his in the small space between you.

“Open your eyes,” he says, but you shake your head. “Open your eyes. I want you to see me.”

“You need t—” 

“Please.”

And you do, it makes him happy somehow. Your eyes flutter open to find him impossibly close, Dex’s face hovering just beyond your own. He was wrapped around in red. Blood red stains his skin, and the moon above silvering it in ways that should have been grotesque but aren’t. You don’t know what it means, you don’t know what any of this means.

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice. “What do you want?” 

Dex wants to tell you something he doesn’t know himself—for it has always been a foreign language, a set of sounds he could mimic but never truly understand. There are no words in his lexicon for this vague desire he feels, drifting from one thing to another. Dex wants to kill you. Dex wants you alive. Trying to find reasons, only winding up with nothing. He didn’t know what he wanted, but the ache for it was palpable.

“Can you kiss me?” 

These words come out from his lips instead. Perhaps, he’ll learn what your mouth feels like against his. He finds himself wondering whether you carry the traces of whiskey on your lips, or something far more elusive—something he could spend a lifetime trying to define and still fail to capture.

What Dex didn't expect was your fist. 

Your knuckles connect with his cheek, it was clumsy, half grievance. Yet, the impact snaps through his face regardless, a shock traveling up through bone and into his skull. His head turns slightly with it, just enough to acknowledge force, but not enough to suggest defeat. It’s nothing compared to what he’s felt before. Your attempt at punching him felt more emotional rather than its usual physicality, perhaps, a release of everything you've been holding back.

“Fuck!” 

You hissed immediately, pulling your hand back, and Dex watches you cradle it against your chest, tears in the corner of your eyes. Your knuckles are already starting to swell, of course you’d hurt yourself, Dex was a lot stronger than you. Stupid impulse. There’s blood on his teeth, yours or his, no one’s certain, but it doesn’t matter. 

“Not exactly what I was asking for,” he remarked, and his smile is crooked, real. “But I’ll take it.”

Your expression falters, your anger is still there burning behind your gaze the way you look at him now. But something else is rising beneath it, hotter and more desperate, something that terrifies you almost as much as he does. 

Your hands grab the front of his suit, fisting in the fabric, pulling him toward you, then in a quick movement, your mouth crashes against his.

More teeth than tenderness, it seemed, as the heat between you is like a living entity, clawing its way under your clothes and searing every inch of skin it touches. You can taste the blood, the metallic red of it spreading across your tongue, but neither of you care. You clamp down harder on Dex’s lower lip and feel the tremor run through him, then a low guttural noise vibrates against your lips, more blood spilling down.

You want him to hurt, Dex thinks in between, because you kiss him like you’re trying to crawl inside him—that you’re trying to escape your own skin and find your way home in his. Yet, he relished the desperation in your touch, he didn’t care about the sanctity of the ground nor the eyes of the heavens. Jesus Christ can forgive him later for that. 

Dex shifted his weight, forcing your legs to splay open to accommodate the hard bulk of him. He broke the kiss only to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your throat. You felt the stinging prick of his teeth not quite a bite, but a warning before his hand slid down from your wrist, traveling the curve of your waist to the hem of your shirt. 

“Don't look away,” he pleads with your name. “Look at me. Only me.”

But before you could even think of reclaiming your space, his hands were back, cupping your cheek with a sudden tenderness that didn’t quite fit him well. Dex’s thumbs swiped over your cheekbones, catching the stray tears you didn’t realize were falling. Even as he was here, letting you do whatever you want to him, your mind still lingers back to her. It was fucking unfair. 

Out of spite, Dex pulled away and settled on your waist, sliding up the underside of your chest, his calloused palm squeezing hard the size of your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. A small, involuntary sound escaped you as his thumb found the peak of your tits. Even through the cloth, the sensation was electric and painful, you couldn’t deny. 

Dex began to roll the sensitive nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching and tugging them harshly as he watched your face with an unblinking, intense gaze, assessing every contortion of your expression and every whine in your breathing, feeding off the way your body arched instinctively toward his touch.

Your skin gave way beneath him, pliant and fever warm. But you also felt different, you were giving in, peering over the edge of what you should have been repulsed by, yet you kept encouraging Dex with the sound of your voice. Some sort of structure forming in his psyche. Guidance. Annihilation of a singular self.

He felt the nipple stiffen under his thumb, then the resistance as he rolled it and twisted your nipples around, and much to his delight, you convulsed; half lidded eyes glazed, lips wet and parted, releasing lewd sounds that were driving him insane.

He stopped momentarily, and you took that chance to let yourself breathe, staring at the night sky. You felt nothing and everything at the same time, and you must have believed yourself to be so cruelly wretched, you’d allow yourself to let him see your fragility in the form of perversion, that you would let Dex hold you stripped away of your tones and textures of your skin the same way one would to a dead body. 

What the fuck were you doing? You think to yourself, as contrition slither its way into your mind, almost consuming. But you hadn’t had the time to dwell longer as you felt a cold sharp metal pointed at your throat, your gaze glancing back to Dex with widened eyes, anticipation gnawing at your heart. 

Dex had his customized knife directly at your throat, he wanted to see the look on your face if you even had briefly thought that he was going to slit them open. Part of him was convinced that you would let him if he asked nicely. But alas, Dex didn’t. He aimed for the barrier of the fabric of your shirt instead, the steel of the blade catching glint as he brought it toward the center of your chest. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, soft. “I won’t hurt you unless you tell me to.”

With a single tug, the blade sliced through the material. The sound of the cloth rending was loud in the dead air, a violent rip that sends pure adrenaline through your veins. Dex didn’t stop at a single slit; he worked the knife with efficiency, carving a wide opening from the neckline down to your midriff. The chill of the night breeze brushes against your naked skin, sending a shiver through your exposed breasts.

He hummed, as his eyes traveled slowly, over the pale swell of your tits, the way they heaved with your frantic breaths and woeful cries. This sight of you vulnerable, and bared in the middle of a graveyard seemed to stoke the ambivalence of his nameless desire, flowing endlessly in his chest.

It’s you, Dex realizes. Fuck the divine being, it’s you for him.

You pull your upper body up, Dex watches in awe as you remove your bottom clothes except for the underwear. Then in reverence, you had clasped your hands around his, the one holding the knife, and gently trailed him toward the heat between your legs. Dex swallowed thickly, uncertain as to what you were trying to do but he gets the gist of it quickly, your mind synchronizes with his. The flat steel of his knife directly pressed against your clothed folds. 

You sank back into the earth, your body relaxing into the soil as if the weight of the world had finally been lifted, he understood—Dex understood the desperate yet beautiful madness of your entirety. Of what Julie could never witness even if she still was alive, because it was solely for him to see. Not Karen Page, not anyone. 

“You can put pressure on it, if you’d like.”

The words were an invitation that seemed to strip him even more naked than the knife had stripped you. He leaned over you, his frame casting a shadow that swallowed you whole, and to please, he began to move, you could feel the friction of it rubbing against your wet cunt. You can feel it at last, head full of desolation, this rage that has been going on for a long time, melting away. 

Dex moved with an agonizing slowness, as he gripped the hilt of the knife. He was focused entirely on the sensation of the cool metal dragging against the heat of your soaked fabric. The friction was a rhythmic grind, a heavy pressure that seemed to reach deep into your folds, stirring the very core of your being. 

“Let it all go for me.” he says, yet you both know what it had meant, feeling the way your hips jerked upward to meet the blade’s weight. 

The pressure builds, each drag of the knife against your clothed cunt sending sparks of pleasure through your mind. The blade is cold but the fabric of your panties grows slick and warm beneath it, soaking through as your arousal spreads. Dex watches the process with an almost fascination, his eyes observing the way the steel glistens with your moisture when he lifts it slightly, then presses down again.

“You’re making a mess of it,” he murmurs, but there’s no reproach in his voice. “You made it beautiful.”

He shifts his weight, adjusting the angle, and the blade drags differently now—the edge catching the seam of your panties, threatening to slice through. The danger of it sends a fresh wave of wetness flooding your cunt. 

You should be terrified, yet you had never felt more aroused and so open. A razor sharp blade is pressed against the most vulnerable part of you, one wrong move and you’ll be cut, but you do not fear it. You’re alive in a way you haven’t felt in months, years. It feels like being born again. 

Your hands find his wrist to guide him more intently. Your fingers wrap around his, feeling the corded tendons beneath his skin, the bones of his hand as they grip the knife’s handle. You press his hand down harder, forcing the blade deeper into the wet heat of your inner lips. 

A broken sound elicits from your throat, half moan, half sob. “God, fuck—Dex—!”

“That’s it,” Dex breathes out your name, his pupils blown wide, admiring you. “Take what you need. Use me.”

You can use him all you want for selfish reasons, but Dex will ensure he won’t be just another warm body for you. The knife moves in a slow grinding circle, the tip catching your clit through the wet fabric with each revolution. Your hips buck unwittingly, chasing the sensation that soon will fade, and the blade shifts and slides, the flat pressing directly against your swollen clit, rubbing over and over against it. 

You can feel the orgasm building, coiling low in your belly, as your breath comes in ragged gasps, your vision blurring at the edges. The surroundings spins around you, headstones looming like silent witnesses, the moon a pale spectator to your unbecoming. A depraved young woman with so much love nowhere to go. 

Dex leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Come for me,” he whispers. “Please, I need it.”

Your body obeys before your mind can catch up. The orgasm tears through you, violent and all over the place, your back arching off the cold ground as a cry rips from your throat. Your cunt clenches around nothing, flooding your panties with a hot gush of release that soaks through to the blade. The knife, slick and gleaming, continues its relentless pursuit as Dex works you through every wave of pleasure, not slowing until your trembling subsides into aftershocks.

When you finally collapse, gasping, with the chill air cold against your sweat slicked skin, Dex pulls the knife away. He holds it up, then ever so slowly, he brings the blade to his lips and drags his tongue along the metal, tasting the essence of you. 

He tossed the knife aside into the dirt, unconcerned with the weapon now that he had achieved his goal, and lowered himself over you. Large hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing your jawline.

“Was that enough?” he asks, and the question carries weight. “Did I do good—do you need more?”

“Yes, you did so good.” his cock twitched at your praise. “But I want to feel you inside me now, Dex.”

Dex’s breath catches at your words, at the fervent need through your voice. His hand slides from your cheek down your throat, fingers wrapping around them. For a long moment, he stares at you, all that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that empty part of your chest. He wants to tell you to pour them to him instead, he’ll take it. If not, he’ll force you to. 

His hand leaves your throat, reaching to the side where he tossed the knife. His fingers close around the handle, and he brings it back into view, still slick with your arousal, it was gleaming wetly. Dex sits back on his heels, positioning himself between your spread thighs. With the tip of the knife, he hooks the waistband of your panties and slices through the fabric on one side, then the other, and the material falls away from you.

“Hurt me.”

He stopped in his movement. “What?” 

“I want you to hurt me, Dex. Make me bleed for you.”

Dex hesitates for a second but gives in because he would give you anything you wanted. Begging him to hurt you while looking like this in front of him—how can he deny you, or worse, how does he look away now that he has seen you? The coolness hits your dripping folds, making you shiver. A groan elicits from his lips as he takes in the sight of your bare cunt—slick, swollen, the lips parted and it was beautiful, truly. 

He reaches down with his free hand, two fingers gathering your wetness, spreading it over your clit in a circling motion. Your hips buck into his touch, but he pulls his hand away, bringing those same fingers to his own mouth. Dex sucks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

Then shifting forward, the knife is still in his grip. His other hand unzips his gear pants, freeing his cock. It’s hard and throbbing, the head already wet with precum. 

“This will sting,” he says. “But you’ll take it. You’ll take it because you want to feel something real, don’t you?”

The tip of the knife presses against the tender skin of your inner thigh, just where it meets your hip. He applies pressure, enough to break the flesh. A deep line of blood wells up, bright red against your skin and the pain is immediate, a flare that makes you gasp, cunt clenching reflexively. You feel whole, you think. Dex makes your head go quiet for you, it seemed.

Dex observes the blood bead and trickles down your thigh, a single rivulet tracing a path toward your soaking wet folds. He follows it with his eyes, mesmerized. Then he leans down and laps at the cut, his tongue hot against the wound, and the taste of copper fills his mouth, mingling with the salt and dirt of your skin, and the lingering sweetness of your come.

He adjusts his position, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, dragging the tip through your wetness, coating himself in your arousal, mixing it with the blood that still seeps from the cut. The sensation is euphoric; the warmth of your cunt against the steel of the knife he still holds, the sting of the fresh wound, the anticipation of being filled.

“Eyes up here, please.” he calls out your name, and you do.

Your eyes meet his, and in that moment there was no guilt nor the past coming to take the both of you. There was only ever this, and you wondered briefly if Bedouins believed their heaven to be a lush paradise of trees and running water; yours was no different, though yours was bleeding together with Dex. 

He thrusts into you in one smooth, brutal motion. His cock stretching your insides felt overwhelming, you haven’t felt anything this big in a while. Your cunt clenches around him, still sensitive from your orgasm, but he’s so huge, filling you completely. A sob escapes from your lips, the sheer intensity of being fucked so hard it almost made you think he was God.

Dex holds himself still for a moment, buried to the hilt, letting you feel every inch of him inside you. Then, he starts to move, pulling out slowly, then slamming back in. Each thrust drives deeper and harder, the sound of his hips meeting your flesh echoing in the quiet cemetery. The knife shifts with the motion, the flat of the blade pressing against your stomach, a reminder of the danger and the trust held loosely between you.

Your blood still trickles from the cut on your thigh, and as Dex pounds into you, some of it smears across his skin, across your hips. He reaches down with his left hand, dragging his fingers through the blood, then bringing them to your mouth. You open without hesitation, swirling your tongue around his fingers, tasting yourself.

“Fuck, that’s perfect—you’re perfect.” he whines, and the praise drives you in a state of exaltation.

His pace increases, becoming desperate as Dex hits the right spot with accuracy every time. He was no longer controlled, this inhumane fucking, driven by something primal in the way every animals do. The knife clatters to the ground as he needs both hands now to grip your hips, angling you exactly how he wants, driving himself deeper and deeper into the wetness of your pussy.

You’re climbing toward another peak, the coil tightening in your belly despite the soreness, and all the blood. Your nails dig into his back, raking lines across his gear, and then you attempt to bite his shoulder hard and it rattles your teeth.

“I’m—I’m close,” he pants, his forehead pressed to yours. “Come on my cock. Let me feel you fall apart, fuck—she could never make you feel this good.”

His rhythm stutters, his body tensing above you. The first hot pulse of his release triggers your own, and you cry out together, a chorus of broken sounds swallowed by the night. His cum fills you, along with your own juices, with the blood that still weeps from the cut on your thigh. Dex collapses onto you, his weight a comforting pressure, his breath warm against your neck. 

For a long time there is only the sound of your combined panting, the frenzied beating of two hearts slowly calming. You stare at the constellations forming in the sky and try to remember how to breathe, you could feel your whole body ache from the violence of your own wanting, you should feel ashamed. You’re lying in a cemetery, your back pressed against the dirt that covers your other half’s body, and you let a killer put his hands on you. 

You wanted him to, and you had asked for it in the only way you knew how. You wait for it to arrive, yet the shame doesn’t come. Neither does the guilt. 

He moves, pulling out of you slowly, and the sensation of his release leaking from your spent cunt is almost too much, but Dex doesn’t let you dwell on it. He gathers you into his arms, lifting you from the ground, cradling you against his chest instead, you allow yourself to drift off.

Misery loves company, or so they say. You have never understood that phrase until now, and all you could feel is a strange kind of fucked up kinship.

The next morning when you wake up, you don’t recognize the walls around you. 

It’s plain looking and relatively small compared to yours, the lack of decoration made you think you were being held captive somewhere in an abandoned house. The walls are bare; no photographs, not even old erotica posters from the 90s, there was no evidence that anyone actually lives here. 

You’re on a bed, and there’s a single blanket draped over you. The mattress felt too firm, seemingly military in their lack of give. You wore a different shirt, bigger than your size and an underwear you’re not certain if it was ever yours but oddly enough fits you, then comes the soreness of your cunt and the fresh wound on your thigh. 

