girlwithoutorgans

One thing you hated was the fact your dad worked in the ER. Especially the ER in Pittsburgh that never seems to get a break.

You wait on a bench outside of the noisy hospital. Ambulances rolling in and out every now and then. Your hands are tucked away in your dad’s green coat. You sniffle as your nose runs from the cold. It grows numb at the cold breeze.

You didn’t mind waiting in the cold though.

Every time the sliding doors open you can’t help but glance up in hope it’s your dad. Each time it’s someone different; some familiar faces but it was never your dad.

The sliding doors open once more, your eyes flick up, and to your surprise it’s a more than familiar face.

"Dr. Abbot?" You say, almost like it was a question.

"You waiting up for your dad?"

You scoot over on the bench as he inches closer. He just has on black scrubs, a grey shirt under, and a stethoscope wrapped around his neck.

"Yeah." You kept your response short.

With a soft grunt he sits down next to you. He leans back a bit and his legs spread open slowly in a manspread you can’t help but notice.

Your eyes flick away quickly.

"Robby is going to be held up a bit tonight." His tone makes you worry. Your eyes flick to his.

"Should I be worried?" Something in your stomach twists.

"There was a car pile up on the freeway tonight. Some of the local hospitals computer systems went down, so they had to transfer them over." He explains.

"He’s been in there for almost twenty-four hours." You mumble.

"You know how your dad is, kiddo."

Kiddo.

"The sun is rising practically, and I see the night shift doctors going home." You point at the night shift doctor who has a Dunkin' drink with him everyday, leaving.

"I know you’re upset-"

"Upset? Yeah, I hardly get to see my dad because his second home is a hospital for crying out loud." You shout angrily.

Abbot seems taken aback at your frustration, but he understands. He places a hand on your knee and gives it a squeeze.

"I get your frustration — I do. Your dad just works hard," Abbot tries to defend your dad.

You shake your head, "But when do I get a say when I want to see my dad."

You squeeze your hands into a fist, they’re tucked away in the long sleeves of your dad’s coat. You feel the tears of frustration starting to rise in your eyes. You bite your lower lip to try to stop anything from escaping but it’s hard with the cold air smacking you in the face. A tear escapes and so does a hushed sniffle.

"Hey, hey, woah," Abbot turns to you and you refuse to look up at him. "These tears aren’t worth it."

He grabs your face and his calloused hand glides against your cheek. Your eyes flinch at the touch. His hands are surprisingly warm. His thumb brushes away a tear under your eye.

"How did you get here?" Abbot asks you.

"I took the bus." You sniffle.

"I’ll text Robby that I’m taking you home today, okay?" You feel your heart rate increase at the idea of being in Abbot’s truck, just you and him, going to your house.

You nod and wipe away the tears from your face, "Okay." You softly say.

The car ride felt like it was the longest car ride. The soft hum of the engine, and the smell of the cars heater blowing in your face. You can tell his truck is a little older. It is a nice rustic red, and it suits him. Everything Abbot has or does suits him.

He pulls into the driveway of you and your dad’s house. Your own car, a 2016 Volkswagen Beetle, which broke down on you about a month ago, sits peacefully next to his truck.

"You took the bus but you have your beetle?" He points to your red beetle.

"She broke down on me last month. I think something’s wrong with the transmission. Dad was supposed to take it to the shop last week, but he got busy."

As usual.

"I can always take it into the shop. I know a mechanic who could probably get her back up and running." You can’t help but smile.

"You’d do that?" Your eyes flick between his.

With a soft nod and a smile that you can’t help but stare at, "Of course. I’d do anything for you, kiddo."

Your heart skips a beat and you can feel your palms grow sweaty. Your stomach twists and turns like you have to throw up.

"You should come in," You blurt out.

Abbot looks surprised, "You want me to come in?"

"I mean, dad wouldn’t like you to not come in. You drove me here you must be hungry or thirsty or — something." You ramble a bit.

Abbot chuckles at you and shakes his head. He reaches for his key fob and turns off his truck.

"Okay, I’ll go inside." He rests his hands on his legs.

His black scrubs fit nicely on his body. It squeezes around his legs and his black shirt accentuates his biceps.

You guys get out of the truck and you take out your key. It’s on a keychain with a picture of you and your dad, a small stuffed bunny, and a red heart. The keys jingle and you fumble a bit trying to unlock your door. You can feel Abbot staring at the side of your face and at the lock.

Once you get the door open you are instantly greeted by your cat Cinnamon. She’s a smaller tabby cat, and she rubs against your legs. She doesn’t hesitate to go to Abbot next. Rubbing on his black scrubs; her fur clings to it.

He leans down to pick her up. He lays her on her back and she purrs loudly. He takes his middle and ring finger and begins to pet her gently in the stomach.

"Such a pretty girl," He hums and rubs her fur slowly.

You lick your lips and swallow the lump forming in your throat. Your eyes can’t help but focus on his veiny hands and the thickness of his two fingers rubbing your cat.

He sets her down and when he gets back up he softly groans.

You blink out of whatever fantasy you were playing in your head.

"Are you thirsty?" You ask and walk over to the kitchen.

"Coffee would be great," He nods.

"Coffee after doing the night shift?" You tease and he huffs as he sits down on your sofa.

"Coffee is like water to me now, kid."

"You realize I’m nineteen. I’m not a kid," You glare at him.

"I know, I know. I just like saying it," He smiles.

You put the pod of coffee into your Keurig. It begins to rumble as the water starts to heat up. You awkwardly stand in the kitchen not knowing if you should go over to the couch or not.

"Don’t be so uptight in your own home," You flinch at the husky voice and look over at Abbot.

He pats the cushion next to him and hesitantly you begin to walk over. You stand in front of him and his head tilts up to look at you. You sit down slowly next to him. You can feel his eyes on you; watching your every move.

You guys sit in silence, you can hear your heart beating loudly. You’ve been around Abbot many times but this one time you’re with him alone.

You notice him bringg his hand up, and it finds your leg. He places his hand on your leg and brings your chin over his lap.

You watch him.

He knows you’re watching.

He slides his hand up to your chin slowly — rubbing your skin. Shivers run up your spine at his warm hands caressing your legs.

He turns his head and his eyes lock with yours.

You swallow.

"Abbot," you say almost breathlessly.

"Yes?" His voice is deeper than before.

You lean in more, your butt pressing against his thigh. Your legs are now both over his lap, but you’re not sitting in his lap — yet.

"Keep going," you say. "Please."

His eyes flick between yours. Something new lights in them and you can tell he’s enjoying this as much as you are.

You lean in to his neck as he continues to stroke your legs. You get a smell of his musk that makes him smell more like a man. You place a soft kiss on his neck and his hand halts on your chin.

You pull away and look up at him.

"Kid," Abbot begins.

His hand reaches out for your cheek. His thumb traces your bottom lip as he holds your face. A breathy gasp escapes between your lips. You stare up at him; he licks his lips slowly. Before you left him finish his sentence you place your mouth on his. His breath gets caught in his throat, but he doesn’t fight the kiss. His mouth wanders yours; his tongue protruding the entrance to your mouth. Your tongues fight against each other.

You find yourself now straddling him. Your hands are on his broad shoulders, squeezing and pulling on his shirt. The more you two kiss, the more you want.

He breaks away from you. You’re both breathless and he stares into your eyes. You can feel your lips are swollen but you don’t mind.

"Kid, we shouldn’t have done that." He says.

"But I wanted it to happen," You whisper.

He tilts his head back a bit and you bite your lip. You inch towards his face again and he doesn’t mind. You place another soft kiss on his lips. You can feel the heat from his breath on your lips. His breath smells like peppermint, and you can’t help but crave it.

Your tongue glides along the bottom of his lip, and slowly you rock your hips forward. With the movement of your hips you can hear him grunt in your mouth.

Everything around you disappears. All you can focus on is the feeling of your pussy slowly grinding against his growing hard on, and the way his breathing grows erratic against your mouth.

"Fuck," He groans.

He stared at you intensely through hooded eyes. You rock your hips and a shot of pleasure shoots through you.

You lean forward a bit and your head meets his muscular shoulder. His hand slides into your hair and the fingers that were once petting your cat were now racking through your hair.

You let out a muffled moan into his shoulder at the feeling of your cunt grinding and his hand roughly playing in your hair.

"Keep going," He encourages through a groan.

You press down harder and roll your hips. Your breath hitches softly.

"Yeah," He breathes. "Just like that."

You moan again at his words.

"What would your dad think?" He whispers. "Him coming home and seeing his daughter grinding against his friend, huh?"

You whimper in response.

You lean back and look at him. Your chest heaves up and down.

"I want more," You gasp. "Jack, please."

"Jack, hm?" He moves his hands down onto your thighs and up to your hips.

He squeezes and massages them slowly.

"What more do you want?" He asks.

"Touch me, anything, please." You beg.

"Touch you?" His hand slides closer to the button of your jeans.

He rubs his finger around the button. You watch the way his index finger slowly does circles on the piece of metal. You feel yourself pulsing at the idea of his fingers doing that to you.

He unbuttons the button and glides down the zipper. He can see your pink lace underwear you’re wearing. His thumb glides against the silky underwear and he looks up at you — looking for an answer.

"Please," you beg. "Touch me."

Without anymore hesitation he slides his hand inside of your underwear. You let out a mixture of a gasp and a moan as his index finger slides up your wet folds and runs over your clit, slowly. You rub is back and forth in a slowly flicking motion. You moan and tilt your head back a bit and rock your hips forward.

"You think you can take my fingers?" He wraps his free hand around your neck and tilts your head back to look at him.

You bob your head and he gives a smirk.

Slowly he pushes between your folds and slides his index finger inside of you. You squeeze your eyes shut at the feeling of his finger going in. A mixture of pain and pleasure rush over you. His index finger slides in and out slowly but his thumb finds its way down back to your clit. In a motion you fingers you and rubs circles on your clit.