Then you remember. 

“Oh my fucking god.” you cursed under your breath, certain flashes of memories washes over you. All the choices you’ve made are coming back to bite you in the ass. Now, you’re two steps from the water and it’s so clear that you do this to yourself. You can feel the weight of desire, staring at things breathing—at all the things are living, because some part inside you wants to, and you could feel it. You could hardly describe this newfound sentiment.

Dex brought you here, whatever here is. You sit up too fast and your head spins around as you try to stand up, navigating around the room. It was easy enough to find him, opening the door leads to the whole place surprisingly. 

There he was, standing by the stove, cooking what you would have thought eggs and bacon were. A simple man indeed, one that is revolting and brutal yet in this light—you could pretend the slightest touch of normalcy in his gesture. He was also wearing a different outfit, a wife beater and grey sweatpants. Gone was the blood on his face, but the bruises remain, cleaned and washed. 

“You’re awake.”

You’re startled by his voice and the unsettling ability to notice you when you were so sure you had been quiet in your footsteps. Dex seemed in a good mood when he greeted you, but you couldn’t bear yourself to look at him. You didn’t know how to, after what transpired between you last night. 

“Where are we?” you ask instead, gaze wandering around. 

“My place.” 

“Are you sure? This place looks like something you’d see in horror movies.” 

“What does that even mean?” 

“It’s literally a textbook serial killer lair.” 

He turns then, spatula in hand, and looks at you. “Well, I kind of am, aren’t I?” 

You press your palms against your eyes, stifling a genuine laugh because you cannot simply argue with that. The absurdity of it messes with your head a little, makes you dizzy. When you lower your hands, Dex is still watching you, eggs sizzling in the pan, then your stomach growls loudly, embarrassing you at your lowest. 

Dex’s mouth twitches. “Hungry?” 

“A little.” 

He turns back to the stove, divides the eggs onto the plate, one in the pan, adding toast from somewhere you didn’t notice. Dex carries them to the table, sets the only plate he has in front of the empty chair, then looks at you.

“I’ll eat in the pan,” he says. “I don’t really have guests over like this.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Can’t see the reason why that is.”

You slide into the chair, the wood creaking upon your weight, and the cut on your thigh stings when you move but you don’t show it. Instead, your gaze drifts over at the plate in front of you. Eggs, golden and fluffy, toast buttered at its edges, a small pile of bacon that makes your stomach clench with hunger you didn’t know you had. 

The sunny weather outside doesn’t help the nostalgia you feel sick in the stomach for; this falsehood that the world has briefly forgiven itself—reminds you too much of another time. A better time, or was it perhaps a happier lie? Everything about this feels lighter and wrong, and you want to vomit all up. 

Dex leans against the counter, eating directly from the pan, his fork scraping against the metal, you can feel the heaviness of his gaze, watching and observing every move you make. 

“Why am I here, Dex?”

He chews, then swallows, takes his time answering. “Because you asked me to.”

Huh. “I don’t remember that.”

“But you did—even asked you if I should take you home,” he pauses. “You didn’t want to, you said I should take you to mine instead.”

Heat floods your cheeks, stabbing a piece of egg with more force than necessary. “You do realize I was drunk last night, right? Out of my mind?” 

“Were you? Your actions seemed clear to me.” 

Naturally, Dex lied. He didn’t really ask—you were too far gone, slumped against his chest, your breath warm against his collarbone. Your head had lolled against his shoulder, your fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his suit, and you’d mumbled something incomprehensible, he didn’t catch on. He made the choice for you, quickly decided that you were coming with him, that he wasn’t ready to let you go after what you just gave him. 

You exist in a state of perpetual contradiction, how your mind and words don’t align with themselves, yet all the more reasons you fascinate him. You say one thing, but your body says another. You push him away, but you don’t leave either, you’re even eating his damn eggs. You claim you don’t remember, but you remember enough to be embarrassed. 

Dex doesn’t know what to make of you, that’s the truth. You were the first person in years who doesn’t fit aptly into his understanding of the world. Unpredictable, it seemed, was the perfect word for you. He’ll make do with that. Dex will lie about other things, too. Whatever it takes to keep you within his grasp.

“Do you want to talk about last night?” he carefully pushes when you remain silent after the last one, noticing the gears turning inside your head. How miserable it must be being inside your head all the time. 

“I don’t wanna talk about last night,” your fork clinks against the plate as you set it down, suddenly not hungry anymore. Dex could anticipate what you were going to say next. “Look, Dex, I… what I made you do, or the awful thing we did, I’m not… I mean, I—”

Dex abruptly cuts you off. “I’m leaving New York.”

It must have landed, judging by the way you blinked at him, visibly thrown by his words. Your brows knit together, confusion overtaking whatever admission had been waiting behind your tongue. He’s giving you something else to distract your mind with, something bigger than your remorse. And it works.

“Okay…” you sound unsure, slow with your words. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because I want you to come with me.” 

You make a sound, a humorless laugh. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

But Dex doesn’t laugh along with you, his expression remains unchanged, there is no flicker of amusement in his gaze as it pierces right through you. 

“Shit,” you say, your voice suddenly smaller. “You are serious.” 

And it surprises you how intense his face was, it feels raw, the impersonation of a tortured soul. It was something that came out of you from nowhere, something you didn’t know you had inside, and you can’t tear your gaze away from him. Adamant that he won’t simply let you forget what happened between you, outwardly asking you to come with him—this killer you’ve come to entangle your body with. 

“That’s not how it works, Dex,” you try to explain. “I can’t just go with you. I have friends—I have a job, my apartment, I have—” 

“You have nothing left for you here,” he says, but it wasn’t cruel, it’s just the truth he thinks it is. “No one, not even Karen Page can save you from your grief, but I can. I did it last night, I’ll do it a hundred times more if you ask.” 

Your whole body went rigid. “How the fuck do you know Karen?”

Dex doesn’t answer. The pan settles onto the table with a metallic clank, but the sound barely registers over the ringing that suddenly fills your ears. He wipes his hands on a dish towel once, then he moves toward you. Planting one hand on the back of your chair and leans down, boxing you in without ever touching you. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, like you couldn’t breathe with him occupying every space you have left. His expression doesn’t change—if anything, it smooths out completely, every trace of amusement draining from his face until there’s nothing left to read.

“Dex.” your voice strained harder, edged with something that might be fear or anger. “How do you know about Karen?”

His hand lifts slowly, and his knuckles brush your cheek first; a featherlight touch that makes your breath hitch and your entire body weak, because you don’t know what he plans to do next. Then his thumb settles on your lower lip, tracing the curve with such intimacy it almost fooled you. Dex’s gaze fixated on the movement of your lips, watching the way your mouth trembles beneath his fingertips. You swallowed hard.

“I’m the closest thing you’ll ever get to being with Julie.” he whispers against your skin. 

Then his mouth captures yours in a harsh kiss, he forces his tongue inside to slide past your lips before you can even resist and none of it feels tender. Sweeping across the roof of your mouth, your hands come up to push against his chest, but your palms land flat on the hard plane of muscle and they don’t push, they simply press, fingers curling into the fabric of his tank top. 

Dex’s hand moves from your cheek to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair and pulling, making you tilt your head back to give him better access. The stretch in your throat makes you gasp against his mouth, and he swallows the sound, deepening the kiss until it’s almost brutal. One and the same with his nature. 

You taste yourself on him, or maybe Dex tastes like himself, and you’re simply drowning so fast you can’t tell the difference anymore. 

He pulls back, lips still brushing yours as he speaks. “That’s why you’ll come with me, because I’m the only one who can give you what you need.”

Dex leans away, stands fully in front of you, looking down at your dazed expression, the confusion settling into your features. Your eyes are glassy, unfocused, and your lips have been slightly swollen, still wet from his mouth. You look like someone who’s been caught in a current, swept out to sea, too disoriented to swim back to shore. 

And it’s exactly how he wanted you to be, what needs to be done, what this requires.

His hand slipped into the pocket of his sweatpants, and felt the cloth there; folded and damp. He had it prepared this morning, before you woke up. A last resort, Dex thinks. Something he wouldn’t use unless he had to. But truly, he had known. Even then, as he cracked the eggs and buttered the toast, pretending any of this was a normal morning, he simply knew.

You were never going to say yes.

But not all love is gentle, he supposed. Sometimes you have to do things for the betterment of your significant other, it can be gritty and dirty, sometimes it’s not supposed to be careful at all. But you have to take it upon yourself to make the harder actions, carrying the burden of decisions they weren’t strong enough to make themselves. That’s what this is—what he’s doing for you. Making hard decisions for the both of you. 

You’ll never heal as long as you’re still stuck in this place, chained down to Julie Barnes. She held onto you long enough, Dex will change that. He doesn’t have to compete with the dead.

He presses the cloth filled with chloroform over your nose and mouth, clamping down firmly, and you thrash immediately; muffled screaming noises, your hands flying up to claw at his wrists, your legs kicking against the chair, your body jerking with the instinct to escape.

But Dex’s entire arm holds you steady, feeling your nails scrape against his skin, leaving red marks that will fade by morning, though you might as well be pushing against a wall. 

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry, I truly am. Just breathe. It’ll be over soon.” 

Your eyes are wide in panic, filled with tears. He watches the betrayal flood your expression, and it hurts him most yet Dex was not sorry for what he’s trying to do. It must have felt an eternity before your thrashing weakened, your eyes struggling to stay open, trying to focus on his face, watching your body go slack, head lolling back with your eyes finally closing. 

Your chest rises and falls once, twice, and then your breathing becomes stable, slow and deep. Dex holds the cloth in place for another thirty seconds, to be certain. Then he pulls it away, folding them carefully as he places it on the table instead. 

Kneeling beside the chair, his fingers brushes a strand of hair from your face, your skin felt warm beneath his fingers, alive. But what can be done, the one who loves must share the fate of the one he loves. You became his north star, the fixed point round which Dex’s world turned. For as long as his heart beat, he believed you would always share the same fate, because he is as much a part of you as you are a part of him now.

Dex could only hope you’re not dreaming of Julie. He hopes you’re dreaming of nothing but him at all.

“what do you make of it?” aerion shoots a glance to his cousin, already anticipating her response with a grin. he brushes his hands over his lance, ridding it of any dust from the joust he just finished. the crowd cheered, the noble men beamed at him as they clap, their eyes glazing with both satisfaction and admiration over the young prince, who scored yet again, maintaining his title of being undefeated in the sport.

maekar’s second-born is considered to be a targaryen pride; his skills in swordsmanship and horse riding was second to none. both baelor and maekar remembered watching him for the first time, their hearts hung in their throat, seeing aerion charge into his first battle, but time and time again, he had proven himself worthy.

“it was good.” rhaenyra nods simply, not meeting her cousin’s gaze, not a shroud of amuse painted on her face. she spoke as if she was merely describing a fairly sunny day, normal and uneventful, that nothing about it was even close to monumental and entertaining. as if anything about him and what he does is not nearly special.

it was simply good, not exactly the best.

while the rest of the realm is completely wrapped around aerion’s fingers, bending their backs to earn a simple nod and a gesture of acknowledgement—it was only rhaenyra who was not fazed. she thinks Aerion’s skill set and capabilities were plain and ordinary; she would even whisper behind his back that it was rather predictable.

he charges with intent, while it is brave to some, courageous to the naked eye, it was foreseeable. aerion fights with his emotions, it seemed; not considerate any other possibilities, no further changes, he dives in, head first, then hope for the best outcome out of it.

“good? i knocked over a knight off of his horse and his stands twice my size, rhaenyra.” he pulls his helm off, gasping for air, his silver-hair shined against the sun rays, like gold, or a sore thumb; he was not sure if it was his armor that affects his manner of breathing, or his growing frustration over a the princess. she sits there, clad in her red dress and her neck adorned with a silver necklace, her hair gathered in a braid, then gracefully placed around her head, in a true valyrian fashion. rhaenyra appeared devoid of any emotion, still, yet when she speaks with aegon.. his younger brother who shaved his own head for odd reasons, she laughs, and he felt a burning fury at that.

she raises an eyebrow at him, finally seeing eye to eye, “the blessing might have served you well then.” rhaenyra uttered plainly, before turning her back to continue the dull conversations with aegon. that little shit, what was he saying that would be better than him winning a joust? he thinks of pushing aegon from the stairs, or tripping him somewhere within the halls, or carving their house’s sigil on his head to let him remember who he is.

yet he tries to stay composed. maekar and baelor simply had an exchange of knowing looks, not entirely surprised with the words shared between the prince and the princess. it had always been like this with the two of them, even within feasts and celebrations; when the two sees each other, it would be inevitable to slip into their daily habit of striking every nerve.

aerion knew this, that was why he weathered his emotions better now. he had tried to ignore her, tried to speak politely to her in hopes of avoiding another baseless argument, had tried to get into her good graces by giving her cakes and books—yet it was all in vain. the princess could not tolerate him, and her intolerance seemed to increase tenfold in each passing day. he made a decision to join her instead, pushing any button that he could find, speaking to her at every opportunity that presents itself. if she could not tolerate him for even a second, might as well stress her out a bit more. aerion fumes on most times, and at one point, he finds himself looking forward to it on the next days. there was always a promise of tomorrow, and he could not wait for a time that he could finally beat her in her own game.

as he was passing by baelor’s chambers, he had heard one of the guards coming in, bearing news.

“your grace, prince daeron and princess rhaenyra were caught by the night guards.” the man paused, there was a small tremble in his voice, a fidget in his stance while he tries to deliver the news, “entering a whorehouse.” aerion shook his head as he halts his steps, but his lips curled into a smirk, that was her indeed. one could never predict what rhaenyra will say, nor the actions that she will do.

he had always pictured her with an air of freedom—walking inside the rooms as if she owns the place, purchasing countless expensive dresses, laying down in the grass fields of the garden if she feels she’s not well enough learn the lessons from the great maesters. he had imagined her racking up her uncles’ heads and taking it for a spin, that would always end up in a terrible scolding. yet he would not imagine she will go as far as entering a whorehouse.

“had there been any efforts to capture them?” baelor’s voice rung, his calm trademark dripping from his mouth; aerion could already know that baelor is troubled, his fingers would already be right next to his temples, pushing forth, an attempt to soothe himself from yet another rogueish act from the princess.

“there is, your grace. the castle’s knight took them away right after seeing the two, as he had recognized them from a distance—despite their attempts to disguise.” the guard continued, and aerion could already see the look on both rhaenyra’s and daeron’s face once they stand in front of baelor, with the utmost certainty that they will not hear the end of it. “they were dressed as peasants, your grace. as to where they have acquired the commoner’s clothes, that i am not sure of.”

aerion raised his eyebrows, deeply entertained with the news he knew he was not supposed to know nor hear about. he had a growing excitement over what could happen next, but more on the part where he wanted to see rhaenyra in plain clothes. he thought of her as spoiled rotten, and he could not even begin to think how daeron convinced her to wear clothes similar to a peasant’s. she must have went into several complaints, must have prolonged a moment before she steps into the fabrics, and she must have been dying for a bath when she slips right out of it.

“very well. i shall advise my men to pay a handsome amount to the guards, and to you, ser. you all have my thanks for serving your duty.” aerion could picture Baelor locking his hands together, his uncle’s habits when he wanted to say further, but choosing to let the words die inside his mouth by the end, he heard the chair creaking. “i trust you will not speak a word of this to anyone else?” baelor had always been thorough with his temperament, even under any form of pressure, or any distress, he could always speak kindly, and would always do everything he could for the family.