"Look at that," he hums. "Such a good girl."

You moan loudly at the way he’s treating you and the words he speaks. You can feel the nerves bundling up and the pleasure becoming intense on you.

"Oh God," You whimper. "I’m going to cum." You moan out.

"It’s okay," He reassures. "I got you; cum for me."

With those words, it felt like an explosion hit you. Your body trembles as you reach your climax and you let out a loud moan. You bite your lip and collapse onto his shoulder once again. He pumps his finger slower inside of you until all that’s left is your body twitching.

You sit up and catch your breath. You two are both breathless and you can’t help but smile. Jack cracks a smile back at you.

He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing gets out as you both hear the sound of keys entering the front doors lock.

You jump off Jack’s lap and zip up your jeans. You quickly tuck your hair behind your ears and glance at Jack once more. You notice him adjust his dick in his scrubs before the door opens.

"Hi dad," You blurt out.

"Hey sweetie," Robby sets down the keys in the bowl by your door and he walks over and kisses your forehead. "Sorry I’m home so late."

"It’s fine," you say. "Dr. Abbot kept me company."

You turn your head and smile at Abbot.

To you, they were not lovers. Not even customers, really.

They were leverage.

You hunted men who had something to lose.

Not the lonely ones, or the broke ones. Not the ones who came in with empty pockets and honest eyes. Those were harmless. You adored them, actually. You loved giving those ones a private lap dance for half your usual rate. Most of them just wanted human connection, and you were lacking those these days so… they helped. 

But no. Instead, you went for the ones who carried entire worlds in their suit pockets. You went for men who signed paychecks that moved lives around like chess pieces. Men with wives who wore diamonds bought with lies. Men who spoke about integrity in boardrooms and forgot it in private booths.

Powerful men. Rich men. Married men.

Especially married men.

Because nothing made a man more generous than fear of their wives finding out. 

Their first mistake was that they always talked too much.

They thought you were simple. They thought you were just another pretty girl who didn’t understand contracts, NDAs, offshore accounts, or the architecture of reputation. They underestimated how often you’d heard the word “confidential” used as a joke before someone tried to touch you like it didn’t apply.

So they spoke freely of their business deals and insider information while you feigned your empathy for their oh-so-difficult lives. They’d start thinking you actually cared. Then they’d start pouring their heart out, telling you names of people they shouldn’t have named. They started confessing things they did when they thought no one important was watching.

And you listened. You always smiled, tilting your head like you were flattered to be trusted. Like you were weak enough to be safe.

Then you collected.

You’d snap a photo at the right angle. You’d send yourself a message thread left open on a borrowed phone. You’d record audio with a wire you planted in the private room. 

Blackmail wasn’t messy when done properly. It was arithmetic.

You never asked for much at first. Money, of course. You’d bat your pretty eyelashes and say that you’d keep your sweet mouth shut and continue being their favourite dance for some funds. You’d request small transfers that looked like indulgence, not extortion. Then favors. Then access. Information that opened doors you were never meant to walk through.

When you got enough information, you’d move on to bigger accounts. Ask for open credit cards to shop, to help some of the other girls pay off hospital bills of loved ones and student loans. Once, you even convinced an older gentleman to get an apartment in the city under your name. How else could you possibly afford to live mortgage-free in a midtown Manhattan apartment with rooftop access? 

And when they got greedy, when they started thinking money could buy you, when they thought they could touch you without consequence, you’d stopped being negotiable.

That’s when the wives learned the truth.

You’d send a carefully curated message. A screenshot of a text their husband sent, inquiring how much it would be to purchase your stage-worn lingerie. A recording of a call you had with their husbands saying things like “I can get you a villa in Italy, sweetheart. Is that when you’ll finally let me fuck you?” 

You didn’t enjoy the panic that followed, but you respected its efficiency.

Men told you many things because they saw you as disposable. They often forgot that being underestimated was its own kind of power.

By the time they realized you were using it, it was already too late.

—

The first time you saw him, it was a Monday.

It was always slow for business on weekdays. A few regulars were scattered around, a couple of half-drunk businessmen pretending they weren’t checking their phones every five seconds, and the girls rotating lazily through their sets.

You didn’t need to be there.

You’d had a good run lately, very good. You managed to hustle six figures from a man who was desperately trying to cover up the fact that he was going for women two years younger than his daughter. You could’ve taken the night off, and slept in your new silk sheets, ordered something expensive, ignored the world.

But you were bored. So you came to work. 

Now here you were, getting on stage for your set.

You climbed the pole like muscle memory, body moving in fluid motions, the kind that made men think they were witnessing intimacy when really it was just a repetition.

You didn’t bother scanning the room at the start, but halfway through a turn, when you dipped low and let your hair brush the stage, your eyes lifted and caught on him.

A man with a scar on his cheek, bathed the same blue lights as you, sitting by the bar. He was watching you, but not like the others. He had no self-absorbed smirk on his face, no lazy entitlement in his eyes. He didn’t have that arrogant hunger that made your skin itch. What he had for you was pure laser focus.

Pretty, you thought immediately.

He was your type. Clean-cut but not soft, hypervigilant posture, so probably ex-military. He was athletic and had a defined jawline, a determined look on his face. His hazel eyes didn’t even wander when another girl crossed his line of sight.

And he looked… out of place.

Like someone who had taken a wrong turn and ended up here by accident. Except, he wasn’t leaving.

You finished your set to polite applause and a few thrown bills you didn’t bother collecting right away.

Your attention stayed on him.

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t reached for a drink. He hadn’t even blinked much, from what you could tell.

Yeah. Definitely weird.

—

You slipped into a robe backstage, tying it loosely around your waist. One of the girls said something to you, and you laughed, but your mind was already elsewhere.

It was on the man at the bar. 

You didn’t chase men. They came to you. But curiosity was its own kind of itch, and you had never been good at ignoring those.

So you opened the stage access door and found him.

It was quiet enough that no one cared that you slid onto the stool beside him. The bartender gave you a knowing glance and went back to polishing glasses.

He didn’t turn immediately when you sat down, but you could tell that his awareness was shifting.

“First time?” you asked lightly, resting your elbow on the counter, chin in your hand. Your voice was playful. It was the same voice you used on every man who thought he might be special.

He turned a little. “Is it that obvious?” he asked. His tone was controlled. 

You smiled sweetly, but it wasn’t saccharine. “You’re not drinking. You’re not staring at everyone else like you’ve never seen a naked woman before. And you haven’t tried to touch anyone.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think I was supposed to.”

That made you laugh. “Congratulations,” you said. “You’re already better than half the men in here.”

His expression didn’t change much, but his eyes darted pleasantly, like he was cataloguing the sound of your laugh.

“You were watching me,” you added, tilting your head.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. 

“Why?” you asked.

You expected him to say something rehearsed. A compliment, maybe line.

Instead, he said, “You are the only thing that made sense.”

Your smile faltered, only for a second. That wasn’t a normal answer.

“You don’t seem like you belong here,” you said, steering to a safer topic but still trying to coax his motives out of him. 

“I don’t,” he agreed.

“So why come?”

His eyes flicked over your face, like he was memorizing it. “I wanted to see you.”

You were good with faces, especially the ones worth remembering. But you didn’t remember him.

“Have we met?” you asked.

He nodded hesitantly. 

You narrowed your eyes slightly, studying him again, more carefully this time. “Where?”

“The cafe down the street,” he said. “You go there in the mornings.”

Ah. That did narrow it down.

You had your places, and the cafe down the street, a modern coffee house called Third Space, did make a mean Americano.

And yet… you had nothing. No memory of him standing in line, no passing glance, no familiar face.

So it was either he was lying, or you had missed something.

“I think I’d remember you,” you said, a hint of amusement threading through your voice. “Trust me.”

He tilted his head curiously.

“You’re my type,” you explained, suddenly sheepish. You rarely tell potential clients that, and even then, it was never the truth. Well, until now. 

It was flirting. A hook, lightly cast. Most men would’ve lit up, leaned in, gotten bold with it.

He just… smiled shyly, almost uncertain, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the information, but liked it anyway.

“Maybe you just weren’t looking at me,” he said.

“Hm,” you hummed, unconvinced, but not dismissing the possibility entirely. “You’ve got a name?” you asked after a second.

“Dex,” he said.

“Dex,” you repeated. “You gonna buy me a drink, or are you just going to sit there and stare all night?”

He nodded, almost shy all of a sudden. You watched him signal the bartender, watched the way he moved, the way his attention kept slipping back to you like everything else in the room was just background noise.

—

You didn’t leave. That was the first sign something was off, because you always left after ten minutes. 

You always knew exactly when a conversation had run its course, when a man had given you everything he was going to give, when it was time to smile sweetly and slip away before anything real could take root. But tonight, you stayed on that barstool beside him like you had nowhere better to be, like the hum of the music and the dim lights and him were enough to hold your attention. That alone should have told you this wasn’t going to go the way things usually did.

“You’re thinking too hard,” you said, watching the way his fingers curled around his glass, like even something as simple as drinking had rules he needed to follow.

“I’m not,” he replied, but there was a hesitation before it, just long enough for you to smile simply because you caught it.

“You are,” you insisted, leaning in, close enough that he had to notice, close enough that most men would’ve taken it as an invitation. He didn’t. “It’s… kind of cute.”

His eyes flicked to yours, like he didn’t know what to do with that. “Cute isn’t usually what people call me.”

“Do I look like most people?” you shot back easily, letting your knee brush his, pretending it was accidental. You watched the way he froze for a second, not pulling away, not leaning in either.

Fuck, you liked him. You realized it in real time, and it felt inconvenient and unfamiliar. 