“of course, your grace.” the guard was dismissed now, and aerion could only hold his own breathing as he hides himself in the corner of the hall. he initially planned to take a stroll, but now, he has better things to take care of.

he switched directions as he walked, as quietly as he could, baelor could not know that he was within the halls when the news was delivered. he no longer wanted to go beyond the gates, as he steers himself somewhere else. towards rhaenyra’s chambers.

aerion entered from the door, and he looked around her quarters: her bed was neatly made, the set of accessories kept together and enclosed in a wooden box, she had her books piled in a clean stack on top of her table. after he spends time admiring her room, internally praising her spotless keepsakes, he had now the time to think about where he should be placing himself, for when she finally enters.

there were footsteps outside, and aerion could only stand on the corner near her bed, the farthest place away from the door, “we shall speak of this on the morrow when we break our fast, rhaenyra—and you will tell me everything.” baelor’s, he had taken the princess back into her chambers and not long after, the doors opened, revealing rhaenyra, dressed in dirty set of clothes, similar to the common folk, as the guard had said, and her hair was hidden in some sort of hood, concealing the clearest sign of her lineage.

“being a peasant for a night suit you.” he greeted, rhaenyra shoots a look towards where she heard the voice from, she did not feel another presence in the room, did not perceive him up until she looks at his form, his back leaning on the wall while his arms are crossed in front of his chest, that foolish grin already patched on his face.

she rolled her eyes once she recovered from the shock, followed by a sigh, “i do not remember asking for your approval. you must leave.” she pulls the headwear away, her hair now freely falling on her shoulders down until the ends reaches her lower back.

the prince rips himself off of the wall and sat comfortably on her bed, “leave? i am in no hurry.” he shook his head, generally amused of the situation he was in, “i have not heard about your.. adventures yet.” he continued, making himself comfortable as he sits on her bed, repositioning his back against the headboard to fully face her.

she blushed profusely, pacing within her own chambers, incredibly embarrassed of getting caught, and to be under his scrutinizing gaze. rhaenyra would already start spiraling, if he knows, then someone else must have been made aware of her whereabouts while tagging along with her cousin. there could be a good number of people who knows, who will stare knowingly, who will start gathering and in between whispers, her name would be there, along with defiled, corrupted, ruined. she had to think about how aerion will be using this matter against her, to ruin her name and to instill shame, then fear.

while aerion already found it in himself that he likes her like this, more human, flushed and restless, he prefers seeing this instead of her stone-cold face that she greets him with, almost every day, if not with a look of disgust. he reveled at the thought of rhaenyra having the slightest interest at the very least thing he would expect, pleasure houses, above all things. there was an excitement washing over him, though he had no idea on what to do upon knowing this yet.

“that does not concern you.” she finally retorted, switching back to her usual, stoic expression as she places her hands on the foot of the bed. she managed to hide the turmoil that has willed its course within her head, masking it with a blank expression—she could not let him know how this has bothered her and her purity, to the eyes of many.

“i would not deny that.” he nodded to himself, piercing his gaze on her and not paying any mind to anything else, he appeared to contemplate his next words, aerion could not deny the urge to push her further, aggravate whatever is needed, until she shows him more, “however, i would like to be entertained.” he places his arm on her sheets, lightly brushing his palm over the neatly-made bed, now with creases, touching on the pillow, feeling the fabric on his fingertips.

“you shall seek it somewhere else.” she tried once more to dismiss him. rhaenyra could simply drag him out of her chambers, pull on his leg, as aerion does not stand too tall from her, his build was not exactly massive—she thinks she could carry his weight and toss him out of the door, but that will conclude defeat.  

aerion clicked his tongue before he rises to his feet, walking closer towards her, already sensing the brewing rage just from her words alone, and he knew he could keep trying, “were you at least entertained, princess?” he speaks, lowering his voice and leaning closer to her ears. he had a good smell of her hair, still reeking of essence oil and dried flowers that she uses during bath, despite wearing a dirty cover for her hair, “did you like what you saw?”

he started to move, in an incredibly slow pace, placing himself behind her, his face a breath away from her hair, “did you like seeing whores getting fucked?” he asks, the words clear and plain, eager to push past the remaining calmness she tricks herself with, going as far as pressing his own body against her, the warmth radiating off of her was peppering his skin.

“did you like seeing them get touched?” he lifted a hand and placed it on her waist, he wanted to see her face, wanted to see the unraveling of her, wanted to see how her demeanor and the composed charm that she upholds to slowly crumble down, wanted to see how he’s making her feel—and he would make sure he will not ever miss it.

“did you enjoy seeing whores be defiled, over and over again, until it is the only thing they will ever know?” he snakes his hand onto her belly now, traveling upward, the threads of the fabric she’s wearing grazing against his calloused hand. rhaenyra did not move, but the weight of his hand was impossible to ignore, she would be lying if she says none of this will ever affect her, so she simply lets him.

“did you enjoy watching them be desired by very, very lustful men, rhaenyra?” his hand was dangerously close to her breast now, yet he stops just below it. the princess heaved a sigh so heavy and shaky at the same time. she felt the air from his mouth as he speaks, and it could easily make the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand, a jolt, and ticklish sensation coming traveled through her spine.

she tilts her head to look at him, her body remained in its position, glancing up at him and she could not tell if she made a mistake in turning, for their faces are held so close now, “what do you want, aerion?” she asks, briefly glancing on his pinkish lips and how soft it looked when stared at in this level of proximity.

He could only offer a small curl on his lips, liking the sound of his own name rolling off from her sweet lips, one corner turning upward as he gazes back at her, not missing the look she had when her eyes landed downwards, casting her eyes on his mouth, his hold could only last for a quick moment, “answers, rhaenyra. you have been nothing but quiet, surprisingly so, when you never run out of matters to say to me.” aerion countered, with a swift clench of his jaw, “sneer at me, mock me and any other matter about me, scowl, grimace with anything I would ever say.”

she could not bear it longer, not when she is completely in the shadows and oblivious of his purpose, as he keeps torturing her with his rigid hands and hot breaths, “what is it to you if i do, cousin?” she bites back, her pretensions to be the one on the calmer side was now collapsing, “have i enjoyed myself seeing a whorehouse, i do not see why it should trouble you.” she moved her body to face him now, eyebrows crossed and creating a firm crease in the middle.

it was aerion’s turn to back away for an inch, “will you come running to uncle baelor once you’ve had your share of information? shame me into walking into that place?” she knew he would be conspiring against her, whether it is to start with baelor or maekar, she knew he had meant to torment her; yet she could not fathom why the agony must begin this instant, and within the walls of her chambers, where she could feel the most at ease and comforted. he could begin his rally on the morrow, humiliate her in front of the other lords and maesters and she would have the time to prepare for all of it.

aerion lifted his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, he hummed, “for whatever reason? you will get your chance to speak with him over a plate of meat and eggs.” he could feel her so close to him, and he could not deny the certain heat enveloping his own body, could no longer deny the tension and just how good it felt to have her body squeezed against him; there was a point when he feels his cock twitched, and he recognized the reason why he insists on having her buttons pushed, why he had gone through the troubles of coming into her chambers, why he had been so hellbent to corner her and attempt to strike at victory—he was aroused, and growing painfully hard.

she rolled her eyes, causing him to lower his head,  gently putting his mouth right next to her ear, his breathing fans hot air on her skin and it made her shiver; inside his head were a handful of things—possibilities, in which he believed he had the power to escalate into, “did you like whatever it was that unfolded before you, princess?” he whispered, and they both paused, they had kept their gazes fixed on each other’s eyes, they had no other points to come to, reasons had been spent and thrown out of the window.

they did not know which of them had started, which one of them surged forward and crashed their lips against the other. rhaenyra shuts her eyes, an immediate dizziness circling in her head, her breathing hitched, yet she tilted her head to make room for him, allowing herself some support as she grips on his shoulder.

she could not deny that she felt enlightened, and even more curious at the same time, when she saw a horde of men fucking women at the place she was in. they were unabashedly loud, screaming and moaning in fits of pleasure and burning passion; she felt herself blanking out as she takes the sight in, too far from the usual swords, books, wines that she usually surrounds herself with, in a way, it felt oddly familiar still, heated fervor in full display, and both men and the women exhibiting their desires in its most raw form. primal, instinctive, and raw, she thinks it’s not too far from swordfight.

his heart was frantic inside his ribs, he was not prepared for what was happening—he had expected a fight, or for her to admit defeat, he ought to ignore his cock stiffening and expected himself to patiently await for the time he will be left alone inside his own chambers, fucking his fist before his slumber.

aerion wondered if she has placed her hand on his shoulder to stop him, but she never dared to push him away, and it was enough for him to move along, as he stands there in shock, he could not find it in him to stop. he was insatiable, and becoming even greedy, to get more, to have more. it was then that he finds himself parting from her lips, and moving to latch his gaping mouth on her neck. to inhale her scent was nowhere near sufficient, though it render him warm in an instant, he had to taste every essence of her.

she was never one to back down, not now, not ever, she had to feel that she is in control, that she would never fall for his clever tricks. rhaenyra grabbed aerion’s face and pulled it towards her own once more, their lips met in a hurried kiss, vigorous and fervent. he tasted good, not that she has anything to compare it with, but he kisses with an intense and burning desire, sucking away all the breath inside her lungs, like he has been wanting to do this all of his life and now was the only chance. her mind traces back to what she has seen in the whorehouse, and wondered if it gets better from here when his kisses alone were more than enough to send her into a frenzy, almost losing her to a blissful haze.

aerion was no better, his mind was about to wreak havoc; he thinks he would finally be soothed and appeased when he tasted her lips. he wanted this, he wanted her; if he cannot impress her with his swordsmanship or his expertise in a joust, he wanted to try other ways. his cock was a painful reminder of how terribly bad he wants to have her, as it starts to physically pain him, begging to be freed from the fabrics of his garment. yet he wanted to please her first, gain her approval, make her see him as he is, and have her admit that he is worthy; not a plain good, he wanted to be the best.

he thinks this could change their overall dynamics, he thinks he could earn her respect and by no means will he give up on this chance. he flawlessly slips a tongue inside rhaenyra’s mouth, earning a soft whimper escaping from her lips. He had not thought there will ever be a day where he would be sticking his tongue into the princess’ throat, did not ever stop to think how divine she would have tasted.

the bands of her clothes were quickly pulled away, aerion was becoming hasty to see her, every bit, every skin and everything she cloaks underneath her dress will finally unravel itself before him. he cupped her breast, grasping at her mound, supple and pliant, and he adored it even more when it sits perfectly within his palm.

he kneeled shortly to rip her breeches away, pulling it down with him as he descends, the wool landing softly on the ground as he inspects her rigorously, starting off as a stare, and he had come to admire, then he openly desired; he needed to burn this into his memory. aerion’s hand meets her waist, caressing her skin softly as if she’s an ancient family heirloom too fragile to touch, but he knew better—he sees rhaenyra as he sees himself. dragons. forged in steel, made of fire and blood, she could take it, he thinks, she can take everything.

rhaenyra felt her head even lighter when he undresses her, her maids had seen her naked body as she prepared for a bath, it was not anything new; but the way he stares, with his eyes gradually darkening as his gaze travels to more parts of her, she had felt slightly timid. there was a hint of admiration to it, but she knew there were something else entirely, something deeper. there were rumors of aerion coming out of the castle deep in the night to enjoy cups of wine, she had thought he had plenty of time to spend with women. there was an urge to say something to his face, spark up another banter, of how he had been so struck with how she looked underneath the fabrics, even when nothing stood out of place and out of the ordinary.

the prince propped his knees against the floor, his eyes fixed at hers while he begins to put his mouth towards her breast, mouthing it wholly, the tip of his tongue flicks on the sensitive buds; he heard her gasp, awaking yet another primal desire within him, he felt a surging power flow inside him, building his confidence as he hears her muffled noises. aerion felt her arms wrapping around his head, urging him to continue, her form then backed away into the wood that is placed on the foot of her bed.

aerion wanted to take his time, he wanted to be as leisurely as he can be, yet he finds his hands reaching for rhaenyra’s cunt, his finger dipping lightly into her leaking folds and he almost came undone just by the warmth of it and how wet she was. he applied more weight into his fingers, and pushed deeper, allowing himself to explore her, remembering which parts would elicit any kinds of responses from her.

she inhaled sharply at that, her eyes were shut when she had felt his tongue licking on her breast, unaware of his plans with his hands; she opened her eyes and regarded his kneeling form, his mouth still busying itself with her breast while his palm locks on her cunt. rhaenyra was not made aware of the sensation she feels, nor where to put his hands when she felt she was holding onto him too tightly.

he lowered his body, posed lower until his head was the same level as her cunt, parting from her breasts as he seeks another point where he could sink his mouth in; he needs this, he needs her, before he fully falls apart. within her chambers, he had tapped on her knees, wordlessly asking to let him and he spreads her wider. not needing any more orders, nor any gesture from her to go on, he knew that they were both wrapped in immeasurable and persistent lust, and he knew she wanted whatever it is that he does.

aerion’s mouth found her cunt, he leaned forward and already claimed it as his, and rhaenyra, almost in an instant, pulled on his silver hair. it was too much, aerion was feasting in between her legs like a man denied of any meal, or sustenance, for some time being.

he didn’t care to be gentle, did not consider this to be her first time, no, he wanted to devour her completely. he willed his knees to push him further upward, switching in between lapping on her cunt, like a dog, and then eventually sucking.

he had his eyes closed, the sounds of rhaenyra’s irregular breathing and how she continues to lose the control she has of herself lulls him closer to the brink towards insanity; her continuous moaning and whimpers drives him to continue, to thread deeper, the wet and sloppy noise echoed within the walls of her chambers, though buried underneath rhaenyra’s exclaims.

“fuck, aerion.. you have grown fucking mad.” rhaenyra was grasping both on his hair and the wood behind her, her knees felt weak and her body felt as if it were caught within a flame, and he continued to overwhelm her still.

aerion did not halt, nor slowed, but a small grin paints itself on his face as few phrases and actual words managed to push past rhaenyra’s lips. his hand then moved towards his own crotch, palming his stiff cock through his breech, consoling himself from the dull ache that now sits on his cock, he was not able to stop now, to tend to his own needs, he needed her to be put in the highest form of bliss before he could even begin to think of his own.  

rhaenyra jerked her hips forward, almost riding Aerion’s face as the ties snapped, signifying her reach to oblivion—time fractured, and all else ceased to exist. rhaenyra almost fell on the floor, knees giving up before she could regain her strength, she felt as though she has been ran over by a very large deer, or a bear, rendering her incapable to do anything right after, it was not within her control, but more of a surrender to a fierce and tiring battle against her twin brother. a shuddering warmth enveloped her, she grew quiet, aside from the exhales she could only muster.

aerion never missed it, it was the only time he opened his eyes, the only time he halted from gripping on his cock, when he knew she was about to come on his mouth. he had been granted the best reward any king could ever match, witnessing her shattered was to witness something near holy. she looked beautiful, he thought, as she recovers from her desperate undoing.

aerion caught her just before she hits the ground, holding her while she goes through the recovery from it, anchoring her limp body, he remained sturdy while she walks out of the storm she had been in, the two targaryens stood quietly now, “i would have never imagine something, such as that, would make you weak, princess.”

she was in the middle of catching her breath when he spoke, responding with a simple smack on his arm in return. rhaenyra paused and held onto the fabric of his clothes, “you are too.. dressed, aerion. all of these must go.” she ordered him, and like what she anticipated, he followed immediately. confident that she still has a hold on him, she lets her finish unwrapping himself, before leading him to her bed and pushing his whole body down, plopping towards the mattress.

rhaenyra straddled him, placing herself on top and finding a position where she’s least restrained. aerion’s shaft is caught between the folds of her cunt, she wondered if it would hurt, she wondered if it would be agonizing. she knows that it must not be simple and easy, it would be rather uncomfortable; but rhaenyra recalled the faces of the whores she saw back when she steps foot into the whorehouses—their demeanor, away from any ounce of physical and definite pain. she will carry on.

the prince only looked at her, how her body fits perfectly on top of him, how she looked indescribably beautiful—sweaty, aroused, and ready for him. rhaenyra’s weight was an exquisite pressure that holds him down on the soft mattress, he stayed still, careful of any deliberate movement that would cause her sensitive senses to disarray. from his view, she was now far from the woman he conceived during the day, who had thrown every word of distaste and contempt towards his way, the soft glow from the embers of each torch only made her appear godly and unnaturally soft.

once steady, rhaenyra starts to rock her hips, grinding against his bare cock. his length, now covered with her slick and his saliva, slides flawlessly as it is locked between her folds, and he groaned loudly. the bed frame creaks lightly when rhaenyra rides him on, and aerion holds her by the waist, fingernails digging through her skin, certain it would create crescent marks the next morning. He had placed him on where he needs her the most, right at the center of his growing ache.

“did you want to have me like this, rhaenyra? was this one of the things you have seen in the whorehouse?” there was a tone of mocking dripping from his voice, followed closely by a soft chuckle. rhaenyra leans closer to him, to which aerion responded by opening his mouth, but she aimed right at his neck, nipping at his skin harshly.

he hissed in pain, but rhaenyra mellowed by licking each bruise generously, earning a soft gasp from the targaryen man. he moved his hand to hold his cock, pointing it towards her cunt; without warning, he inserted himself within, slowly, as he thinks it should be, for he was welcomed with a soft resistance, garnering a long exhale from his lips as he allowed her body to recognize his.

rhaenyra winced, feeling a sharp pain on her cunt, as if it was ripped open, opting to bite on aerion’s shoulder instead, eyes tightly shut while her palm plants itself on his chest, silently hoping he’d pause for a while; she needed to get used to the pain, “seven hells.” she whispers, her hand was pale and white as it digs through aerion’s shoulder, she swallowed, and permitted herself to stretch as she feels the fullness of him.

aerion did not concern himself in any regard to her account, he moves slowly, burying himself, unhurried, towards her; he expects her to be like this, narrow and constricting but she wrapped him perfectly snug. her velvet walls created enough pressure to steal all his breath alone, he pushes deeply, up until her cunt touches his groin, and he exhaled, licking his bottom lip at he buried himself deeper to the hilt.

rhaenyra took it as a challenge, ignoring the pain as she sits straight, it wavers, gradually, she figured, soon after, she was completely used to it, used to his length and girth piercing towards her. but there was a tremor in her legs, and a notable discomfort of having him inside.

she started moving, willing her own hips in such a manner that his cock slides in and out of her hole; it was tiresome, balancing herself all while she prays that the unease of having a cock rubbing on her inner walls for the first time—but she dared not to stop, not when aerion’s face slowly twisting in complete satisfaction and enjoyment, deeming it as her reward for holding on.

aerion plants the soles of his feet on the edge of the mattress, stepping lightly as will be using the support of a strong material; his grip on her waist tightened, feeling the tight seam slowly parting to claim him further; his other hand strokes on her breast before making its way on her neck. he closed his hand and squeezed, with a dark grin on his face, meeting her pace in the middle by jerking his hips, claiming the momentum half-way.

the manner of her breathing was easily constricted, recognizing the pressure that closes in from around her neck as aerion holds it tight, gradually steeling in grip. she paused, but her hands made its way on top of aerion’s, not knowing if she would shove it away or to press it tighter, she could not move as much; aerion sees this as his chance to fully take over. he thrusted faster, more violently, the loud slapping of their skin serves as the tune on rhaenyra’s choking and broken breathing.

she slaps his chest, breathless and struggling, and aerion loosened his hold on her throat. she was gasping for air, a dark shade of red completely breaks on her face, and with tears welling up on the side each eye; aerion felt victorious, claiming over the win in an instant, yet he forgets the kind of person rhaenyra was—for there will always be a price to pay.

a sound of a loud slap reverberated in the chamber, rhaenyra’s hand had made a pale print of red across his face; he was caught of guard, bewildered, even. she did not let him recover from the grand shock as it was her turn to wrap her own hand on his throat; she allowed him a taste of what a win would have felt like, but he will never be triumphant. she moved again, their skin slapped roughly as she rides him, landing against him in full weight. aerion, with his face in angry shade of red, could only smile in between pleasure—there was nothing gentle about this, nothing gentle about her, it will always be in its maximum, until they are scorched within their own flames.

she hastened her pace, without a care for anything else, without a care on the way his hips jerked, or how his cock twitches. aerion groaned, his hands flew to her hips once again and held her down, that was when she felt his cock spurting inside of her, filling her up the more she kept seated.

aerion froze, his body lightly shaking from the climax, and Rhaenyra retrieve the hold on his neck, “fucking whore,” he grunts, propping his elbow against the mattress, his cock, now sensitive, was slowly softening around her warm walls, pleased at himself for draining all of his cum into her cunt. rhaenyra, on the other hand, was not done yet. she rode him still, wanting to chase what she had felt when aerion’s tongue toyed with her cunt and aerion recognized that.

he flipped both of their bodies on the mattress, rhaenyra now laying down; putting both of his hands on the soft cushion pressed against the sheets as he plants each palm on both sides of rhaenyra; she was pliant and more obedient as she spreads her legs wider, putting all tricks to the side as she focuses on his thrusts.

aerion sinks himself deeper once more, her cunt slowly consuming all of him until all space vanished, he had his thumb hovering over her cunt and he can now see, in full clarity, just how good rhaenyra was squeezing him.

“fuck, fuck!” she screamed, when aerion started thrusting relentlessly, finger pressing on her sensitive nub and rubbing in circular motions; she felt it again, the pressure that builds inside her, she knew she was close, her own breath caught on her throat as she momentarily holds it: aerion fucking her with renewed vigor and speed, anchoring himself with a hold on one hip, he sees her cunt in a soft hue of pink and an outline of white surrounding his cock by its base with her wetness and his own release.

she pushes herself off of him and pulls her leg together, shaking violently as she turns to her side; it had felt better than before, she thought, her climax was much more convulsing the second time through. rhaenyra heard aerion laughing, “don’t go too far now.” was all he could manage to say as he relaxes, feeling his bones heavier, as if it is not his own, before he collapses on top of the bed, right next to her.

she feels him behind her, pulling her weary body in a tight embrace.

“i have long wondered how i could finally make you break.” he talks and she could only sigh, the exhaust slowly creeping into her every muscle now, when she attempted to move, to dismiss him from her chambers, before any maid could even come in, before guards could even check if she was in any danger—he only held his embrace tighter.

she lets him, for now, she thinks, once she gathers up enough energy to stand, she will be the one to pull him out of the bed, “you must sleep in your chambers, or we will both be breaking our fast before baelor in the morrow should anyone sees us in this manner.”

Tuesdays are meaningless to him, they’re depressing. Why are Tuesdays so depressing? 

Dex once read an article on the internet that suggested the most productive day of the work week is Tuesday, which only proves that productivity is a disease and humans are its willing hosts. He has nothing against Tuesdays specifically, only against the assumption that any day should matter more than another when all of them end the same way; in silence, and the mechanical act of loading his sniper just to feel the magazine seat properly against his palm.

Dex had been counting his days into laying low. The AVTF has his face on file, his fingerprints, his particular brand of violence listed and cross referenced. He wants Wilson Fisk dead, so Dex waits. He takes the apartment with low rent, because it has windows facing the street so he could see, also because the landlord asked no questions when Dex paid him cash and a knife to his throat, the walls are thin enough to hear the couple next door fuckin, and the nice old woman below watching the same game shows on repeat. White noise. The soundtrack of people living their insignificant, dying lives. 

But he also needs his coffee, that’s the whole of it. Need is a strong word—want is more accurate, but want means appetite, and Dex has never had much of that either. He simply knows that caffeine sharpens certain neural pathways, and he’d been sitting in the dark for three hours, rolling a catholic token across his knuckles, for his hands have begun to feel like they belong to someone else.

The coffee shop’s name was as basic as it looked like. Dex has been a frequent customer here and it wasn’t because the coffee was exceptional, no—it was entirely something else. Shop’s almost empty, too. A man in a beanie taps at a laptop in the corner. A woman with grey hair reads a paperback so worn its spine has split into three distinct sections. Dex’s gaze sweeps over the vastness of the area, looking for someone until it lands to who he was looking for.

There you are, Dex thinks. He’s smiling. Between his plans, the surveillance, and the hunt to eliminate Kingpin’s circus, AVTF—there are gaps. Hours that belong to no one but himself.

Dex spends them watching you.

You were behind the counter, wiping down the steam wand with a rag that’s seen better days. Your hair is pulled back, a few strands escaping to frame your face. You weren’t looking at him—you haven’t even noticed him yet, and you were humming under your breath, some song Dex couldn’t name if his life depended on it, the sound travels through the ambient noise of the café.

Dex approaches the counter and his posture shifts; shoulders dropping, spine relaxing, it was a deliberate imitation of ease.

“Good morning,” he greeted along with your name, Dex’s eyes drifted to the name tag on your chest, just long enough to prove he looked, and then his gaze returned to your face again. 

“Oh—hi, Tony,” you say almost delightfully, and there’s a flicker of recognition in your eyes. “The usual?” 

Months ago, you didn’t know his face. Then weeks later, you have come to learn his order and fake given name. Today, you have christened it the usual, as though his presence here has weight, that his absence would have left a hole for you. Dex feels a smile try to happen, but he swallows it down. 

“Yes,” he replies. “Please.” Because Dex is good like that. He wants to be that—for you. He wants to be anything you want him to be. If only you would allow him.

You nodded and turned to the espresso machine, your back half turned to him as you reached for the portafilter. Dex stood at the counter watching the movements of your hands—your efficiency to tamp the grounds, and the slight tremor in your left wrist that suggested either fatigue or a healed injury, he watched you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and revealed the soft hollow just below it.

You’ve been working here for six months, and Dex knows this because he’s learned the schedule changes taped to the back office door, visible through the crack when the manager leaves it ajar. Tuesday through Saturday, opening shift. You take your break at ten, give or take four minutes, spending it in the alley behind the dumpster with a paperback book and a lit cigarette placed between your lips, taking long drags.

Dex also has learned the titles of these books you’ve been bringing to work. He’d read all of them, sometimes after he comes home from killing some of the AVTF agents, his laptop open on his kitchen table while the camera feeds from your apartment, appearing on a secondary monitor.

He installed those three weeks ago. 

It had been remarkably simple, your building’s security was a god damn joke—a buzzer system that could be bypassed with a paperclip and a landlords’ indifference that bordered on criminal negligence. Your apartment was a studio type on the third floor; one doorman, and a few old cameras in the hallway. Dex let himself in on a random day, when he knew from two weeks of observation you would be out meeting your friends, and your downstairs neighbour, Mr. Hargrove, would be watching his late-night Westerns loud enough to cover any incidental noise. 

The cameras were small. Disposable. It was the kind Dex could buy with cash at four different electronics stores across the city, assembling the components piecemeal so no single transaction would register. He placed one in the smoke detector above your bed, one in the charging block you kept plugged in by the microwave, and then in the spine of a cookbook on your shelf that you had never opened. 

Careless, he thinks, and the word carries no judgment, only perception. You are careless. You leave your curtains half open at night, offering anyone with eyes a view of your living room. You check your phone while walking home, earbuds in, oblivious to the world around you. You never look over your shoulder nor do you ever cross the street to avoid a stranger. 

You are, in every measurable way, a target waiting to be acquired.

What if somebody follows you? Dex wanted to confront. What if somebody learns your routine, memorizes your schedule, watches you through the gaps in your defenses? What if somebody is already watching—and you have no idea? You should be more careful, he thinks as he stands inside your living room while on the other side of the room you sleep peacefully. You don’t know who’s watching. 

If he were a different kind of man—if he were the kind of man he is warning you against, Dex could do anything to you, and you wouldn’t even wake until it was too late. 

“How’s your day going?” you suddenly ask, snapping him back to reality, you slide the finished cup across the counter. Your fingers brush his, brief—electric. His cock twitched at the contact.

What should he tell you? His day has consisted of three hours of surveillance on a AVTF supply route, forty five minutes of strength training, a cold shower in which he imagined your hands running wet on his back, and the slow torture of cleaning his sidearm while listening to the couple next door argue about whose turn it was to buy groceries. 

Dex didn’t think you wanted to hear any of this, did you? He wondered what your reaction would be if he said what he was thinking. 

“It was eventful,” he says instead. “But almost quiet.” 

You nodded like you understand. “Those are the best kind,” your lips turn up slowly, soft expression. “The quiet days.” 

Dex wants to say something back. Wants to explain his version of quiet days are the dangerous ones, where his thoughts get loud, the buzzing in his head threatens to turn into worse—rage, grief, or the type of wanting that has no object and therefore no end. 

But you were looking at him with those eyes—those innocent eyes that have somehow become the only fixed point in his drifting, Dex finds that he cannot contradict you.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” a hopeful tone in your voice, he noticed. 

Dex nodded, smiling. Showing his teeth. “I wouldn't dream of being anywhere else.”

His hands are shaking and he’s inside your apartment—where you undress, where you sit in your chair with your back to the window and your face turned away from the world. The air smells faintly of you despite your lack of presence, and it makes his chest tighten. Everything about him hurts.

Dex almost died today.

Although he knows he wasn’t ever going to, not like that, at least. He couldn’t, especially now that he’s found his north star. But the AVTF has gotten faster, smarter. Someone has been feeding them information, and he has a short list of suspects, in which all of them will be dead by the end of the month, Dex guarantees. And yet, that’s not what matters right now—what matters was the shit that happened in the second between hearing the shot and dodging it.

He thought of you. 

Your name fallen on his busted lips, your face blooming in his peripheral vision like a dark flower. His brain is tricky sometimes, it offered him a vision of the future—your expression, three days from now, glancing at the door of the coffee shop, waiting for a man who would never walk through it again. You wouldn’t understand why you felt the absence so acutely ( you don’t even know his real name ) but you would feel it. Emptiness. And eventually, you would stop waiting, and you would take someone else’s order, remember them instead of his, then you would have forgotten him entirely. Dex can’t allow that.

You have no one if he dies. He’s already checked. No partner, no roommate, no family that calls more than once a month, plus, you only have three friends you see on rotations. You are alone in this city, and the city is a mouth full of teeth with Dex’s only hand reaching into it. 

The idea of dying would mean leaving you unprotected, the thought of someone else’s hands on you, someone else’s eyes gawking, makes the shaking in his hands feel like rage.

You’ve made him yours, even if you don’t know it. You’ve given Dex a reason to wake up in the morning that wasn’t spite nor the grind of survival. He will not let that go—he will not let you go. Even if it meant he has to crawl back from the grave to watch over you, Dex will. 

He’ll appear in full gear, the armor of ugly indefinite livability, the real body, alive or decay—he’ll appear like a thundering, and he’ll save you. 

So he’d decided to put a tracker into the lining of your coat for safety purposes, the one you wear every day to work, hangs on the hook by the door. Dex contemplates putting one inside your body, too. Perhaps if it ever comes to that point. He’ll watch you swallow your carbonated drink, and it would have been there, swirling inside you. Unremovable. 

Then he sits on your bed and only for a moment. He wanted to know what it feels like, his long fingers running along your sheets and they are soft—cheap cotton, washed so many times they’ve lost their stiffness. Your pillow still holds the dent of your head, he puts his face there, buried within and inhaled deeply. Dex would offer it all, any trade, any sacrifice, anything to become yours. Maybe he’d cut his soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home.

Dex’s still in his gear, masked face, and his breathing is uneven. The suit feels tighter, somehow, or perhaps it’s the aftermath of the bullet that almost split his skull, his kevlar weave felt warm against his chest, holding the heat of his body from the chase. His knuckles bruised beneath the gloves, there’s blood on his cuff he knew wasn’t his own. 

He doesn’t care about any of that, and instead goes to press his face deeper into your pillow, the scent of you floods his senses. Dex’s breathing changes, heavier. The adrenaline from the fight hasn’t left him and now was being redirected—pooling low in his belly, curling through his thighs, making him ache in a way that has nothing to do with the mild injuries he’s ignoring.

His cock was painfully hard. 

And without thinking, Dex reaches down; his calloused hands fumbling with the armored waistband of his tactical pants until his cock sprang loose; thick and pulsing, already weeping with a bead of pre cum. His fingers wrapped around the length of him and it felt nearly unbearable as it demanded this sweet sweet release that mirrored the buzzing in his ears from the fight. 