You didn’t usually do this, you didn’t sit and talk just to talk, didn’t linger unless there was something to gain. Yet, here you were, not even wondering what you could take from him. 

“So what do you do, Dex?” you asked, tilting your head, letting your robe slip just slightly off your shoulder. He noticed, but his eyes snapped back up like he was forcing them to.

“I work,” he said, and you laughed all the same.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

“Mm, mysterious,” you teased. “Or boring. Haven’t decided yet.”

He glanced at you again, and there was uncertainty, maybe, or disbelief. He still hadn’t figured out why you were sitting here. “You could be making money right now,” he said, almost like he was hyperaware for it.

“I could,” you agreed lightly. “But I don’t need to.”

That surprised him. You could tell by the way his brows pulled together, just slightly. “How much is ‘don’t need to’?”

You shrugged, taking a sip of your whiskey. “Enough.”

And that was all he was getting.

You were good at what you did. You didn’t waste time. Except, apparently, tonight. Except, apparently, on him.

“You know what’s funny?” You chuckled. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

His hazel eyes settled on you again, and still refused to say a word. 

“Hm,” you hummed, then tilted your head, a smirk tugging at your lips. “What, are you some kind of gun for hire?”

You meant it half as a joke, but the way he went still told you that you’d probably struck a nerve.

Oh. Your smile widened just a fraction.

“I didn’t say that,” he replied carefully.

“You didn’t say no either,” you countered, leaning in just enough to make it feel like a secret between the two of you.

He looked down. “Would it matter?”

You held his gaze for a second, actually considering it. Usually, it would, usually men like that came with complications you didn’t feel like dealing with, but you weren’t looking at him like a problem to solve, were you? 

“No,” you said dismissively. “Not really.”

And you meant that, too.

“I don’t know why you’re still talking to me,” he said as if his mouth didn’t have a filter to bypass his brain, like it didn’t fit into whatever understanding he had of how places like this worked.

You raised a brow. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” He said, a little too quickly.

“Then relax.” You smiled, pleased in a way you didn’t bother hiding. Slowly, you placed your hand over his arm, meant as a comfort, not a flirt. 

That shut him up. 

The second drink came easier, the space between you shrinking without either of you acknowledging it. Your body inched toward his, your voice smaller, more intimate, less like a performance the longer it went on, the more certain you became that this— that he— wasn’t someone you wanted to exploit. 

You could have. There was always something to take if you looked hard enough. But you didn’t want to look. If anything, he felt like a self-indulgence, an unnecessary risk that was entirely yours to enjoy for no reason other than you wanted to.

So you didn’t think about it too hard when you set your glass down and reached for his wrist, already sliding off the stool as you tugged him with you. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” he asked, his brain trying to keep up with his feet.

“Private booth, and don’t worry about it. This one’s on the house.”

He looked like he hadn’t quite wrapped it around his head but didn’t want to fight it, like none of this made sense to him. He let you lead him like he trusted you already, like he didn’t need to understand it to accept it.

You tugged him again, gentler now, coaxing instead of pulling. 

His breath startled again, that small, involuntary reaction you were starting to recognize, starting to like a little too much.

—

The private room was quieter than the rest of the club, the bass reduced to a distant thrum that felt more like a heartbeat than music.

Dex stopped just inside the doorway.

You noticed that immediately.

Most men walked in like they owned the place, like this was the part they’d been waiting for all night. He looked like he’d stepped into an alien planet. 

You turned, still holding his wrist, and gave a small, amused smile. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “I think so.”

You let go of his wrist and gestured toward the seat. “Sit.”

He did, immediately, like he’d been given an order he didn’t question, perching on the edge rather than leaning back, like he didn’t know what to do with his body in a place like this.

You took your time.

That was part of it, always. The anticipation, the control of pace. You stepped closer slowly, letting your fingers drift to the edge of your robe, then paused, glancing at him through your lashes.

“Hey,” you said, just wanting to make sure. “You good with me actually… you know.” You gave a teasing tilt of your head. “Stripping?”

He blinked. “…uh,” he managed, clearly caught off guard by the question itself. “Yes?”

You smiled, a little wider this time. The uncertainty was almost endearing. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” he repeated, firmer now, even if his ears had gone just slightly red.

“Okay.” You nodded once, then added, “Just so you know, no touching unless I say so. Club rules.”

“I—” he started, then stopped himself, teeth clenching slightly. “Okay.”

He didn’t know where to look at first, which was ridiculous, because he had spent nights watching you from across the room without blinking, memorizing the way you moved, the way you smiled, the way you existed in a space like you owned it. But this… this was different. This was proximity. You were within reach.

Slowly, you let the robe slip from your shoulders inch by inch, and tonight it felt… different. Less like you were putting on a show, more like you were letting him see something he hadn’t earned and you weren’t trying to sell.

You let the silk robe slide from your shoulders, slower this time, not dropping it right away. You let it drag against your skin, down your arms.

When it finally slipped free, you just let it fall. Your attention still locked on him, and on the way he was looking at you.

You stepped between his knees, close enough that he had to tilt his head up slightly just to keep your face in view, your hand coming to rest lightly against his shoulder.

“You’re doing good,” you sounded like a tease, though you meant it as a compliment.

He let out a strained sound that might’ve been a breath or might’ve been your name.

Oh. He liked that. 

“You’re…” he started, then stopped.

You tilted your head slightly, still moving, still close enough that your breath mingled with his. “What?”

His eyes met yours again, darker now, wilderness flickering beneath all that control. “You’re… a lot.”

You can’t help but giggle at that. “Good or bad?”

“Good,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question.

You let the rest of the lingerie strip away piece by piece, like you knew exactly what it was doing to him, like you were aware of the way heartbeat had started to hammer, the way his hands pressed harder into his thighs just to keep from moving, from doing something wrong, from giving in to every intrusive thought and fucking it up. 

“You can look,” you murmured.

He almost laughed at that.

“I am,” he said, because there was no point pretending otherwise.

You stepped closer again. Close enough that he could feel your warmth before you even touched him, close enough that his body reacted instinctively, tension pulling tighter, his breath stumbling for a second before he forced it back under control.

You slid your knee onto the seat beside his leg, then the other, straddling his lap without touching fully at first, giving him a second to adjust.

When you let your body settle on him, your hands slid over his shoulders, down his chest, like you were the one in control of how fast this went, how far it went, and he let you, he needed you to, because he wasn’t sure he could manage it on his own.

His head tipped back slightly, just for a second, a pathetic exhale leaving him before he could stop it. His entire body was tense under you, every nerve lit up and focused entirely on the fact that you were there, that this was happening, that you were choosing to be this close.

You let the dance stretch longer than you needed to, mostly because of how amazed you were with yourself that this didn’t feel like work.

Which was new.

When the music shifted, you slowed, then stopped. You smiled, easing off his lap, retrieving your robe and slipping it back on, but not closing it all the way.

You nudged his arm lightly with yours. “We don’t have to go back out there, you know.”

He glanced at you, then at the door.

“You don’t want to?” he asked.

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “We could just… stay here and talk.”

He studied you for a second, like he was trying to figure out if this was another part of the act.

He concluded that it wasn’t.

“I’d like that,” he said, but what he really meant was— I don’t want to share you.

—

The next time you saw him was a pleasant surprise. 

You were at the club again, and he was already there, waiting for you. He was sitting in the same seat, posture just as straight, eyes already fixed on you like he’d been tracking your every movement from the second you stepped on stage, you didn’t look away this time. You smiled. 

You finished your set quicker than you meant to. Or  maybe it just felt that way, your body moving through motions it knew too well while your attention stayed anchored to him.

The second the music faded you were already reaching for your robe, already tying it loosely as you made your way straight to the bar without hesitation, sliding onto the stool beside him like this had always been the plan. 

“Hey, you,” you said, leaning your arm against the counter, angling yourself toward him in a way that felt natural like you’d done this a hundred times instead of once before.

His head turned immediately, as if he’d been waiting for the exact moment you’d come down to him.

“Hi,” he said, and it came out gentler this time, like your presence gave him a focal point to cling onto.

“You’re becoming a regular,” you teased.

“I go where you are,” he replied, just as simply as before. You huffed a laugh, shaking your head even as your lips curved because he said things like that so easily, like they weren’t a walking red flag.

Talking to him felt as natural as it did before. You teased him about how stiff he still looked, he told you he didn’t know what to do with his hands, you laughed and nudged them onto the bar for him.

You didn’t even notice the way his attention flickered whenever another man else looked at you, didn’t catch the subtle tightening in his teeth when your laugh carried to someone who wasn’t him, didn’t see the way his hand curled slightly around his glass when a man across the room leaned forward like he was considering approaching. You weren’t looking for that. You weren’t looking for danger here.

“Hey,” one of the girls said, tapping your shoulder, pulling you out of the moment.

You turned, already halfway into a smile. “Yeah?”

She tilted her head toward the other end of the bar. “New guy. He’s asking for you.”

You followed her gaze, eyes landing on a man you didn’t recognize. He was well-dressed, confident. He looked like the kind that tipped without hesitation.  

Ah. Opportunity. Easy money. 

When you turned back to Dex, your smile had shifted, not entirely false but not entirely his anymore either. “Duty calls,” you said lightly, pushing off the stool.

You were already adjusting your robe, already stepping back into the version of yourself that knew exactly how to handle men like that, already moving away before you could think too hard about the fact that you didn’t actually want to.

Behind you, Dex didn’t move, didn’t look away.

He watched the man who had asked for you, watched the way you smiled at him, the way you leaned in just slightly.

Jealousy bubbled up in his chest. It was cold and unfamiliar to you but deeply familiar to him. 

Where you saw a job, he saw a threat.

And the difference between those two things was about to matter more than you realized.

—

At the end of the night, you expected to find an empty club. You didn’t think that Dex would still be there.