He then would lay back, his broad shoulders spreading across your pillows, and gripped himself. His hand was large enough to nearly swallow the girth of his cock, then he’d began to stroke a slow, heavy slide of leathered palm against skin, his thumb tracing the ridge of his tip with pressure. 

“Mm. Fuck,” Dex groaned your name, tasting the blood in his mouth, his gaze drifted towards the empty pillow beside him, imagining your head resting there, innocent eyes staring right back at him. He could come in the mere thought of that, he thinks.

He shut his eyes closed, and tries to visualize your face. All you—you and your kindness, the way you would smile at him every time he comes to the coffee shop, how you never seemed to be bothered that Dex would sit there for hours even if his cup was already finished long ago, and why you never seemed to look at his way. Why don’t you look at him? 

His pace quickened, his breathing turning into shallow hitches that reverberated across your bedroom. Dex didn’t know how to be gentle when his blood was this hot. He grasped himself with a white knuckled intensity, his hand sliding up and down in punishing strokes. Dex’s grunts became more frequent as he jerked himself harder and faster, using his pre cum as lube for the time being.

He wanted to feel the friction—the sheer overwhelming sensation of his own body responding to the memory of you. Dex imagined your hands; those delicate hands replacing his own, your fingers tracing the scar on his cheek before sliding down to claim his cock, or your lips wrapped around his entirety, gagging with tears prickling in the corner of your eyes, motioning him to stop but he’d go on, tell you it’s gonna be okay, that he wouldn’t hurt you like that, then—he’d thrust his hips forward, his cock would reach the back of your throat so deep he’d feel you choke on it. 

“I need you,” he whines feverishly, your name falling on his lips repeatedly, and the pressure built behind his eyes, a mounting tension that reflects the ache in his groin. Dex needed you, even if you weren’t here to witness his desperation. “Fuck—please, I need you—please.”

Dex could feel it then, the familiar yet terrifying surge of a climax approaching, and there was nothing more he wanted than to spill himself into your space, to leave a part of his existence on your sheets. With a sharp, strangled cry that he muffled against the fabric of your pillow, Dex buckled. His body jolted, muscles snapping taut as he came into the thought of you. 

Yours, he thinks over, and the word is a prayer. Yours, yours, yours.

He shuddered violently, his vision blurring as he emptied himself all over, and the hot thick reality of his cum coating the fabric in a humiliating sprawl. Letting out a shuddering exhale, his forehead remained pressed hard against the pillow as the aftershocks of the orgasm rippled through his heavy limbs. He felt drained, utterly revolting.

Dex stayed there for a while, slumped over your bed like a fallen soldier, with his skin slick in a mixture of sweat and the cooling remnants of his release. 

He’ll clean them later, Dex thinks. First, he wants to cherish this moment. 

Everything you do, you do it alone. 

Years ago, you have decided that love was not for meant for someone like you. You had watched your peers catch it like a fever, trading their dignity for the shallow comfort of a hand held in the dark. It’s awful, your watching; the refusal to participate, the ogling and smug superiority, and the approximation of a true desire. It’s fake, you assumed. But it isn’t. Sometimes you can feel them pretending to know love more than you, they’re pretending yes, but it doesn't matter because they’re actually doing it.

There’s no ounce of motivation to form genuine connection so you’d choose to sit in the sidelines instead. You hadn’t remembered a time where you’ve longed for people. Was it when you were a child, full of naivety, purest of heart—never knowing the reality outside the door? You feel like a spectator of your own life. 

You keep trying to slip away from everyone around you, it was written all over your face, and you should have been used to the feeling by then, you reasoned. But the feeling of unbelonging had started much earlier. Since childhood, there had been a glass wall between you and the rest of the world; you saw things in fractures, had noted the way the light died in the corners of the room, or how people used words like ambition to mask their fear of being mediocre.

This job as a barista was eating you alive, but you had no other choice anyway. 

You had friends back home, of course. People you’ve grown up with, people you’ve met during high school—but you have never allowed yourself to let them see the entirety of you. Were you afraid? You supposed, till now, that you are. And you thought that maybe moving to an entirely different city would change that feeling; that you’ll become an entirely different person—you would never feel it anymore. 

You had never felt more alone in your life. The truth was, no matter where you go, you will always be caged within yourself. There’s no escaping you. 

There’s this stranger though. Tony. He comes to the café almost every day at the same time, it’s kind of endearing how he has his own routine even if you don’t know the whole of it. You also think he was attractive, probably a lot older than you, too. He’s nice. Talks to you sometimes when you ask him about his day, nothing of substance but at least he wasn’t creepy. He was just kinda there. 

You were on your way home. It’s late, you’re a little tipsy from the bar you and your friends went to, and the vodka is still warm in your chest, loosening the usual tightness behind your ribs. You could have called a cab or booked a ride, but you decide to walk it off instead. Makes you feel grounded.

Long walks are something you’ve come to enjoy. Back home, it's all you ever did—walking, occupied by the surroundings, letting the city breathe around you while you held your own. The air was chilling, bites at your cheeks, and the sliver of skin between your scarf and your jacket. Then your building comes into view, stairs are endless but you take them one at a time, hand sliding along the banister, your reflection ghosting across the hallway windows. 

Your hands struggle to find the keys, dropped them once on the stoop, and pick them up with clumsy fingers. The lock gives, and finally the door sighs shut behind you.

Inside your apartment, it was dark exactly as you left it. You don’t turn on the light—the streetlamp through your curtains is enough, casting everything in shades of blue and grey. You kick off your heels, then drop your keys in the bowl. Shrugging off your jacket and hanging it on the hook by the door, right where it always goes along with your untouched coat for work.

You were too intoxicated to notice the wrongness of your place, and too alone in your head to feel the weight of someone watching from the corner of your bedroom, pressed against the wall where the shadows are thickest, his breathing slow, deliberately silent.

You shuffle to your bed, and don’t notice the sheets were slightly rumpled more than you left them, but you were too exhausted to register the difference. Your whole body plops down onto the mattress face first, still in your clothes from the bar, and the world spins once behind your closed eyelids before settling into something manageable.

You just… sleep, surrendering to the pull of unconsciousness like stone sinking into deep water, your body heavy and warm and devastatingly unaware. 

Dex knows he should leave. The tracker is in place, and he’s already pushed his luck further than any man would dare, but rationality left him the moment he heard you coming. He stares at you, sprawled across the bed you don’t know he stained with his cum from hours ago. 

Then he moves, his boots make no sound on your floor, crosses the room in a few steps, then lowers himself to his knees beside your bed. His face levels with yours—close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin, you smell of liquor and nicotine, something underneath that is just you. Dex can already tell the headache you’ll have come morning, he wonders if you’ll work later or call it off with your boss. 

He could take you right now. That’s the thought that circles his mind like a vulture. Take, take, take. Dex wants to touch you. God, he wants to touch you badly. You’re right there, pliant and warm and so fucking trusting, and the proximity is challenging. Dex has never been good at denying himself anything he truly wanted, but this—you, are different.

Not yet. Not tonight.

And if you saw him—if you opened your eyes and found a masked man kneeling beside your bed, still wearing the remnants of violence on his suit, you would scream and be terrified of him. You would look at him the way everyone eventually looks at him; a monster. 

Dex doesn’t think he could survive that from you. He doesn’t touch, but he leans in anyway, his lips ghosting above your head. 

“Good night,” he muttered under his breath, pressing his lips against your disheveled hair before turning around. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The next morning, he arrives at the coffee shop before you do.

This is new for him, a deviation from routine, and Dex doesn’t deviate lightly. He woke at four in the morning because he heard muffled noises from his monitor. He had fallen asleep while watching you, then he realized you had a nightmare, that’s why.

Dex watched you thrash for three minutes before falling back to sleep; your limbs tangling in sheets, and small broken sounds escaping your lips. His hand hovering over the keyboard, fingers twitching with the urge to do something. To wake you, to hold you? He wants to promise you that whatever monster chased you through your dreams, he would kill it.

He couldn’t go back to sleep. So instead, he dressed, walked around for a bit, and then stood near the alleyway outside where you work, waiting. He checks his phone, and the live recording shows you were still asleep, turned onto your side, with one hand tucked under your pillow, he could see your breathing even. No more nightmares. Good. Dex would have hated to see you suffer twice in one night. 

Your male coworker with the septum piercing opens the shop at seven. Lane with a last name he’d already forgotten. Twenty four years old, no girlfriend, and lives alone. He’s done his research, of course. He had to know the people who surrounded you. 

Dex exhales slowly, and the cloud of his breath dissipates into the dark. The boy thinks he’s being subtle with his lingering glances and his casual touches, but Dex sees everything. He sees the way Lane’s gaze drops to your mouth when you’re not looking, sees the way the boy positions himself near you during slow hours, always finding excuses to be in your personal space. Harmless, he tells himself. It’s harmless, though it doesn’t stop the way his jaw tightens every time you indulge yourself in your coworker’s antics.

Was it luck? Timing? Did Lane simply exist in the right place at the right moment, and you decided he was worth your attention? Dex has been coming to this shop for months. He’s been polite and patient. He made himself appear warm and approachable for you, and yet you still look at him like he’s a stranger.

He needs to do something. Kill Lane or finally talk to you properly, Dex doesn’t know—but he needs to make his move.

“You’re early,” you greeted him as he approached the counter, half yawning and your eyes looked exhausted. But you did try to look presentable in front of a customer.

“Hey,” he says with your name, his mouth twitches. “Couldn’t sleep, I thought I’d get an early start.” 

“Me neither,” you admitted, and your voice seemed quieter now, more private. “Hangover and bad dreams.” 

“Tell me about it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t remember anymore. Just the feeling… you know the type that sticks around after you wake up? Yeah, that’s—I mean, yeah. Sorry. Uh, the usual?”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” there’s something almost boyish in the way Dex fumbles over the words, desperately attempting to sound genuine like a person who understands what you’re feeling, but the effort shows he’s trying. “It must have been hard, really hard.” 

“It’s okay,” You shrug, a small and worn down gesture. “Comes with the territory.”

Dex inhaled a breath. “What territory?” 

“Being human, I think.”

You look at him, your gaze traced the soft creases of his eyes, lined by pretty lashes, the way you did the first time, when you smiled and asked if he’d had a long night. 

It feels like an affliction when you say it like that, as if it was something you suffer through rather than what you are. Dex has spent his whole life watching everyone from the outside, studying their emotions, their desperate need to matter. He understood them and yet, he had never once felt like one of them. 

Dex wants to tell you that he knows what that feels like, he’s been carrying the same weight, this alienation. Because most mornings, he opens his eyes and waits for the emptiness to fill him, and sometimes it doesn’t, sometimes it does, and either way, he gets out of bed and loads his weapon and pretends to be a person. You’re pretending too. He can see it—the effort behind your smile, the emptiness behind your eyes. You’re pretending you’re not falling apart, and Dex is pretending to be human, neither of you is fooling anyone. 

Except maybe each other. 

He stands there with his hands at his sides and his heart beating too fast, mind racing through all the things Dex wants to say but can’t. He wonders if you know how much you sound like him.

I don’t know how to be human, he wants to say. But I do want to know how to be yours.

“He asked you out? This Tony guy?” Lane says, eyeing Dex from where he’s sitting—hunched over, holding a book you seemed to recognize, in the corner, his coffee cup half empty, pretending not to watch, then Lane gazes back to you. “And you said yes—are you fucking insane?”

“What’s wrong with him? He’s actually nice,” you argue, shaking your head.

Lane’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. “Nice? The guy doesn’t talk to anybody. He sits in the corner for hours and stares at practically nothing. I’ve literally never seen him blink.”

“Well—I mean, he talks to me, you know.”

“Yeah, because he wants to get in your pants.” Lane lowers his voice, leaning across the counter. “Come on, you’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s not normal.”

You glance over at Dex, he was reading yet you didn't notice the way his eyes weren’t moving across the page. You’ve seen that book before. Crime and Punishment. You read it once in college, struggled through the dense paragraphs and Raskolnikov’s spiraling guilt. Then some part of you wondered if he had nightmares too. Does he also wake up in the middle of the night with his heart pounding and no one to hold onto, all alone? Perhaps he was lonely as you are—you could understand that. 

“He’s just shy,” you say, turning back to Lane. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“He’s not shy. He’s fuckin weird.”

“You’re weird.” 

“I’m charmingly eccentric. There’s a difference.” Lane crosses his arms, the septum catching light as he tilts his head. “Seriously. You don’t know anything about him. Where does he live? What does he do? Does he have, like, a criminal record?”

You roll your eyes. “Not everyone has a criminal record, Lane.”

“That you know of.”

“You’re being paranoid.”

“And you’re being reckless.” his voice softens along with your name, losing some of its teasing edge. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay? You’ve been through enough.”

Your expression contorts into something akin to annoyance, Lane has no right to stand there, acting like he’s protecting you from yourself. You told him things because you were lonely—because he was there. Sometimes you say too much when you’re not paying attention, though you wouldn’t consider him as a friend. You’re not even close. Lane is someone familiar, a familiar face in a city where every face is a stranger, and the notion of him acting like he’s more than that feels rather intruding. 

“Thanks for the concern,” you flatly replied. “But I’ve got it handled, Lane. Trust me on this.”

Dex will not show his teeth too quickly, he decided. The date is three days away. Saturday. A dinner at a restaurant you were familiar with—neutral ground, you had said, because you’re cautious without realizing it, some part of you knows that strangers are dangerous even when they seem nice, and Dex appreciated that about you; the instinct, your own self-preservation. He agreed to your terms, of course.

The book in his hands was a prop, he hadn’t read a single word since Lane started running his mouth. Dex didn’t need to, he heard every single word of your conversation. He wants to get in your pants, he could almost snort at that because Lane had no god damn idea. No idea that Dex had already been in your apartment, laid in the intimate spaces of your life while you were completely unaware. Getting to fuck you was a formality at this point, a pleasant inevitability, sure, but not his main objective.

The goal was you, anyway. You wanted to believe Dex was safe, that he was worth the risk, and he was going to give you every reason to keep believing, despite not even knowing his real name.

You would, though. Eventually. When the time was right. When the mask wears off and Dex shows you who he really was—not all at once, never in a way that would terrify you, but piece by piece, until you were too invested to run, too attached to look away, fully his to even think about leaving. He knew you better than anyone ever had, he won’t fuck this up now.

Lane could stand behind the counter with his misplaced protectiveness and his complete ignorance of what Dex was capable of—and still, it wouldn’t have changed anything.

He came early. 

The restaurant was small and kind of intimate, you described it as cozy when you suggested it, your voice casual but your eyes watchful, testing to see if he’d push for somewhere else. Dex didn’t, tells you it sounded perfect, and meant it. His clothes were new and he had worn them tonight, too. He’d stood in the mirror in his place for twenty minutes, staring at his own reflection, trying to remember the last time he bought clothes that weren’t for work.

Dex looks normal, he thinks. Almost human.

He’s spent the extra time studying the exits, assessing the other patrons, and positioning his chair so his back is to the wall and his eyes have a clear sightline to the door. Dex orders water—does not drink it, ice melting as he watches the condensation crawl down the glass like beads of sweat. 

The menu is in his hands but he wasn’t reading it. Instead, Dex’s running through contingency plans. What if you’re late, or worse, you don’t show up at all? His hands clenches at the thought, then relaxes because you wouldn’t do that to him, would you? You already agreed, and you come home alone every night—you were his. 

His doubts had been cleared when he saw you walk in. 

For a moment, Dex forgets to breathe, his gaze sweeping over to trail down your body because you’re wearing a dress. Nothing fancy, it’s a simple one. But the dress had been black and it fell just above your knees, your legs are bare where he could run his fingers along your thigh and find the heat between your legs, and oh, your hair is down too. 

He also noticed that you’ve done something to your eyes—darker than usual, smokier. You look like you're trying not to look like you tried, and the effort makes Dex’s mouth go dry, a growing bulge in his pants but he kept those thoughts locked away.

You spot him and smile shyly, Dex rises from his seat. 