You invited him backstage. It wasn’t a big deal— all the other girls had left when you said you’d count for them since you have a day off tomorrow. Besides, you didn’t want him to be alone out there, waiting for nothing. 

He watched as you sat cross-legged on a leather couch with a small pile of bills spread out in front of you, sorting them out with ease. It wasn’t complicated work. It just took time.

Dex awkwardly stood there, not really knowing what to do. You glanced up once and went back to counting.

“You…  don’t have to stay,” you said eventually. Your voice was brighter than it should’ve been for how late it was. “It’s a slow night. I’ve got it.”

Dex didn’t answer. Instead, he sat on the edge of the couch near your feet. After a moment, he picked up a small stack of bills you’d already sorted and aligned the edges to perfection.

“I can help,” he said simply.

You finally looked at him then, amused. “You’re volunteering to count stripper money?”

He paused for half a beat, like he was recalibrating how that sounded. “I can count.”

That made you laugh.

“Alright,” you said, pushing a small stack toward him. “Go on then. Try not to get overwhelmed.”

He started counting beside you.

It should’ve been nothing. Just paper, numbers, time passing. But Dex was precise, and that made the task feel different. He didn’t rush. He didn’t miss anything. When you miscounted one stack out of habit, he corrected it without pointing it out directly, he’d just set the extra bill back in place like it had always belonged there.

“You’re weirdly good at this,” you said after a while, leaning back on your hands.

Dex didn’t look up. “It’s not complicated.”

“It is when I do it,” You groaned playfully. 

That earned you the faintest smile, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to have it. He handed you the last stack.

You let out a breath and tilted your head back against the couch. “Or maybe I just find it boring. Well, at least it is when you’re not here.”

Dex looked at you.

“I like it,” he said simply.

You raised a brow. “Counting money?”

He tilted his head.

“…This,” he corrected.

And for a moment, neither of you moved. The club kept thudding faintly around you, distant and unimportant, while the bills sat forgotten between your hands. 

And for once, you didn’t get up.

“We…” you said after a moment, tapping your finger idly against the edges of the paper, “we should probably stop meeting like this.”

“Like what?”

You gestured vaguely around you— at the bills, the mirror, the locker. “We should meet at Third Space,” you added casually, like it wasn’t a decision you’d already made. It was the cafè he claimed to have known you from.

“I—uh…” He cleared his throat slightly. “Yeah. I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” you said, finally setting the stack on the pile, “I’ll see you then.”

—

You almost didn’t believe he’d show, not because he didn’t seem like the type to follow through, but because clients you liked didn’t usually hold up outside of the club. 

Daylight stripped things down, took away the illusion. Made everything too real, too visible, too easy to question.

Third Space was always busy in the mornings. You ordered, collecting your drink before you let your eyes wander. You saw him immediately. He sat like he always did, straight-backed, eyes already on you like he’d clocked your entrance way before you even spotted him. Your heart did a small, annoying flip in your chest.

“Good morning,” you said as you slid into the chair across from him, setting your cup down. “Both early, are we?”

“I didn’t want to miss you,” he said, and it wasn’t smooth, it wasn't charming. It just sat there between you, a little too honest for seven in the morning.

You just hummed, studying him properly in the daylight, noting the same things you had before, only everything clearer now.

“If this is your usual spot,” you said, wrapping your hands around your cup. “I would’ve noticed you.”

“You didn’t.” He said without a shred of humour, and you tilted your head slightly, considering him, trying to decide if that was strange or just… him. 

“What do you get?” you asked, steering the conversation for the both of you. 

“The same thing you do.”

Oh?

You let out a breath that turned into a small smile. Mostly because you didn’t know what to do with that.

Maybe it didn’t matter. Not when sitting across from him felt like, for the first time in a long time, your conversations didn’t require effort or calculation or strategy. 

While you weren’t overthinking this, Dex wasn’t so lucky.

He had always relied on structure. It was the only thing that kept the world from slipping into noise. He had patterns and routines that made people predictable and therefore manageable. He categorized everything: threats, variables, outcomes. Even people had their place. But you didn’t. 

He had tried, sitting across from you now with his hands wrapped too tightly around a cup, to assign you a functional title: distraction, temporary interest, or low-risk variable. None of it held. Every time he reached for another definition, something in it broke apart, leaving him with nothing but the fact that he wanted to be here. 

He told himself he wouldn’t come back tomorrow. There was no reason to. You hadn’t offered anything concrete, nothing useful, nothing that justified him breaking his habit. By his own standards, this was already inefficient. And yet, the next morning, he found himself at the same table again, a bit later this time, correcting for your previous arrival window. He noted the inconsistency even as he adjusted for it. For the first time in a long time, Dex allowed something in his life to exist without fixing it.

—

The third time you met him at Third Space, you were late.

Not late in any meaningful way, only five, maybe ten minutes. When came in, you noticed Dex was exactly where you expected him to be, seated at the same table near the window, untouched drink in front of him like he’d ordered it out of obligation rather than want.

His eyes found you immediately. Like he’d been waiting, and now that you were here, something had clicked back into place.

You smiled as you ordered before making your way over, sliding into the chair across from him, setting your cup down like you hadn’t kept him waiting at all.

“You look like you’ve been conducting surveillance,” you said, glancing at his untouched drink. “Should I be concerned, or flattered?”

“I was watching the door,” he said.

You let out a laugh, leaning back into your chair. “Yeah, that part I got. I meant more like… was I the target, or is this just how you pass time?”

“You were the target,” he said, just as evenly.

That shouldn’t have been funny, but it was.

“Wow,” you shook your head playfully, dragging your fingers lightly along the rim of your cup. “Straight to the point. You’re really committed to this whole… unsettling thing, huh?”

“I’m not…” He caught himself, then took a deep breath. His mouth twitched into a small smile. “I haven’t been waiting long. It’s still warm,” he said, touching the mug. You didn’t realise he was lying.

“Good,” you hummed, leaning back in your chair like you were settling in properly now. “I’d hate to think I kept you.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” he admitted, finally taking a sip. 

You tilted your head, as if you were deciding what to do with that.

“Still,” you said. “I’d hate to be wasting your time.”

“Do you even know how to do that?” he asked genuinely.

“What?” You raised a brow, reaching for your drink. “Waste time?”

“With people,” he said, then hesitated. He was deciding how much to say. “You seem… selective.”

You should’ve known. If he was really ex military or fed, like you suspected, he must have resources. He must have done research on you, a background check, perhaps. You have been careful with cleaning up your reputation, of course. But you were aware you had cracks. After all, some men have made anonymous Reddit posts about your extortion, and god knows what other forums your name has appeared in. Still, you didn't think anyone would take it seriously.

“That’s a very polite way of putting it.”

“It’s accurate,” he shrugged, relieved at your rather tame reaction.

You watched him over the rim of your cup as you took another sip. “You’ve been observing me,” you noted.

“A little,” he said, not denying it, though there was something almost sheepish in the way his eyes dipped for half a second before coming back to you.

“I wasn’t trying to be—” he paused, searching for the word. “Intrusive.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re intrusive,” you said, leaning forward slightly, resting. “You’re just… intense.”

That earned you a small laugh. 

“I’m just trying to figure something out,” he admitted, and even he seemed surprised that he did.

You leaned back, intrigued. “Should I be concerned?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said, and there was a hint of dry humor in it now.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” you said. “What’s the mystery?”

He hesitated again. “You don’t really fit,” he said finally.

“Wow,” you blinked. “That sounds like the beginning of a rejection speech.”

“It’s not,” he said quickly, almost instinctively, almost in a panic. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Relax,” you smiled. “I’m kidding. Mostly.” You placed your elbows on the table, curiosity winning out. “Fit where?”

“With how you usually operate,” he said. “You don’t give your time away, not without a reason.”

You let out a sound between a laugh and an acknowledgment.

“Fair,” you said. “And?”

“And I don’t think I’m giving you one,” he added, honest now.

“No,” you said, your fingers idly tracing the edge of your cup. He didn’t really fit the mold for your target. Which is why he wasn’t on the list. “You’re not.”

He nodded, like that confirmed a theory in his mind.

You tilted your head, then asked, “Does that bother you?”

“A little,” he admitted.

You laughed again. You can’t remember the last time you laughed this much without having to pretend a man was funny “God, you’re honest.”

“I just don’t…” He trailed off, then tried again. “I don’t usually choose things without a reason.”

“And I’m one of those things?” you asked lightly.

His eyes held yours. Fuck, you really had no idea, did you? 

You didn’t know who he was, didn’t know how he’d always needed something to ground himself. He’d needed a north star, a moral line he could follow and point to the right direction. 

And you weren’t that. Not even close. 

You weren’t good, not in any objective sense. You manipulated, you extorted, you saw people as opportunities. Even Dex could see that.

And yet.

You were just a girl he’d noticed one day on the street because you were pretty, and somehow that had been enough. Enough for his obsession to linger. Enough to be utterly infatuated. Enough for it to become… this.

He didn’t understand it.

With Eileen and Julie, there had always been structure, a reason. In his mind, there was a path between who they were, why they mattered, why they were good. But with you, there was nothing to map. No logic to follow. You didn’t fit anywhere he knew how to place you.

And still, he kept coming back.

Was this what people meant when they had a crush on someone? Was this what people meant when they said the feeling of love or whatever didn't follow any rhyme or reason?

“Yeah,” he said simply. 

“Well,” You leaned back, a small smile still playing at your lips. “That makes two of us.”

He frowned, just slightly. “You’ve never—”

“No,” you cut in gently. “I’ve never gone to coffee with someone I met at the club.” You tapped your fingers lightly against the table, then shrugged. “Maybe I just like you.”

You expected that to smooth it over, but he didn’t look convinced.

“Why?” he asked.

You laughed, dropping your head for a second. Then, you considered his question for a second, then lifted one shoulder dismissively. “Maybe you don’t have to understand it,” you said.

He looked at you like that wasn’t an acceptable answer.

You leaned forward just enough to nudge his arm lightly with yours, grounding the moment before his mind got too heavy.

“Or,” you added, a little playful again, “you can keep trying to figure me out. I’m sure that’ll go well for you.”

That finally got a real reaction— a small huff of a laugh.

“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t think it will.”

You grinned.

“Good,” you said. “Wouldn’t want to make it too easy.”

You talked longer than you meant to, about nothing and everything, your voice filling space where his didn’t, his answers careful, like he was mapping you in real time and adjusting accordingly. He remembered things, small things, things you didn’t even remember saying, and instead of being wary, you let yourself enjoy it, let yourself sit there and convince yourself this was normal.

That was the problem, really. 

You didn’t question it. You didn’t question him. You didn’t question why it felt like he had always been there, just outside your line of sight until the moment he decided not to be. You let him become familiar, and before you knew it, you started looking for him in a crowd without admitting you were looking. 

He was there the next time you went back, and the time after that. Sometimes, he was earlier than you, sometimes already watching when you walked in, always ready to fall into conversation like it had never stopped, and it slipped into your routine so easily it almost felt like it had always been part of it. 

And maybe that was why it took you longer than it should have to notice the pattern.

—

It started as coincidence. You barely registered it, because your world was full of men who come and go like background noise, faces that blur together unless you decide they matter.

Over the next three or four months, a new client would take interest in you. Always the same type, the ones who leaned too close too fast, who let their hands wander, who mistook your patience for permission, and you’d do what you always did. You’d smile, redirected and let them think they were getting somewhere. Let them spend.

They’d come back the next night.

Maybe the night after that.

It was enough time for you to decide whether they were worth keeping, worth working, worth peeling apart slowly for whatever they had to offer.

But now… you had less and less returning clients. 

At first, you didn’t question it. Men disappeared all the time. Wives got suspicious. Work got busy. Interest faded. It wasn’t unusual.

Until it kept happening.

Every new man who crossed your path would stay barely long enough to become useful, and then vanish before you could actually use them.

No calls or return nights. You had no second chances to pull something valuable out of them.

It was as if they were just… gone.

It started to bother you.

It wasn’t like you to lose assets like that. You didn’t let opportunities slip through your fingers.

So you started asking, casually at first. You asked the bartenders, the other girls. You asked regulars who noticed more than they let on.

“Hey, what happened to that guy from last week? Connors, I think. He was wearing a grey suit?”

All you got were shrugs.

“Haven’t seen him.”

You asked around again the week after. “What about Browne, the one who booked VIP twice? Dark hair, wedding ring he kept fiddling with?”

You received a blank look from the bouncer. 

“Didn’t he come back?”

“No.”

It was wrong. It felt wrong.

And then, because the world had a way of giving you answers whether you wanted them or not, you overheard two men at the far end of the bar. “I heard they found Connors dead in a ditch.”

You froze.

What?

“…yeah, couple days ago. It was messy.”

“Thought it was a robbery?”

“Nah. Didn’t take anything important.”

You told yourself it was a coincidence… Except then it happened again.

You were listening in on another conversation, another half-heard detail slipping through the cracks of a room full of people who thought no one was paying attention.

“Browne’s remains turned up outside the city.”

“There were no suspects.”

“…brutal, apparently.”

Your stomach tightened.

Because you were starting to see the pattern. Every man who crossed your path had disappeared. Two of them were now dead, so you could only assume… 

No. That can’t be… right? 

“It feels like someone’s finishing things I didn’t even decide to start,” you told one of the other girls, and she just laughed and called you paranoid. 

Across the room, Dex sat in his usual place, watching you like he always did.

When your eyes found him, he smiled.

And you smiled back, letting yourself believe, just for a little longer, that nothing was wrong.

After all, even Dex didn’t think of anything being wrong at all.

He didn’t think of what he had done to those men as interference. He thought of it as correction. He had watched the pattern long enough to understand your methods. It was efficient, but it left too many variables unchecked. Too many moments where things could escalate beyond what you could talk your way out of. He had seen the signs, and you handled it. That didn’t mean you should have to.

You gave them time, attention, access, more than they deserved, and in return, they tried to take more. Dex simply made sure they couldn’t. In his mind, it was fair.

He never told you. There wasn’t a reason to. You were safer this way. That was the only metric that mattered. The fact that your world was getting smaller, that your opportunities were being stripped away alongside the risks, didn’t register as a loss to him. Instead, it registered as protection. And if the line between those things blurred, Dex didn’t see it. Or maybe he did and chose not to care.

—

The next night, the club sounded a little louder when a new potential client walked in.

A senator.

He ticked both your boxes: predictable and profitable.

Senator Hale carried himself like a man who had never once been told no in a way that mattered. He had a wedding ring on his finger, reminding you of the leverage sitting pretty on his finger. Men like him were your specialty, men like him were walking safes waiting to be cracked open, and all you saw when you looked at him was his potential: money and information. 

He introduced himself to you sweetly, casually mentioning that his ‘ball and chain of a wife’ was overseas on some extravagant socialite trip. He told you that she’d be fucking a twenty-something year old Greek bachelor by now, and that he deserved a fun night of his own.

“I want all your private slots tonight,” he said, thirty minutes in, leaning back like he was ordering another drink instead of a session with you.

Cha-ching.

You smiled the way you always did, already imagining the kind of secrets a man like that might spill if you played it right.

Halfway through the night though, he placed his hand on your waist even though he knew it was against club rules.

“We should get out of here,” he said, like it was a natural escalation.

You tilted your head, amused. “That’s not really how this works.”

He smiled wider. “C’mon. I’ve got a restaurant downtown we can dine in. Let me treat a pretty girl to a meal, yeah?”

You had a bad feeling about it.

But you’d followed worse men and walked away richer every time.

—

In hindsight, you should’ve turned back when you realised that the restaurant was closed.

He told you he owned it. You played along, pretending to be impressed. You followed him upstairs, into a private room without any cameras, lined with a wide oak table and lavish velvet chairs. 

Hale told his assistant to get the 1976 Pauillac and an extra glass for you, and it wasn’t long until you both were drinking. You paced yourself, like always, but he didn’t. He drank and drank like he had nothing to lose, like consequences were a concept that existed for other people.

Slowly, his eyes shifted. The way he looked at you changed. He looked less patient and more like he’d already decided how this night was going to end, and you just hadn’t caught up yet.

Still, you played along.

“You’re even prettier up close,” he said, voice slurring now, stepping closer than necessary.

You smiled, already shifting, already preparing to redirect.

“Senator,” you teased lightly. “That kind of flattery costs extra.”

He didn’t laugh. His hand came to your waist and traced further down than you were ever comfortable with.

“Hey,” you scolded, still controlled. “That’s not part of the deal.”

“I think,” Hale growled, leaning in, breathing heavily with alcohol, “I decide what the deal is.”

There it was.

“No. You don’t.” You tried to push his hand away, but his grip was stern, his other hand squeezing your hips painfully as he pulled you up and shoved back against the wall. 

“Don’t play games with me,” he said, almost shouting. “Do you know who I am?”

You struggled, adrenaline spiking, every survival instinct kicking in at once. “Let go of me.”

He pushed you again, harder this time, your back hitting the edge of the table before you tried to twist away. But he was stronger, heavier, fueled by ego and the kind of power that had never been challenged. 

“You should’ve just fuckin’ taken it,” he sneered. 

The moment his hand closed around your throat, squeezing hard enough to cut off sound before it could even form, was the moment you realised that this wasn’t a situation you could talk yourself out of. This man wasn’t thinking about consequences, about exposure, about anything beyond what he wanted in this exact moment, and that made him dangerous in a way even you couldn’t manipulate.

You fought, because there was no other option, nails scraping, body twisting, trying to create space where there wasn’t any.

But his grip only tightening as your resistance escalated. His breath was hot, words spilling out half-formed, like your refusal was an insult instead of a boundary. The room blurred as pressure built in your throat, your lungs straining, every second stretching too long, your thoughts fracturing between panic and fear, where to hit, how to move, how to survive this—

Then, the senator choked.

His grip faltered.

His eyes widened in confusion as his hand flew to his neck. 

Then, and only then, did you see why he had suddenly stopped. A knife had buried itself there. 

What?

Your brain stalled for half a second, trying to catch up to reality.

You scrambled back the second his body thumped to the floor, air rushing into your lungs in broken, desperate gasps, your hands shaking as you pushed yourself away from him, from the spreading red blood on the carpet.

Your eyes snapped toward the open window, curtains shifting, like nothing had happened at all.

Someone had been there. Someone was there. 

You pushed yourself up, legs unsteady but moving anyway, adrenaline carrying you faster than thought could keep up. The balcony was closer than the door and your body chose it before your mind could argue, climbing, slipping, dropping down harder than you meant to.

After that, you ran.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t stop to think about Hale, the knife, or the way everything happened so precisely; it couldn't have been luck. Your heart pounded too loudly, your thoughts too scattered to form anything coherent beyond go, go, go.

This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened: Your clients disappearing, dying.

It was the first time you’ve witnessed it, though.

You reached your apartment and slammed the door behind you, pressing your back against it.

Safe. You were safe. You told yourself that over and over, like if you said it enough it would feel true.

—

You didn’t sleep, not in any way that counted. You drifted in and out of shallow rest, your body exhausted but your mind refusing to shut off, replaying everything in fragments in your mind. Every time you came close to slipping under, your body jerked you back up again like it didn’t trust the dark anymore. 

By the time morning dragged itself in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your apartment, you were already awake, already pacing, already halfway through a cup of coffee that had gone cold in your hand because you kept forgetting to drink it.