His tenderness toward you had the polished quality of a practiced performance. Dex pulled out your chair, waited until you’d taken your first bite before he touched his own. He asked if you were warm enough, or if you wanted another drink, asked simple questions if the commute here had been okay. 

Each small courtesy landed, and you found yourself relaxing despite your better judgment. 

The wine you were drinking helped, though every so often, you’d catch him looking at you with an expression that didn’t match the gentleness of his voice—intense hunger lingered in his eyes. Made your stomach flip. It would vanish as soon as you noticed, replaced by that boyish smile Dex has. You told yourself you imagined it, you were pretty sure you didn’t.

Still, talking to Dex had been easy, you braced yourself for awkward pauses, for the strange tension of sitting across from a stranger whom you knew his coffee order but not his life. The inevitable moment when conversations would curdle into silence and you’d both stare at your plates like they held the answers to questions neither of you knew how to ask.

None of that happened.

Instead, Dex asked questions that made you feel seen without feeling exposed, and you answered without meaning to, the words falling out of your lips, tumbling into the space between you. And he simply listened, with his eyes never leaving your face. It should have felt invasive, and yet it felt like being wrapped around in warmth. 

“I feel stuck,” swirling your wine glass, elbow on the surface of the table, yet your gaze drifted away on to the strangers around you. “My life feels muffled... static? Somehow, I’m continually surprised when faced with this proof that the world is indeed moving—that it’s barreling forward… possibly without me.”

Dex set down his fork, the metal clicking softly against the plate. “Hm. Maybe you’re not stuck,” he finally offered, uttering your name. “Maybe you’re just waiting. For somethi—someone.” His eyes held yours. “The world doesn’t get to decide if you’re in it or not. You do.”

He doesn’t feel stuck when he’s with you, that’s for certain. Dex has to remind himself to keep his hands flat on the table because what he wants is to hover his hand above yours, and simply caress your softest skin, thumb rubbing in a circular motion, almost soothing. 

He wants to build you a cage, a beautiful one. 

A place where nothing could ever reach you, not the crushing weight of a world that doesn’t see you the way he sees you. Dex would line it with every book you’ve ever loved, make the cage to your liking. Then, he would sit outside it just to watch you. 

Would you like that? Where he’d take your uncertainties, your doubts, everything that makes you feel less—Dex would carry them with him to his grave. You don’t have to worry about anything, because you only need him. 

You laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to show up. No one ever does,” you leaned back in your chair. A strand of hair fell across your cheek, and you didn’t bother tucking it back. “Maybe I’m just not the kind of person people show up for.”

“You have me now, I’ll take care of you.” 

There was a beat of silence after Dex spoke, and in that silence, you felt the strangest urge to apologize. For what, you didn’t know. Perhaps, for making him say it? You had always thought you wanted someone to say something like that to you. To look at you with that kind of certainty and promise you that you weren’t alone, although now that it was happening—you realized you hadn’t prepared yourself for how it would feel. Heavy on the chest. 

His words terrified you in a way. This man was practically still a stranger to you. 

You shook the thought away almost as soon as it came, scolding yourself for being dramatic. Tony was just being nice, saying what people said, and yet you could feel the coldness of your hands, wine glass slippery against your palm. When you glanced up at him through your lashes, he was still watching you, as though you were the only one worth waiting for.

So why did it feel like standing on the edge of a cliff you couldn’t see the bottom of? You tucked your hair behind your ear and looked away anxiously, you didn’t say anything after that. 

Dex must have sensed your discomfort, because when he spoke again, it was to change the topic to somewhat more lighthearted. You felt grateful for that. 

“Can I drive you home?” 

The question hangs in the air between you, soft as smoke. Dex’s voice seemed careful but there’s something underneath it, a current he can’t quite hide. His keys are already in his hand, held loose between his fingers, and he watches your face trying to decipher every micro-expression, your flicker of hesitation.

Say yes, Dex craves in his mind. Say yes, please.

Your gaze finds him, your head a little tipsy from the bottles of wine you’ve managed to consume in one night. Your eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed, and demeanor almost careless. The streetlight catches your face, painting you in a beautiful light, and you’re smiling—a real one, soft and warm and slightly lopsided from the wine.

And Dex thinks he would kill someone for you right now if you asked. Anyone. Anywhere.

“I’d like that, thank you.”

Good, Dex thinks as he opens the passenger door for you. This is good. You’re doing everything right.

He walks around to the driver’s side, his heart beating frantically. Dex steals a glance at you—buckling your seatbelt, fitting into his space like you’d always been there, he allows himself a small grin. A surge of pride blooms in his chest, it was the pride of a man who has devoted months to learning you, watching you, edging into your periphery until you forgot he was ever an outsider.

The city slides past the windows in streaks of neon and darker hues. Dex keeps his eyes on the road, but his attention never leaves you; the sound of your breathing, your head resting toward the window, soft sighs you make when he takes a corner too slowly and you sway slightly in your seat.

Dex’s right hand comes to rest on your thigh, a bold move, yet you don’t pull away from him. A smile crosses his face.

When you reach your building, Dex parks the car and kills the engine. The street is quiet this late, the only sounds a distant siren and the click of his turn signal as he switches it off. You step out onto the curb, and he gets out right after, leaving the silence between you to expand on its own.

You stop at the front door. Your keys are already in your hand, fidgeting with them—twisting the metal between your fingers, the nervous energy rolling off you in unconscious movements. You keep glancing at him and then away, like you’re trying to gather courage for something. It was adorable, Dex thinks as he watches you.

“This was nice,” you finally break the silence, and the softness of your voice doesn’t go unnoticed. “I had a nice time with you.”

“I did too. You are beautiful.” 

He doesn’t trust himself to say more, not when you’re standing this close, and the wine has loosened something in you that Dex wants to keep loose, with his instinct screaming at him to close the distance between you and never let it open again.

Your gaze lifts to meet his, and then realize the proximity. How the darkness and the quiet and the wine have conspired to draw you together like magnets, pulling. Your face is close now—closer than Dex allowed himself to imagine during those long nights in his apartment, watching you through his screen, with his right hand wrapped around his cock, memorizing every inch and curve of your body.

He can also see everything from here; fine lines at the corners of your eyes, your pupils have dilated, swallowing the color of your irises. The way your lips are slightly parted, contemplating whether you’re going to speak—or you’re waiting for something.

“Tony,” you whispered, and he almost corrected you. Almost tells you his real name because he’ll do anything to hear the name Dex fall on your lips. 

“Yeah?” his voice comes out rough. 

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you lift yourself onto your tiptoes and lean in, reaching for his mouth. 

Your lips press against his, and Dex goes very still, his hands frozen at his sides because he doesn’t know what to do with them. He hasn’t been kissed in years. Hasn’t let anyone close enough to try but your mouth felt warm and sticky from the wine, your scent filling his nose. 

He doesn’t want to scare you, so his hand rises slowly, carefully and settles on your waist instead, fingers curling against the fabric of your dress. You make a small sound against his mouth, surprised and pleased, and Dex takes it as an opportunity to finally move his lips along with yours.

It’s gentle. Dex makes it gentle. But beneath the gentleness is something hungry, desperate, an urge that wants to pull you closer and press you against his firm chest, taste every inch of your mouth until he’s satisfied from it. He doesn’t do any of that. Dex keeps his hand on your waist, his lips soft and his breathing steady, he lets you set the pace. 

His tongue swept past your lips, tasting the faint salt on your skin. One of his large hands came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with a reverence that made your thighs squeezed together. The other hand pressed flat against the small of your back, pulling you just a fraction closer.

The kiss deepened in waves. Every time you thought you’d caught your rhythm, Dex shifted—tilting his head the other way, angling deeper, his tongue finding new ways to explore the inside of your mouth. His tongue moved against yours in slow strokes, coaxing rather than claiming. You could feel the slight tremble in his fingers where they held your face, his breathing had gone shallow and ragged. 

This was the part Dex couldn’t have planned for; the actual taste of you, the way you whimpered into his mouth, the small sound you made when his teeth grazed your lower lip, nibbling them.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours. Dex’s eyes were still closed. Your lips were parted, glossy and swollen. And for a long moment, neither of you knew what to say, it seemed, but he was holding you close to him that you felt utterly comfortable in his muscular arms. You could feel the heat radiating off from his body alone.

“Goodnight, Tony,” you breathe, gaze averted away to try to hide your already apparent blush. 

Nothing feels like always right now. Living on the honey of hope. 

Your back hits the door as it swings shut, and you stand there for a moment, pressed against the door, your fingers tracing your lower lip, reminiscing; the ghost of his mouth. It keeps replaying inside your head. 

You slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, black dress pooling around your thighs, and a laugh escapes your lips. You press the heels of your palms against your eyes and smile so hard your cheeks ache. You feel like a fucking teenager. Sort of like every movie you have ever watched and rolled your eyes at, the cliché you’ve dismissed as overwrought or simply not meant for someone like you.

Finally pushing yourself off the floor after a few moments, yet still smiling, floating somewhere above your own body. You kick off your heels and leave them by the door, then wander to the bathroom. You saw a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror, you look ridiculous, but you’ve never looked blissful in years.

Happy. When was the last time you applied it to yourself without irony? You can’t recall. So much of you has been surviving for so long that you forgot people did more than that. They went on dates, held hands, and kissed while the city slept around them. They felt giddy, hopeful.

You deserve it, don’t you? Yes. This is somewhere to be, for this is all you have, but it’s something. Streets and sodium lights. The sky, the world. You’re still alive, still capable of loving. You’re still human, after all. Tony made you feel one tonight.

You can forget that the world will turn away from you someday, and leave you behind. For now, you’ll settle with this small dream filled exuberance. You cannot wait to prove Lane wrong, you thought as you washed your face, then brushed your teeth, pulled on an oversized shirt that used to belong to someone you don’t talk to anymore.

Your limbs feel heavy and light at the same time, weighted down by wine and lifted by something sweeter. You fall into bed, pulling the blankets up to your chin. Has this always been so cold? It didn’t matter, you couldn’t stop smiling. 

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You ignore it at first. It’s late, you’re still reeling, and you don’t want to come back down. But it buzzes again. And again. Three messages in quick succession, then a fourth. A sigh elicits from your lips, hands reaching for the phone, the screen lighting up your face in the dark.

Aa Lane (12:01 AM): hey i know it’s late but i was scrolling through some old news articles and i swear i’ve seen your coffee guy before Aa Lane (12:01 AM): like not in person but somewhere. Aa Lane (12:02 AM): tony right?? that’s what the fucker told you?? Aa Lane (12:02 AM): look at this and tell me i’m the one being paranoid

Something in your guts tells you to not click the link Lane sent you. It’s the same feeling you used to get as a child walking past a dark room—the instinct that something was waiting for you in the shadows, something that would change you if you looked at it too long. Don’t, don’t, don’t.

But you do. You click the link.

The article loads slowly, cluttered with ads and pop-ups and slow spinning wheels. Yet the headline loads first, bold and black, and your eyes catch on the words before your brain can catch up.

BENJAMIN POINDEXTER SENTENCED TO LIFE FOR MURDER OF PROMINENT ATTORNEY FOGGY NELSON

Oh, fuck.

You scroll down before you can stop yourself, and there it is—a photo. It was a mugshot. His face—Tony’s face. Same sharp jaw, same piercing eyes, same mouth that had been pressed against yours not too long ago. But different, too. Colder. Much emptier. The eyes in the photo don’t look like they’ve ever held anyone gently. You read the words again, former FBI agent, sentenced to life, murder, escaped custody, and they don’t feel real. None of this feels real at all. 

Do not approach. Do not engage. If seen, contact authorities immediately.

You could feel the way your hands started shaking, then comes your whole body; rigid and blood runs cold. You’re frozen and on fire simultaneously. Your hands drop the phone, and it lands on your chest, the screen still glowing, his face still staring up at you with those eyes. Then, a notification popped up once more on your screen. 

Aa Lane (12:10 AM): fuck, i hope you’re safe and home. call me pls 

You stare at Lane’s message, the words blur and sharpen as if your eyes can’t decide what to focus on. And yet, the numbness spreads. Starts in your fingers, those tingling extremities that had been warm against his skin just an hour ago. Then, it travels up your arms, settles in your shoulders, crawls across your chest, your heart is still beating—you can feel it, distant. 

You think the panic has receded, that the fear has gone quiet. Suddenly, your stomach lurches.

It comes out of nowhere; a violent, involuntary spasm that doubles you over on the bed. You press your hand hard over your mouth, and for a terrible moment you think you’re going to throw up. Swallowing hard, once, twice, as your throat works against the rising tide, and eventually, the nausea subsides, residing somewhere low in your belly.

But the sickness doesn’t go away, simply moves. Finding its way into your veins, your bones, you feel poisoned, like an insect has crawled inside you and died. Truly rotten.

Another message.

Aa Lane (12:21 AM): please answer me i’m getting really fucking worried

Your vision becomes blurry—tears, you realize, when did you start crying? Forcing yourself to type back, one word, because it’s all you can manage.

You (12:22 AM): Here. 

The response comes almost instantly. 

Aa Lane (12:22 AM): i’m coming over, wait for me

Tony isn’t real, it was a mantra that repeats inside your head as you wait for Lane. There is no Tony. There’s only ever Benjamin Poindexter—convicted murderer, a man who has killed and will kill again. And somehow, absurdly, you find yourself on the verge of laughter. Because this is your life, isn’t it? This is what you get for daring to hope.

Tonight, you let yourself believe that perhaps, the universe had something good in store for you, and instead, what you were getting was the universe reminding you, yet again, that you don’t get to have nice things—you never did and you never will. The world has a sick sense of humor, you’d almost admire it, if only you weren’t busy falling apart.

Little serpentine slithers its way into your thoughts, mind boggling, what you had never realized earlier, you do now. Fully sobered up.

You never told Tony where you lived.

He drove you home tonight but he’d known where to go. Never asked for directions, nor plugged anything into his phone either. Not a moment of uncertainty, he’d just driven. Like he had done it before—as if he’d been here before. 

Stupid girl, where is your mind now?

Dex watched it happen in real time. 

He saw the way your smile falters, then fades. Watched your hand over your mouth, repulsed by him, swallowed something rotten and now was crawling back up your throat. He knew that look. He had put that look on a hundred faces before yours. But never yours—never yours.

Dex was so careful, so patient with you. He had done everything right, he thinks. He had to have known, on some level, that you couldn’t stay ignorant forever, and still, he let himself believe otherwise. A mere fantasy, was it ever was. Dex wanted it so badly that he convinced himself it could be real.

That somehow your parallel paths converge, and found himself in the arms of your warmth. This emptiness, this nothing inside him consumes the entirety of you, and the promise of normalcy. He wanted to think he would be sated for a lifetime with you, and in all the deaths that exist after. Dex could only blame himself for thinking he could ever be anything else.

And now you know.

His skin starts to burn, an itch to his soul. Dex stands over the body, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths. The alley is darker than the place where Lane’s car still idles, engine humming, door hanging open like a wound. 

There’s this satisfied curl of Dex’s lips beneath the mask, seeing Lane on his knees. 

The boy didn’t beg, Dex will give him that much. Didn’t plead for a life he clearly valued, despite all evidence to the contrary. He just looked up at Dex with those wide, stupid eyes.

“I fucking knew it, you piece of shit!” 

The first impact doesn’t satisfy Dex, so he does it again—pulls Lane’s head back and slams it forward, a second crack, this one weaker than the first. Lane’s eyes seemed unfocused now, with his body limp in Dex’s grip. But he doesn’t stop, can’t help himself. He holds Lane against the wall, feeling the boy’s pulse flutter beneath his fingers, and leans in close. 

“You had to run your god damn mouth, didn’t you?” his voice barely a whisper, seething. Meant only for Lane, to be the last thing he hears before life fades from his eyes. “You had to take her away from me, make her afraid. You just couldn’t help yourself to be the savior, hm?” Dex pauses. “She’s not gonna fuck you, Lane—she wants me. And I’m going to take something from you, too.”

“She should be terrified of you,” Lane had spat back, words almost slurred, blood already dripping from his split lip. “You’re a fucking killer.” 

“Yes,” Dex’s toothy grin shows. “I am. I’ll show you.”

He had half a mind to leave Lane bleeding out here.

The boy was done for anyway; cracked skull, blood seeping from his hairline, eyes struggling to focus on a world that was already slipping away. He wouldn’t last an hour, maybe not even the half. He can walk away now, because all he ever wanted to do, what burned in his chest was to come over to your apartment and apologize.

Never mind the bloodied mess he made on his suit, he’d fall to his knees and make you understand. He’ll tell you everything, the truth, the ugly, this impossible truth of what you’d become to him. You had reached something inside him he thought had died years ago, scraped out, buried, and mourned by no one.

You have me, Dex would say. You have all of me. The good parts, the bad parts, the parts that have done terrible things. They’re yours. They’ve been yours since the first time you met me. Dex needed to believe he could make you understand, because the alternative was unbearable. It would crack him open, spill whatever was left of his humanity onto the floor, and there would be no putting it back together.

Deciding he’s running out of time before you could be out of his reach, Dex turned away from Lane’s crumpled body, already calculating the fastest route to your building, and then this fucker just had to speak once more. 

“She’ll know.”

He halted in his steps. Listening.

“She’ll know,” Lane repeated, stronger now, forced through lips that were swelling. “She’ll hate you for the rest of her fucking life, for what you did to me—for what you are. That’s the best damn thing I’ll ever do,” Lane laughed. It was a terrible sound, wet and gurgling, half-choked on his own blood. “Make sure she knows exactly what you are. A monster. A fucking monster in a mask who thought he could pretend to be normal. Creepy fuckin asshole.” 

The rage that flooded through Dex was cold, then his hand moved before he consciously decided. With the knife in his palm, flying through the air, spinning end over end, simply knowing where it would land—his blade buried itself in Lane’s throat.

Lane’s eyes went wide, his hands flew to his throat, grasping at the hilt, to the blood that was already pouring between his fingers. He let out an inhumane sound, gasping for air, clawing his way to escape death. That’s what Dex loves about this, when severe pain has caused men to lose their air of arrogance, and only then, realizing that life was already out of their grasp.

Dex walked toward him slowly, then crouched down in front of Lane, bringing his masked face level with the boy’s. Real fear painted across irises, and Dex reveled in this moment of clarity between them. 

“Shh, it’s easier if you don’t fight it.” Dex mocks him, pressing a gloved finger to his own lips, though Lane couldn’t see beneath the mask. Lane’s eyes were wet with tears or blood—Dex couldn’t tell, didn’t care. He then gripped his chin, forcing Lane to look up. “I’ll make sure she won’t ever think about you again. You hear me? I’ll make sure of it. You’re nothing, Lane.”

Dex watched until the boy’s eyes went still, his hands fell away from his throat, body slumped sideways, collapsing onto the wet pavement, the knife still buried in his throat. Then Dex stood up, wiping his gloves on his thighs like he had touched something dirty, removed the mask to give himself a moment to breathe.

“Good bye, white knight.”

He had to come find you now. Dex would make sure you didn’t wait long.

You had a knife in your hand, it seemed. 

It’s not a good knife, not like his. This is a kitchen knife, the kind that comes in a set, and the blade is short, its handle plastic, and your grip is wrong—too tight, your thumb wrapped over the top instead of resting along the side. You could hurt yourself, Dex worries. You’re going to cut your palm open if you decide to finally swing at him.

Dex stands in the shadows of your living room, watching you through the archway that separates your kitchen from the rest of your life. You haven’t seen him yet, because your back is half turned, shoulders hunched, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps that he can hear from here. You were shaking, he could see it from his standpoint. 

You turn suddenly, and you see him.

The knife comes up—not toward him, not exactly, just up between you, a semblance of barrier made of cheap steel and trembling fingers. His suit is still on, never bothered to change, didn’t see the point of it if you know who he is now. But Dex had taken off the mask, as he wants you to see his face.

“Don’t,” your voice cracks on the word, the knife wobbles in your grip. “Don’t come any fucking closer.” 

Dex slowly raises his both hands, making himself appear harmless. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

An incredulous laugh escapes your throat. “Won’t hurt me? Right, because you’re not a killer—fucking right. Just how stupid do you think I am to believe you?”

It pains him to see you this way, so broken yet admirably brave. Your expression is the most beautiful thing Dex has ever seen, and he would let you use that knife. He would stand still and let you sink it into his chest, if that’s what you needed—if that would make you feel safe. He’ll let you. 

Look at him, if you would be so kind, and find whatever it is you’re looking for, even if it’s not what you wanted to find.

“You matter to me,” it’s the way Dex says your name with such raw, convoluted emotion. “I said I would take care of you, and I meant it. I’m not going to hurt you—I know it won’t ever be enough to believe but I won’t.”

“You’re a liar, you fucking lied to me.”

“I’m not lying—please, if you could just—”

“Everything about you is a lie,” there were tears sliding down your cheeks as you cut him off, and Dex wanted to reach out to wipe them away. “Your name. Your whole life. I don’t even know you. Tony? What the fuck? Who even are you?”

“I was a lot of things.” Dex takes a single step forward, and you stumble backward, your hip catching the kitchen counter, and your knife clatters against the marble, you snatch it up again quickly. “I'm still a lot of things. But I need you to know that I would die before I let anyone hurt you. I would kill anyone who tried—and I know that doesn’t sound like comfort. I know it sounds like the opposite of comfort, but fuck, it’s the truth.”

“Stop,” you shook your head, gaze averted away from him. “Stop talking. You’re sick in the head. You’re—”

“I’m yours,” Another step. Your back meets the refrigerator, and there’s nowhere left to go. “I have been since the first time you said my name.”

“Your fake name.”

“Dex,” he finally says, a thorn being pulled out from his chest. “You already know my name, but everyone calls me Dex.” He reaches up, slowly, giving you time to scream or stab him, yet you do none of those things. Ever so softly, his fingers brush your cheek, wiping away a tear, he felt you shiver beneath his touch. “You can call me whatever you want. Anything. I don’t care—just… don’t turn away from me, please. I need—I need you.”

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, something stirred inside your chest. “I’m not built for this, Dex. Whatever it is you’ve pictured in your head.”

“I know, sweetheart.” he coos amorously, his large hand cupping your jaw fully, thumb resting at the corner of your mouth, your breath hitches but you don’t pull away, he gently takes the knife from your hand. “I’ll make you. Going to make you understand, hm? I’m right here.”

“My legs won’t—” a sob catches in your throat. “Why can’t I run?”

Dex inhaled a sharp breath, and carefully, so tenderly, he leaned in closer to your face, your eyes fluttering closed when his forehead had rested against yours, your breath mingling with his, hot and shaking.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he murmurs against your lips. “You don’t believe me yet, I know you’re terrified. But you will. You’ll see.”

“Please,” you whisper again, though you’re not saying it to the knife anymore. You’re not quite certain who you’re saying it to. If your entire life came crashing down and the whole world descended on you, Dex would hurl himself in death’s way to save you, you’re sure of this, but why? 

Why you? Though your uneasiness had been swept away when you felt Dex’s lips pressing against yours, not like the first time, no. This time it had felt desperate, almost painful, his hand sliding into your hair and tilting your head back while his mouth claimed yours. You make a sound against his lips, something needier, your hands coming up to fist in the bloodstained fabric of his suit.

You’re not pushing him away, Dex realizes. You were holding onto him. His heart is hammering so hard he’s certain you can feel it through all the layers between you.

“I’m sorry,” he says in between kisses. “I’m really sorry.”

As he pulled away, Dex shifted his weight, his massive frame looming over you, effectively pinning you between the cold metal of the refrigerator and the heat of his body. He was a wall of muscle, a shadow that had finally swallowed you whole. His other hand came up, settling heavily on your waist, his fingers splaying wide over the curve of your hip, claiming the space you occupied as if it were his birthright.

He didn’t wait for you to find your voice. Dex couldn’t. If he gave you the chance to speak, you might find the strength to push him away once again—re-establishing the boundary of your own soul, and Dex was far too desperate to let that happen. 

What he did was to crash his mouth against yours again, although the dread was long gone, replaced by this starving need. It was a messy, uncoordinated collision of lips and teeth, a silent plea for you to accept the madness he offered. Dex tasted the salt of your tears and the heat of your desperation, it drove him into a fever.

“Please just let me in—let me be the only thing you feel.”

Dropping to his knees with a heavy thud, his eyes never leaving yours until the very last second when he moved to settle between your legs. He worked with such ferocity, his large hands fumbling with the hem of your clothes, his breath warm and hitching against your skin as he bared you to the dim light of the kitchen, naked from the bottom down in front of him. 

How beautiful you looked, only for him. And when Dex finally pressed his face into the damp, sweet heat of your cunt, a broken sound escaped him, a pathetic whine that sounded more like a wounded animal than a man.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against you, his voice muffled by your skin, thick with a desperate, weeping sort of devotion. “I’m so sorry for scaring you… mm, so sorry.”

The only thing you could discern was the silhouette of Dex’s broad shoulders as his head dips between your thighs. Dex begins gently, filling his lungs with the scent of your arousal, dragging his tongue against your slick folds, making your chest heave with every whimper.

And the sweet taste of your wetness coats his tongue, pulling a low groan from his chest. Dex needed this as much as you do, he had been longing to devour your pussy, to hear your breathy cries and soft moans while his tongue delved into your pulsing heat, your shivering body held steady under his selfish touch.

“Dex, please…” you whine and beg but don’t know what for, attempting to squeeze your thighs together but his hands had been a lot stronger gripping them, certain he’d leave bruises along. “Fuck…”

When Dex hears your voice break like that, it unlocks something feral within him—to eat you in his earnestness. He switches between flicking your swollen clit with his tongue, then dragging the broad flat of his tongue through your folds. His grip is unyielding, keeping you exactly where he wants you as he fastens his mouth to your pussy and begins to suck the inner lips. Your desperate, high pitched moans bounce off the kitchen walls, and to Dex, they’re pure music.

There’s something holy in the softness of his mouth, driving you into an immaculate euphoria with each unhurried stroke of his tongue. Dex drinks you in, pushing his tongue inside you as his arms lock around your thighs, tugging you nearer so he can taste deeper—consuming you from the inside.

“That’s it, my sweet girl,” he rasped, pulling out his tongue with your name woven into his breath. “Let me make you feel good. So perfect for me.”

Dex’s nose nudges your clit, and you roll your hips against his face, smearing your wetness across his lips. He hums in approval, the vibration running straight through your core. 

A sudden flare of heat surges through you, your legs wobbling as your pussy clenches around his tongue and releases, pleasure like white fire racing through your veins. Knees nearly give out. Dex’s tongue gathers the aftermath of your climax, lapping it up to savor the essence of you. It tasted sweet. When your body finally drifts into that state of trance post orgasm, Dex doesn’t move his mouth away—he just keeps going, gliding from your entrance up to circle your clit, over and over in a soothing, endless rhythm.

You couldn’t remember how long he had been down there, simply tasting your cunt. It must have gone on for hours, yet it didn’t matter. Poor you, so overwhelmed with the sensation Dex had been giving to you, you must have forgotten all the worse things he’d done, and what he will continue to do with the way you kept chanting his name like a prayer. 

Shame bubbles up inside you, suffocating, and unable to contain the amount of pleasure overstimulating you. The things you let Dex do to you—what you won’t admit. What does it say about you, that the fear and the pleasure have somehow entwined together into something you can’t unravel? Maybe you’d scrub your cunt raw afterwards, tremble at what you couldn’t prevent, wondering how you became someone who could be complicit in one’s own destruction.

But Dex has his purpose now. You. 

With him, he made you his salvation, cleansing him from all his unrighteousness. Dex was your man, the worst man to ever exist. He’ll apologize if he finds paradise in indulging himself within you, a selfish consumption of the one thing Dex holds dear. His hands are scarred from killing, and yet you would trust him completely because you will only ever need him.

upon seeing his mother and daemon’s affection with each other, jacaerys grew curious of what it would be like to fully surrender yourself in the hands of someone else; to let go of whatever armor you wore suit, and to bare yourself naked, figuratively and well.. literally, in front of someone else you hold dear.

he only had limited time to think about certain thoughts, for the realm is in havoc and they were caught up in the middle of a conflict within their own house, within their own name. he wanted to do everything in his hands and beyond, for his mother’s throne and birthright, for their family.

jacaerys smothered his hands on his face, growing restless and frustrated over what was happening in the realm, of how rhaenyra was in deep distress. he was in the middle of writing a letter, the raven patiently awaits and perched on the window in his chambers; he once again thinks of what could happen on this evening, or in the following days.

the maid entered his doors, knocking politely on the wooden opening that allows him his own privacy, he looked up and saw you carrying a tray with a pitcher and a glass. “your grace, the queen ordered me to bring you hot milk as she thinks you have been in trouble having sleep.” you were looking down, deeply aware of the differences in your status, knowing better than to meet his gaze.

it was that very reason that you missed the way jacaerys looked at your form, of your smooth skin and the way your hair was held into an updo, emphasizing your bare neck. he heaves a sigh, feeling as if his head was once again getting filled with curiosities and ideas. he had known you, for a while in fact, gracefully doing your duties and making yourself seem smaller—but he never fails to miss you. in each time you walked into a room, clearly oblivious of the set of gazes thrown at your way, you were never unseen, no, not completely.

“stay for a moment.” he uttered when you were placing the tray on top of his table. there was a moment of shock, for you thought jacaerys mostly kept matters to himself. if he is in need of something, surely there would be a better choice than you.

you finished setting the tray on the table, making sure it does not touch the number of blank papers and books, and to ensure it would not fall towards the ground, “yes, your grace?”

he moves his chair away from the table, his body now directed towards you; there was a hint of worry in his face, and you thought it was a desperate moment for him. you allowed yourself to prepare, racking up the knowledge you have over the houses, recounting the events that had happened with regards to the throne; moreover, you allowed yourself in a headspace to feel, if in any case he needs to be consoled.

“what do you know about.. coupling?”

that was something you can never prepare for. The prince, the queen’s first-born, asking about marital duties and in a tone so plain and simple you could not comprehend it as quickly as you could.

there was a puzzled look plastered on your face, alongside a hint of light blush creeping under your skin, “your grace?”

“forget about it. you may go now.” he dismissed, going back into facing the table, picking up his quill as he goes, but not writing anything in the paper.

you got nervous initially, thinking that you have failed to do a simple duty, to answer when a question is asked—it could have been anyone else, but to fail the prince is considerably a grave mistake.

“i only know very little about coupling, your grace. we were taught about it back then, on how to please our husbands in the matters of producing a child.” you answered as quickly as you could, not knowing how to stop now since you fear of disappointing him, yet a new wave of unease just hits you. you were never given a permission to speak, as a matter of fact, you were dismissed. yet here you are.

“must it only be done when producing an heir? is that only the purpose of it?” he looks up from his table and continued where the question was left off, whatever it was that he was trying to write is completely forgotten now.

“i do not think so, your grace. my mother said it could also be done if you want to please your husband, if you want to pleasure them.” you scrambled to look at anywhere else but him. there was a small fidget from you as you play with your fingers, finding anything else in his chambers to look at instead of feeling the weight of his stare.

“must it always be between husband and a wife?” he spoke again in the gentlest of tone, not breaking his gaze on you and plainly seeing the tensed expression you have.

you wondered how and why he had led to think of these matters, you wanted to ask what prompted him to think of it, and how or when he started getting ideas.

“not entirely, your grace. the women in whore houses—”

“i was not talking about the ladies in those places. can it be done with a friend? or.. a maid?” he contemplated on the last question before saying it, as he himself was feeling anxious as well, careful not to make you feel any sort of discomfort.