You told yourself you were fine. You said it out loud once, just to hear it, just to see if it sounded convincing. It didn’t.

At around 11 AM, your fingers hovered over your phone longer than you wanted to admit. You didn’t really have people to call on stuff like this. You had colleagues, you had contacts, you had old clients who thought they mattered more than they did, but you didn’t have… someone you could just ask to come over without a reason that benefited you.

And yet.

Your thumb tapped Dex’s name before you could overthink it. He had given you your number after the first day you had coffee together at Third Space. Never in a million years did you think you’d text him for this. 

When you have the time, can you come over, please?

You stared at the message, then added your address beneath it, because of course he didn’t know where you lived. Because you were careful, because you were smart and all that bullshit you keep telling yourself— and then you hit send anyway.

You had just enough time to refill your water before you heard a knock on your apartment door.

You froze.

“…what?” you muttered, more to yourself than anything, setting your glass down somewhere behind you without looking.

Whoever was out there knocked again.

You moved toward the door, your stomach feeling uneasy.

You opened it.

Dex stood there. He didn't look out of breath or rushed. His hands were relaxed at his sides, posture straight like always.

You blinked at him.

“What?” you said again, because apparently that was all your brain could produce.

He tilted his head slightly, like he didn’t understand the question. “You asked me to come.”

“I… yeah, I know, but I just…” you shook your head, stepping aside to let him in, still staring at him like if you looked long enough, an explanation would click into place. “That was, like, five minutes ago.”

“I was nearby,” he said with no elaboration and even less of an attempt to make it sound more believable than it was.

You stared at him for another second as if your instincts were trying to flag something and you were just… too tired to listen.

“Oh,” you said finally. “Oh. Okay.”

You shut the door behind him, and for a second you just stood there, your back to the door, your hand still on the handle, trying to regulate you breathing

Dex didn’t move far. He stepped into your space like he was aware of it in a way most people weren’t, taking in exits, windows, angles. 

You pushed off the door.

You gestured toward the couch as you moved past him. He sat down.

You hovered for a second before dropping into the cushion next to him, tucking one leg under you, your fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of your shirt before you forced them to still. The apartment felt different with him in it. 

“You know,” you started, tilting your head, a forced smile tugging at your lips because this was how you cope, “most people, when they come over for the first time, they ask how a stripper can afford a place like this.”

Dex didn’t even look.

“I…” he started, then stopped, like he was recalibrating mid-thought. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

Your smile faltered.

“I’m here because you asked for me,” he insisted.

You let out a small breath, your shoulders dropping a fraction as the performance slipped, as the version of you that joked and teased and deflected didn’t quite fit anymore.

“Right,” you said under your breath, running a hand through your hair. “Right, yeah.”

You looked at him, at his hazel eyes, at his scar, at the way his elbows rested on his legs.

“Something happened last night,” you said, and you told him everything.

And you didn't tell the polished version you told to your friend in the hospital. You told him about the senator, about the way he’d looked at you like you were already his before you’d even said yes. You told him about the restaurant, about how empty it had been, how wrong it had felt the second the door closed behind you. Your voice wavered once, and you hated that it did, hated that it had that kind of hold on you, but you didn’t stop.

You told him about the fight, about the moment you realized you weren’t going to be able to talk your way out of it.

“And then—” you swallowed, your throat tightening just slightly at the memory, “he just… stopped.”

Dex’s eyes didn’t leave your face.

“There was this sound,” you continued, like saying it in a lower volume might make it make more sense. “I didn’t even notice it at first. And then he just—” you gestured vaguely, your hand cutting through the air like you could recreate it, “he let go.”

You looked up at him then, searching his face like maybe he’d have an answer you didn’t.

“There was a knife in his neck, but I didn’t see anyone,” you added quickly, like you needed him to understand that you hadn’t imagined it. “The window was open, and I just… I ran. I didn’t think, I didn’t—” you let out a breath that came out more like a pathetic laugh. “I didn’t question it.”

You dropped your eyes to your hands again, your thumb dragging absently over your knuckles.

“I called a friend this morning," you said anxiously. “She works at the hospital.”

Dex didn’t interrupt.

“He’s alive,” you said. “She said he’s going to make a full recovery.”

Your jaw tightened slightly, your fingers stilling where they rested in your lap.

“I should feel relieved, right? That I didn’t just watch someone die in front of me.” you said under your breath, more to yourself than to him. “That’s what a… decent person would feel.”

You let out a breath, shaking your head faintly.

“But I don’t.” 

It felt wrong to… admit that.

“I keep thinking about it,” you continued, your voice dropping lower, more honest now than you were used to being out loud. “About what he did. About what he was going to do.” Your throat tightened again, but you pushed through it. “And I just—”

You hesitated, then said it anyway. “I kind of wish he was dead.”

You huffed out a quiet, humorless laugh, scrubbing a hand over your face like you could wipe the thought away after the fact. “That’s... fuck, that’s such a horrible thing to say.” Your eyes flicked back up to him. “You must think I’m a terrible person.”

“No. Not at all,” he said without second guessing.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve, knuckles whitening as you tried to hold yourself together. But you’re slipping, everything is slipping, your thoughts tangling over each other faster than you can sort them.

“I shouldn’t—” your voice projected out thinner than you wanted it to be, your chest rising too fast. “I shouldn’t feel like that, I shouldn’t—arghh! What kind of person wishes —”

Your breath hitched again.

“I could’ve died,” you blurted, like your brain was jumping tracks, like it’s trying to piece a moral justification together and failing. “I… he—” your hand came up instinctively to your throat, fingers pressing lightly against skin that still felt too wrong to articulate. “And I’m just sitting here saying I wish he was dead like that makes me, what, justified? That’s—”

Your words broke apart into nothing, as you’re breathing spiral fast and your mind even faster….

“Hey,” Dex reached out, hesitantly holding your thigh. “Look at me.”

You didn't want to, not really. You did not wish to be seen, to be perceived, but your eyes lifted anyway. 

“It’s not your fault,” he says, firmer now, shaking his head once, as if saying How could anything possibly be your fault? 

Your lips part, but nothing came out.

“You should hate him,” he said, voice smaller now but no less intense, as if he knew these feelings through personal involvement. Though hate was a much nicer word that you would’ve used.

As your chest started to hurt as much as your neck did, you became hyper-aware of him. Of how close he was. Of the way he wasn’t rationalising, wasn’t judging, wasn’t trying to fix you.

Your body leaned toward him, and something in you gave way.

It was too much to process, too much to think through, and before you could think, before you could stop yourself, you moved. You closed the distance, your hand caught against his shirt as you leaned in, and then your mouth was on his.

It’s not graceful, and not at all controlled.

It felt impulsive and desperate as you kissed him like you’re trying to ground yourself in anything but the memory of last night replaying behind your eyes.

For a split second, he went still. That was when you realized what you’ve done.

You pulled back like you’d burned yourself, your breath hitching hard, your hand dropping away from him as your brain scrambled to catch up.

“Oh,” you choked, your eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I…  I don’t know why I did that.”

The words rushed out, tripping over each other.

“I just… I had a long night and I didn’t sleep and I think I’m just—” you let out a shaky laugh that didn’t quite land, your eyes darting away because you couldn’t quite look at him now. “You know. I’m just fucked up and craving human attention. That’s all. It’s- it didn’t mean anything, I…”

You never got to finish.

His hand came up to interrupt, fingers closing around your jawline, not harsh but firm enough to stop you mid-spiral, to turn your face back toward him before you could escape into your own excuses.

When he kissed you, it was nothing like yours.

There was no hesitation in it. It was intentional.

His mouth pressed into yours with a force that stole the breath you’d just barely managed to get back, not rough enough to hurt but strong enough to make it clear that this wasn’t a mistake, this wasn’t something he’s letting you brush off or explain away. His grip tightened just slightly, holding you there as your thoughts scattered all over again, but this time it wasn’t panic that flooded through you.

You made a small, involuntary sound against his mouth, and his response was immediate, deepening just enough to make your heart race. 

Your fingers found the edges of his shirt again without you realizing it, and for a moment, you forgot.

You forgot about last night, about the fear, the guilt, the way your lungs had struggled for air, because right now you were breathing just fine.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.

“…that,” you managed, a little wrecked, “didn’t feel like nothing.”

“C’mere,” he said, like it wasn’t a question at all.

And before you could second-guess it, before your mind could start building walls out of hesitation and overthinking and the thousand reasons you usually didn’t let things like this happen, he was already lifting you. One arm under your legs, the other steady at your back, pulling you against him like you weighed nothing at all. You gasped out of surprise, your hands instinctively circling at his shoulders.

“You don’t know—” you started, but it came out weaker than you intended.

“I know where your bedroom is,” he said simply.

And that was it.

You let yourself go quiet.

Your room felt different when you got there. He set you down like you were fragile, and for a second neither of you spoke.

“You’re shaking,” he said after a moment 

“I’m not,” you tried automatically, but it wasn’t convincing. Not even to you.

“I’ve got you,” he reassured you as Amish as he reassured himself. “I’ve got you.”

Whatever restraint you still had left didn’t stand a chance after that.

You pulled him down to you, and this time there was no apology in it, no confusion, no frantic attempt to explain it away afterward. Perhaps you needed to feel the touch of another human being. Perhaps, after not having a choice, having chosen him felt like its own kind of power. Perhaps, it was both. 

Even then, that little voice in your head said this wasn’t smart. This wasn’t you. You didn’t sleep with people you know from work, or seek out an emotional connection, because you never needed anybody. Because you were selfish. Because you only ever looked out for yourself. 

You knew that. And you knew exactly what this looked like from the outside. How quickly it was happening, how easily you were letting him in.

You knew it wasn’t healthy.

But fuck healthy.

So you let him kiss you like he meant it, and you had already decided that you were letting him take you apart, piece by piece, simply because you wanted him to.

—

Oh, he was good to you.

Did it really matter, what you asked him to do to you, that even surprised yourself? Does it matter, what he gave you to reach a catharsis, if you were the one who wanted it?

What mattered was that he was very sweet afterwards. 

You had showered with him, the hot water doing nothing to fully untangle the haze in your mind. When you were done drying yourself, you came out to your fully-made marshmallow of a bed.

You laid beside him without thinking, like your body had already decided this was where he belonged for now. He adjusted immediately when you settled in, one arm slipping around you.

“I will never let anyone hurt you,” he said, and he recited it like a vow. He sounded resolute, like this was a line he had crossed and couldn’t come back from.

He knew what you were. You were not a North Star, he had come to terms with it long ago. But it didn’t repel him. You didn’t need fixing. If anything, it made it easier. 

You’d never expect him to be better, and he didn’t need you to be. There was no standard here, no expectation from either side. You were something to… have. To sit across from, to listen to, to exist near. It didn’t improve him. It didn’t make sense.

And yet, he had chosen you, over and over again, without reason, without structure, without an end goal.

For Dex, it was the closest thing he had ever come to wanting something just because he wanted it.

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your duvet, and you nodded. You believed him, you really did.

He shifted just enough to press a kiss into your hair, staying there like he wasn’t in a rush to move away.

Dex didn’t even understand what he was doing at first.

He didn’t understand why his hand kept moving over your skin absent-mindedly. He didn’t understand why he wanted to pepper your skin with kisses. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t distant, like he had always had before.

This wasn’t efficient. It wasn’t necessary.

And yet, he couldn’t stop.

You were warm against him, breathing slower now, settling into his side. That part, he understood. You trusted him. That was something he had built, something he could measure.

But this desire to stay exactly where he was, to keep touching you just to feel that you were still there, was new. 

His hand stilled for a moment against your arm, like he was testing if he could stop, and something in him resisted it immediately. His fingers resumed their path without thought, slower this time.

Oh.

As his fingers reached your waist, you melted into him without thinking.

And that was the problem. Because if your mind had been clearer you might have noticed things that didn’t feel quite right.

You might have wondered how he walked through your apartment like he had done it before.

How he had been able to find your bedroom on the first try, when all your doors looked the same.

How he had returned with a glass of water already poured, like he knew which cabinet held your glasses.

How, when you’d asked him to pass you a towel after shower, he had gone straight to the second cupboard to the left, third row down.

—

A month later, everything was in order. At least on paper.

That’s what the lawyers said anyway. They said you reached a resolution. It made such an ugly act sound almost respectable. 

The settlement came signed with expensive pens, and in the end you reached an agreement of seven figures, carefully divided between you and the club. 

They told you to take it.

They asked you to take it so everyone would be happy. So everyone would ‘benefit.’

And in the end, you did.

Because this wasn’t your battlefield. You didn’t fight men like Senator Hale under in front of judges who cared more about optics than truth. So you signed where they pointed, nodded when expected, and let them call it closure.

But it didn’t feel like closure.

So you did what you always did when something didn’t sit right with you. You worked around it.

You found a gap.

The NDA was careful, but it wasn’t perfect. It said nothing about anonymous tips, nothing about information that simply… surfaced. Nothing about whether or not Mrs. Hale was allowed to receive little packages of paper upon paper of proof that her husband wasn’t as faithful as she thought he was. 

So one evening, you sent it.

In the box were photos, messages, and notes from other girls about Hale’s… behaviour and lack of manners, to say the least. Technically, these statements weren’t yours, but it might as well have been.

You told yourself that was the end of it.

For a few days, you almost believed it.

—

The alley you took as your shortcut home was darker than you remembered that night. 

The hum of traffic filled in the lower frequencies of your ear, the neon from the main street barely reaching this far, bleeding weakly against brick and pavement. 

You shouldn’t have taken this shortcut, not when you knew he was alive.

But you had a long night, and your body moved on instinct, carving through the familiar path you’d walked a hundred times before. 

So you didn’t think anything would go wrong until you heard a small, metallic click. 

You stopped, like your feet had slammed a brake so hard it locked everything else in place.

“Well,” a voice rasped, ruined and jagged. “Look at that.”

Your stomach dropped as you turned. 

Senator Hale stood a few feet away, just inside the spill of dim light. He had been waiting for you for some time now, with a gun pointed straight to your head.

Senator Hale looked… wrong. He was much more alive than you last saw him, and this version of him was something else entirely. His suit hung looser, wrinkled like he hadn’t cared enough to fix it. The scar along his neck was thick and uneven, an angry reminder of what should've ended him. His voice barely held together.

But his eyes hadn’t changed at all.

They locked onto you with the same entitlement. 

“You,” he said, shaking his gun just slightly. “You f-fucking bitch.”

Your heartbeat didn’t spike the way it should have. It didn’t race or panic or spiral. Instead, it slowed, like you were expecting this, like you were ready to be taken out of this world if it meant that he got to suffer because of it. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, and your voice came out steady enough to almost convince yourself.

He laughed. It sounded wet and broken.

“Don’t,” he snapped, “Don’t insult me like that.”

He stepped closer, the gun shaking with tremor in his hand.

“My wife,” he continued, voice tightening, “gets a package out of nowhere. And suddenly my entire life is over again!” His head tilted slightly, studying you like he already knew the answer and just wanted to hear you lie. “You really think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

You didn’t move.

“You’re the only one who would’ve done it,” he went on. “The only one with the guts. Or the stupidity.” His lip curled, sinister. “Probably both.”

You felt your stomach settle. This was it. You couldn’t get out of this one, you couldn’t think of another angle to approach a man in rage. 

You exhaled, your shoulders loosening in a way that felt almost like relief. “Do it,” you said through gritted teeth, you dared.

For a second, disappointment flickered across his eyes. Or maybe it was irritation that you weren’t giving him what he wanted.

Fear.

He wanted fear.

Instead, you gave him nothing.

His knuckles tightened till it was red, pointing it straight to you.  “Oh, I will—”

Then, he gasped, his hand jerking uncontrollably. His gun wavered, dipping just slightly as confusion flashed across his face.

Then, he screamed.

You didn’t understand why, until your eyes dropped to see a knife had buried itself through his hand.

Through the hand holding the gun.

It was undoubtedly the same throwing knife that saved you in the restaurant.

The gun hit the ground with a dull, useless clatter.

Hale collapsed to his knees, clutching at his wrist, as he demanded you to help him. 

Your focus tunneled. Suddenly all you could hear was your own breathing, Hale’s wet, broken gasps and footsteps behind you that you already knew by heart.

Dex stepped out of the shadows like he was born in it. 

It was him, you realised. 

It had always been him.

And you weren’t shocked at all. Perhaps, some part of you knew, had always known it was him. But your brain worked in funny ways, and apparently, it wanted you to compartmentalise information from yourself. 

Until now. 

Because now, you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that everything that had been happening around you happened because of him. 

Every man who disappeared before you could finish what you started. Every opportunity that vanished just as it turned dangerous. Every moment where things should’ve gone wrong, but didn’t.

Dex saved you.

Dex cleaned up your messes before you even decided they were messes.

Dex knew your apartment. Dex watched over you, 

You should have seen it then. You should have called it what it was.

Stalking, obsession, hyperfixation. 

You didn’t.

Because somewhere along the line, your mind had convinced yourself otherwise. 

He was just a guardian angel with blood on his hands.

“Dex…” you breathed out. 

Hale was screaming, writhing, clutching at the knife through his hand, his voice scraping raw against the walls of the alley, but he didn’t matter. Not really. 

Dex didn’t even look at him.

He just walked forward, unbothered, like this was nothing more than a task he’d already completed in his head. He stomped his shoe on Hale’s wrist and the sound that tore out of him after that was almost inhuman. Next, he kicked his ankle, breaking it in just the right places so he couldn’t run if he wanted to.

Dex bent down, picked up the gun that had now clattered on to the asphalt, and checked it casually before offering them up for you.

“I didn’t want to take this moment from you.”

This? 

Oh. He meant he didn’t want to take the pleasure of killing Hale away from you. 

Your chest hitched, your breath catching in your throat as tears blurred your vision, because nothing about this was normal, nothing about this was right, and yet…

You felt seen.

“I’ve never…” your voice broke, shaking, your hands curling in on themselves. “I’ve never shot a gun before.”

You sounded small, so adorably helpless in Dex’s ears.

“That’s okay,” his eyebrows softened as he stepped closer.

His hand found yours, guiding your fingers as he placed the gun into your grip. You didn’t resist.

“Good girl,” he said quietly.

A gut feeling twisted low in your stomach— wrong, so wrong— but you didn’t pull away.

Instead, you leaned into him.

He moved behind you then, his chest at your back, his arm wrapping around you, his hand closing over yours where it held the gun.

You could feel him breathe.

“Let me show you,” he whispered, his lips touching the shell of your ears.

Your body trembled.

Hale was begging now. He was crying. Promising things that meant nothing. “Please! Please, I won’t… just don’t—”

“Safety’s off,” Dex continued patiently, like he couldn’t even hear him. His fingers adjusted yours carefully. “Keep your finger here. Not yet.”

You were hyper-aware of everything— of Dex’s hands guiding yours, of the weight of the gun, of how your body reacted to his voice.

“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Dex, I—”

“You’re strong,” he cooed, kissing your cheekbone lightly. “You can do it, baby.”

You closed your eyes, trying to process everything. 

You were shaking harder now, your fingers barely steady, your breath hitching in uneven bursts as tears slid freely down your face, but you didn’t pull away because you didn’t want to. 

Dex adjusted your aim, his body pressing closer to you. “Right there,” he guided gently. “That’s it. I’ve got you.”