“i.. i believe so.” the question hung in the air for some moment before you understood that it was your turn to answer, “if both persons allow it, your grace, i deem it should be possible.”

jacaerys stood up from his seat, almost a bit too hasty, that the wooden leg of the chair made a sound as it scratched against the ground when he made a move, he walks towards you, dangerously close, up until his breath fans over your face, “would you..”

you swallowed, hard, the proximity of your bodies and how the distance could almost come to a close in a mere second would have sent you fainting, but you stood still, a little voice in your head whispers just how much of this you can take some more. you couldn’t deny it, not anymore, how warm the room suddenly got and how he could easily send a shiver down your spine, and the worst of it all, he looked unaware of it, or he did know, except he didn’t let himself care.

the prince’s hand makes its way to your face, gently cupping your cheek with his warmth, his thumb softly brushing over your bottom lip and you parted it, almost out of instinct, almost naturally, as if this whole ordeal is something that occurs very commonly; he felt right, he felt safe. your mind lingered over past memories for a minute, how this certain boy captivated you since you got into dragonstone, since the moment your own house swore allegiance and loyalty to the one and only heir to the iron throne, queen rhaenyra. he stood quietly by her side back then, unassuming in the background while daemon talks, you briefly locked gazes and you saw comfort; you had known of what was happening, and how hell will break loose any second, between the queen and her half-brother—even more aware of the number of hours that jacaerys spends in solitude, an unexplored abyss deep within him, seen through the lenses of his eyes, and you felt an inexplicable urge to take care of him in little ways, like bringing milk into his chambers and masking it under the guise of being the queen’s orders.

a soft exhale escaped your lips and you looked up at him, at his pair of eyes that looked lonely when he thinks no one else is looking, at the same pair of eyes that burns in fury to defend his mother’s name—at the same pair of eyes that has been darkened by something else at the moment, something primal and all-consuming.

“would you allow me to learn of it?”

it was a simple question, not even uttered in a sense of giving an order or a command, he was asking you. the mere fact that he has asked a woman with a name who is not entirely known anywhere to bed him, when he could have done it with anyone else, with someone who is like him, someone with a name, someone who has the honor, someone who has the pride. yet when he placed his hand to caress your side, and his thumb rubbed on your lip, propping it open, all your worries seemed to evaporate and you were left with an empty state of mind.

you willed yourself near him, crashing your lips to his in a split second; your once-shy arms seemed to have a mind on its own and wrapped itself to him, as if you needed to grasp but careful enough not to make it hurt, as if you needed him to anchor you before you fall into the deep end.

the shared kiss was passionate and intense, a certain matter of thirst needed to be quenched and it could only be done with this. you were never letting go no matter how sloppy it has gotten, jacaerys’ inexperience was noticeable at first but he has always been good at following orders and you knew he was always quick at learning things. he opened his mouth to gasp any amount of air and you took the liberty for yourself to slip your tongue inside, and he made a sound, almost a whine and you thanked yourself you were not too lost in the moment to register the kind of noises he makes. you explored within, willingly and messily; and you felt his hand encircling on your lower back now, hugging you even tighter, pressing his body further into you.

then you pulled away.

“is this your first time, your grace?” you struggled to breathe for air, wiping the side of your mouth with the back of your hand. he could only nod, a light shade of pink crept its way into his cheeks as he looks away, similarly catching his breath after the steamy exchange.

you pushed him towards his chair, propping him downwards until he’s fully seated; he looked baffled, crossing his eyebrows in the process but obliged without questions.

“it would be my honor to teach you a few things, your grace.” there was a hint of pride in you now, jacaerys was always following orders, whether it’s from rhaenyra, daemon or rhaenys, he would be following regardless. his utmost compliance boosted a certain confidence in you, the idea of having him on his knees, the absolute fact that the queen’s first-born son is right at your mercy.

it was deep in the night when you hand-delivered the milk, yet you worry that someone might come in and push past the doors, so you wasted no more time, for you did not know if something as completely bizarre and euphoric, such as this, could ever happen again. You kneeled towards him, never tearing your gaze away, he straightened himself on the chair, his arms already prepared to stop you from kneeling but you ignored him and placed both palms against his lap, applying enough pressure as it trails upward, a small grin paints itself onto your face upon seeing just how clueless he gets at every movement demonstrated.

you started pulling on the strings of his garments, the dent on his clothes is almost impossible to ignore, even more so now that it has created a wet patch. once done, you urged him to raise himself from the chair to pull the linen downward, freeing his hard cock in the process and throwing away his clothes elsewhere. you took a quick observation, for someone who has not experience anything thus far, he appeared clean, the hair just below his abdomen was trimmed and its tip glistens with wetness, already leaking as it stands upright.

“i-is it bad?” he asks, keeping a tight grip on the chair’s arms with both hands, not knowing where else he could hold onto.

“you are perfect, your grace.” you smiled at him, genuine and pure, in hopes of smoothing away his worries and to only think of the pleasures that will come along.

“jace. please. please call me jace.” he uttered in a small voice, his breathing growing heavier now, and beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

“as you wish, jace.” you held onto his shaft, earning a loud gasp from him as he jerked from his seat, “since we are asking nicely, jace, please let me know if you feel good, what does not, then you can learn from that.” the hold on his cock has been gentle at first, slowly increasing in pressure and pace as you make a suggestion. jace nodded eagerly, not quite bothered by his labored breaths now as he struggles to maintain a stable composure.

you guessed that he was sensitive, and you wanted to see how much more you could make a mess out of him in this regard; so you started pumping, stroking his cock languidly but careful not to touch the leaking tip. your other hand tries to calm him down by placing it on top of his lap, the tensed muscles lets you know he’s far from being relaxed, and you revel in it anyway.

“that’s good..” he whispered, closing his eyes as he leans back on the chair, one would think he’s slowly getting used to it, yet his hands that are getting almost too pale from strongly gripping on the chair’s arms says otherwise.

you hummed, prideful to yourself with just how easy the words seem to flow out of him, and the other matter that it is so impossibly easy to please the man; you would think that he could already come undone just with your hands alone—and you can’t have that. not yet.

while his eyes remained closed, and his face contorted with both pleasure and bliss, you took the time to bring your mouth towards his cock, surrounding the tip with warmth. as expected, both of his eyes shot open in a flash, looking straight at you now while your tongue licks at his skin, the immediate hint of the salty taste enveloping your tongue and you pushed forward into his shaft, taking more of him into your mouth.

he groaned, naturally so, as one of his hand found its way on your head, placing it idly on top, not guiding, not commanding; his other hand kept its place on the arm of the chair, still holding onto it like his life depended on it, “gods.. that’s.. that’s good.” you feel him slightly thrusting to follow the rhythm you have set whilst sucking his cock, your head continuously bobbing as you take his length, fighting the urge to gag and choke as you try to take all of him right down on your throat.

“hold on a moment, please.. please slow down.” he spoke softly, almost coming out as a whisper and he genuinely wanted to push you off, yet his hands does not carry a weight on it as he holds your shoulders; he could only place it there, putting his luck to the old gods and the new, hoping they would grant his wishes.

“slow down, please, please..” it sounded somewhere in between a cry for help and a plea, he suddenly did not know how to sit properly, where to put his hands; you maintained your pace, not minding the way he practically begs for you to slow down and to stop. you wanted to push him closer to the end, eager to let the ropes snap, determined to bring him to the best of days. with both pace and intensity, you kept on attempting to swallow him whole, one of your hands then moved to cup his balls, fondling over on the soft sack and providing a sudden massage over the smooth area.

jace was never known for being mean, nor vulgar in any time of the day. he was careful, composed and most of the time, in control; though he usually grows angry and frustrated but he would always craft his words politely. that is why there is a genuine shock when you heard him mutter a string of profanities, multiple curses flew off from his mouth as he holds your head lower and more into his cock; gods be damned if he knew how to speak this way in so long, yet in another note, it does make sense, this man was around daemon for half of his life. He would naturally pick up a thing or two.

“move, please, stay back, i am about to—” he did not get to finish his sentence when you felt a spurt of liquid shooting into your mouth, painting the inside of your cheek with his load and he did release quite a lot. you swallowed, gratefully and obediently, shooting him a look in the process and carefully examining his face; jace is properly drenched in sweat, his pupils blown out as he recovers from his climax, eyes dilated and filled with awe and satisfaction. you contemplated how he was just airing out vulgarities a second ago and shifting into a polite beg of moving your head away.

his face reddens, “i-i’m sorry.. i did not mean to—”

you chuckled, “pay no mind, your grace. i wanted to taste you.” and only then did his face relaxed, slowly forming a smile as he pulls you closer up until you straddled on his lap. he kisses you deeply, with an ample amount of hunger, still, and you returned the favor in the same intensity. you wrapped your arms around his neck and ruffled on his hair while he attempts to slip his tongue inside your mouth; quietly and adorably mimicking your previous actions.

then you felt as if you were floating, jacaerys lifted you from his lap and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, not breaking the kiss despite the jolt of surprise. he carries you to the table, the hot milk long forgotten now, the ink on the quill has all dried up. jace placed you gently on top of the wooden table, finally breaking the kiss as he looks downward, his pair of hands snaking on both of your legs, caressing the soft skin and leisurely making its way up.

“can i taste you too?”

you were rendered stunned, and it was your turn to be baffled now. the women who surrounded you before only given most of their thoughts and wisdom in terms of pleasing men—not receiving them. you looked away, expectant to see some answers or excuses to politely decline it, you did not know how it would feel, while it is true you have touched yourself beneath the sheets just before slumber, it would be an entirely different feeling to have someone else’s tongue.

“i—i do not know, jace. i have no knowledge of sorts when it comes to giving pleasure to a woman.” you cracked, finally, taking an ounce of shame as you respond in complete honesty.

jace’s grin grew bigger at that, “let me, please. teach me how, please, let me know how to please you.” he was already lowering himself, meekly keeping his gaze on your eyes, as he holds the hem of your dress, raising it until it sits on your abdomen, he deliberately removed your garments as you laid there, nervous and unmoving, your arms kept to yourself in fear of knocking over materials placed on top of his table, alongside you, that you presumed he deemed precious.

he carefully spread your legs wider, opening a pathway for him to thread on; jace stared at your cunt, examining it like the scales of the dragons. there was a genuine curiosity in his expression, his eyes filled with wonder; he willed his thumb to brush over it and you exclaimed, jolting at his warmth making contact on your pussy. he figured it was a sound out of pleasure, and drove him to do it again and again, until he pressed his thumb deeper, only to have it completely covered with slick.

“and this is..?” he wondered, prompting a question as he pause from scanning. he played with the wetness he gathered from your cunt, placing his index against his thumb to feel its slippery texture.

“arousal.. jace. it is a clear sign of arousal.” you answered, propping your elbows against the table to get a clearer sight of him in between your legs.

“are you aroused?” he had a genuine look of curiosity written all over his face, and you almost sneered at him, as if you had not been aroused since he walked towards you a couple of moments ago, as if seeing his face twist in fits of pleasure and experiencing climax has not made you squeeze your legs harder to feel an ounce of friction.

“very, your grace.” you simply answered, a gush of cold wind from his open window brushes lightly on your skin, bringing a handful of shivers on your bare cunt. jace was still very much captivated with your slick on his finger, he then brings it into his mouth, sucking on his thumb and letting the taste sit on his tongue before grinning to himself.

he wordlessly leans in closer to your cunt, wrapping his arms on each of your leg as he spreads it wider, allowing himself to have more room as he goes in to taste more of you. you shook at the sudden feel of his tongue rubbing on your clit, eliciting a soft moan, which caused you to place your hand over your mouth, muffling the sounds as a result, careful not to let the knights outside the chambers to hear what was supposedly the prince only drinking his serving of milk.

“do not shy yourself away from me.” he halted when he caught glimpse of what you were doing, you glanced at him, at his wet lips, a mix of his own saliva and your arousal, and it was more than enough to cause your head to blank out.

“the guards, your grace—”

“it would be a favor for them, i had imagined they would be delighted hearing something completely different from council debating over the realm’s conflicts.” jace dismissed your worries, though not fully convinced, you moved your hand away from your mouth as he resumed his own business.

it was all over the place, his tongue knows no bounds and directions of any sort, he was lapping like a madman, making it certain that every skin is marked with him. Jace being completely new to this kind of experience is rather adorable, at the start, but now you were feeling so incredibly and undeniably aroused that you just wanted to reach the high you’ve been wanting to achieve; with that in mind, you grabbed the prince’s hair, patches of his brown strands caught in between each finger and you simply yanked him in, pulling him further into you up until you felt his tongue closer to your sensitive nub, with just enough pressure. the way you moaned louder at that sensation did not escape jace’s ears, he wanted to please you more, wanted to see you pleasured real good, like how you did him on the chair.

the man raised his head lightly, getting another good look at your face before his index and middle fingers traced the lining of your cunt, spreading it open for him to access to; he did not know you were close, painfully unaware of the coiling tension inside your abdomen, he glances the way your nails were digging on his wooden table and a small smile curls up on his lips, as he knows he will be seeing the scratches one of these days while he works—and he will be left with a sweet memory. he did not know you needed a release, not yet, yet he licked on the newfound territory as if he belonged there, as if he knew exactly which places to give pressure on, and you were very clearly losing your mind; his warm and wet tongue was way beyond satisfactory, and you did not know you were pulling him rougher by his hair.

jace winces in pain, yet he paid no mind. he couldn’t get enough of you, of how you taste like; he had a previous thought that men who goes out to seek women in whorehouses were simply wasting time—and now that he had a taste of what pure bliss felt like, he knew he would not be stopping any time soon. You have opened the door to a whole new world for him, and it was more than enough to keep his frustration and rage at bay.

your toes curled at every time he hits a certain area in your cunt, at every moment he tenses his tongue and abuses your pussy with its tip; the growing release in your abdomen was all familiar, and you thought you’d be so, so close in a few—until he changed his attack. he had switched to sucking on it now, you didn’t know if it was a skill taught to him by someone else, or he was mirroring the way you sucked his cock earlier, or if he was trying something else—whatever it was, it simply reeled you closer to the edge, as he seemed to know where exactly to suck on, that little bead you have felt on your fingertips whenever you touch yourself.

you were close to screaming now, unable to contain your voice and unable to keep it in a very low volume, you kept his head close to where you want him, and he has been playing with you by both licking and sucking. “gods.. y-yes, right there!” you demanded, and jace found it amusing that you seem to have lost the initial modesty you have had before he spreads you open.

in seconds, you convulsed, violently shaking against the table, lightly raising your hips in the process as you see white; jace tried to hold you down, a wave of shock washing over him as he wonders what had occured; but he does know you have been wetter now, and another distinct taste fell on his tongue. he stood, “are you alright?”

a nod was the only thing you could do, smiling to yourself as you reached your climax once again. it was a completely different feeling to it, and you cannot tell yet if it was better than your own fingers, but you haven’t really trembled anywhere near that intensity, no matter how much you jog up your memory.

you got up, raising yourself from laying down and met his lips, there was a different taste on his lips, and you figured it must have come from you—considering how he was practically eating you just moments ago.

“was i good?”

you giggled now, fixing your clothes as you realize what just happened with the two of you, inside his chambers, a soft hint of pink pooled on your cheeks, “you must have sucked all life out of me, gods.” you stared at him, rubbing a thumb over his chin to clean off remnants of your release and he tilted his head lower, meeting your thumb and he had started to suck on it, not wanting to waste a single drop of what you just gave him.

there was a hint of tenderness in his gaze, almost too soft, and for some reason, this had changed the way you viewed him; on every glance, on every gazes met, on every halls where you could pass him by—you’d be forever reminded of his lips, his grip on your thighs, his pair of lustful and hungry eyes, his tongue on your cunt, and his cum that is a mix of sweet and salty.

“your grace, queen rhaenyra summons you.”

you were quick to move, jumping from the table and immediately tended to your appearance, there is a little discomfort of a warm, and sticky feeling trickling down on your thighs but you ignored it—walking out of his chamber is a top priority. he did the exact same thing, getting into the garments you previously discarded, he worried that your scent may have permanently marked him, especially his mouth, and he was already thinking of other ways to speak with his mother, in such a way that she does not get a single waft of your scent.

“i shall have my hot milk again on the morrow, bring it around the exact moment as you did on this evening.” he was back to this usual composed demeanor, as the guards opened his doors for him; you bowed your head slightly, silently praying the knights did not hear any sound from you.