Hale’s voice broke completely. “Please, please! she doesn’t have to—”

His hand closed over yours, steadying the tremor you couldn’t control.

“You don’t have to rush,” he told you calmly, “he’s not going anywhere.”

Hale’s voice cracked in the background, begging, breaking. You barely heard it.

“I’ve got you,” Dex said again, softer this time. You could feel the hollow of his cheek in your hair, and it felt comforting. “You’re safe.”

Safe.

It felt warm and suffocating all at once.

Your breath hitched. “I don’t know if I can—”

“You can,” he reassured, encouraging, coaxing your darker nature out. “I know you can. You’re my girl.”

Your sense of self snapped into place like a lock turning.

It was a lot to process— his hand over yours, steadying the tremor, his breath warm against your ear like he wasn’t guiding you through a monstrous act. It was like this version of you, the one shaking, the one furious, the one willing to pull the trigger, was the only version he had ever wanted.

So here he was, holding your hand steady while you pointed a gun at a man who had tried to break you.

“I love you,” you whispered without thinking. The confession tore out of you desperately. 

Of course you did. You loved him for not asking you to be better. You loved him for choosing you. You loved him because you were going to do the worst thing you will ever do, and he was fucking walking you through it. 

His grip tightened, not expecting to hear that here. To hear that now.

“I love you, too,” he said back, like it had never been a question, like he had known it long before you did. His forehead pressed against your temple, possessive and gentle all the same. “I’ve always loved you.”

The words didn’t comfort you.

They consumed you.

And that certainty made it easier to let go.

Your vision tunneled. Your thoughts fractured as Hale begged for you to stop, as he cried, as he called you both fucked up and demanded to know what kind of sick humiliation ritual this was—

And before you could stop yourself, you left absolution wash over you. 

Dex’s fingers tightened slightly over yours, as if to say, go on. 

Your finger pulled, and the gun went off.

Hale hit the ground.

There was a bullet in his head. He was definitely dead now.

For a second, you felt nothing.

The sound didn’t deafen you, the recoil didn’t hurt you. Your perception of who you were as a human being didn’t shatter or explode. It just stalled, like the world had decided to wait and see what you would do with it.

You stared at him, your brain scrambling to process it, to reach an excuse. Self-defense or accident — anything that didn’t sound like what it actually was. Your hands felt distant, like they didn’t belong to you anymore, like they had acted on their own and left you behind to deal with it.

You had always been careful. You didn’t do irreversible. You didn’t cross lines you couldn’t step back from.

But this didn’t feel like a line.

It felt like there had never been one at all.

Oh. 

Oh.

Fuck. 

You stared at him. At what you’d done.

Your hand went slack, and the gun slipped from your fingers, clattering distantly in the alley.

A broken sound tore out of you, and you weren’t even sure you recognised it as your own. 

Suddenly, your knees gave out. Dex caught you before you hit the ground.

He wrapped his arms around you immediately, pulling you in like he’d been waiting for this, like this was the part he understood best.

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” he mumbled into your hair, voice raspy. “So fucking proud.”

Your head felt like it was spinning a million miles an hour.

“I… killed him,” you choked, your voice splintering as reality crashed down in waves. “Dex, I… he’s—he’s a very powerful man. They’re going to know! It’s going to come back to me, they’re going to find me, I—”

Your words spiraled, faster, louder, your breathing breaking apart completely as panic took hold. 

“They’re going to look for me,” you whispered, your grip tightening on him like you could disappear into his chest. “I’m done… I’m dead, I’m fucking dead—”

“Hey,” he interrupted.

His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you closer as his lips brushed against your hair, then your temple, and then, in a flurry of fluttering kisses, he reached the corner of your mouth.

“Remember what I said?” he said firmly, pushing a strand of hair behind your ears. The gesture felt so alien to him, like he’d never done it before. And yet, when it came to you, it felt so right. “Nothing is going to take you away from me. Nothing.”

For a moment after, he didn’t move. It amazed him, even after a month with you, that none of this felt forced anymore. Affection had never been necessary before, never useful. And yet, with you, it came naturally, like it was dormant, and now it had finally found a reason to exist.

He brushed his thumb lightly along your temple, and it was amazing how easily he wanted to keep going, to keep touching.

Whatever this was, whatever you had pulled out of him, it wasn’t something he could put back.

So he held you closer as your breath hitched, hiccuping sobs forcing its way out of your lungs, Hale’s blood now pooling by your heels.

“I’m going to keep you safe, okay?”

He said it like a promise. Like a vow.

You should’ve been terrified of him. Of what he was. Of what you had just become standing beside him.

Instead, you melted into him, your body going weak with it.

“Okay?” He asked, wanting confirmation. 

All you could do was nod. Your fingers tightened in his shirt as he pulled you to your feet, guiding you away from the body, away from the alley, away from everything you had just become.

Because whatever waited behind you — justice or consequences— it didn’t matter as much as the man beside you.

The one who saw you at your worst and called you good. The one who turned violence into devotion. The one who promised you safety with blood still fresh on his hands.

So when he helped you out that alley, you didn’t look back. 

Maybe you could’ve.

Maybe there had been a moment, somewhere between the first lie and the first shot, where you could have chosen differently. Where you could have walked away, untangled yourself, called this what it was.

But that didn’t matter anymore.

He was utterly yours now, in the same twisted way that you were utterly his.

Because love, you were starting to understand, was never meant to be gentle.

It had teeth.

"i need absolution. i've betrayed people. i've betrayed myself."

his voice skittered across your skin like a flat stone across still waters. the hairs raised on the back of your neck.

your kind eyes widened as the large man turned around to face you, sporting a knife between his fingers. the flickering candlelight from the altar distorted his features slightly, but you made out a wide, jagged scar across his right cheekbone. his brow made a crease in his forehead as curious, fiery eyes studied you. he was in his late thirties or early forties, years decorating his skin. you tried not to entertain the thought that he was handsome.

"can you absolve me of my sins?"

you cleared your throat, heartbeat thrumming in it. "uh, i'm afraid only priests can do so—"

the stranger grinned something wicked, still spinning the silver weapon expertly in his hands. he held it out into the rays of light to purposely catch your gaze. "i'm not too picky."

your eyes stole to the confessional tucked away along the right wall of the church.

"yes. somewhere quiet."

he lumbered toward it, steps heavy on the marble floor like his skeleton couldn't handle the amount of muscle on his body. you followed dutifully, still on your guard given the presence of the knife.

it was late in the evening, almost morning, so the church was mostly empty save for a few lost souls remaining scattered among the pews. the sun had set hours ago, so only the candlelight from the altar lit the room, reflecting off the stained glass windows pleasantly. this was typically when you'd come to pray, but as you were a novitiate, you could use all of the guidance opportunities you could get.

your hand closed around the knob of the left side door and turned, pulling it open to be hit in the face with the scent of myrrh. you nearly coughed, instead letting out a gasp when the stranger slipped in the left side compartment behind you.

"don't worry, i closed the other door."

the smirk on his face stretched too easily. if you weren't nearly a nun, you were certain you'd have put hands on him.

"excuse me, sir, you must go—"

a raised thick eyebrow silenced you as he turned fully towards you. "ain't going anywhere, sister."

you sighed, realizing defeat, and sat down on the bench cushion a few feet away. "i'm not a nun yet. you needn't call me 'sister.'"

"that's why you're in white?" dex remembered sister maggie's black veil well.

you nodded, gaze falling to your twiddling fingers. your veil was stark white, contrasting to the rest of your benedictine black habit, covering your hair and ears to promote modesty. it also signified that you hadn't yet taken your final vows as a nun.

"what brings you to our congregation seeking penance?"

you met his eyes, peering up through your bare eyelashes, and dex's rusty heart stumbled in his chest. after weeks of watching you from afar, he was stunned close up. the tip of the knife he was playing with sunk into his left index finger and he barely registered the pain, entranced by your natural beauty and sincerity.

dex was acutely aware of the amount of space he took up in the confessional room. quite frankly, it was most of it. he loomed over you, craning his neck to fit into the room properly.

something about the way you were looking up at him from your seat had dex's buzzing mind wandering toward desire — something he rarely indulged himself in.

christ. a nun, dex? really?

the taboo of it all had dex's blood pumping faster in his veins. he cleared his throat. "i wish to be free of this guilt."

"guilt for what, mr…?"

"call me dex," he said, moving a few inches further into the confessional. his scent invaded your nose: a clean, woodsy, musky fragrance.

the red and black gems clinked together on the silver rosary chain as you clenched your left fist tight around it, making the sign of the cross over your chest. you kissed your fist, eyes closed, murmuring a silent prayer to st. teresa of calcutta for guidance to help serve others. she had never led you astray before. you willed yourself to take a steady breath and look dex in the eye.

"how does this go…?" dex trailed, baiting you to give him your christian name. you gave it willingly, voice dancing along the incense-threaded air. he repeated it, chewing on it like sinful bubblegum.

you crossed your legs at the sound, squeezing your thighs together, creating accidental, delicious friction under your skirts. with your hands folder over the top, you were certain it went undetected.

you didn't know benjamin poindexter.

he certainly knew you.

dex's eye twitched with the effort of remaining still. his gaze — now hooded — dragged slowly, intentionally, from your clasped hands up your torso, as if he could see straight through the black scapular and habit that covered your holy skin. you felt exposed; laid bare for his hungry eyes to behold you.

clearing your throat, you felt a stubborn blush creep up your neck as dex's focus reached your face.

"t-typically, in confession, a priest will sit on this side while the patron receives penance from the attached room." you gestured to the screen that separated the rooms on the left wall.

"why would i want to go in there to repent when the pretty girl who's gonna save my soul is in here?" he asked, a wild glint reflecting in his eye.

you let out a nervous laugh, blush creeping higher and higher.

dex fell to his knees like a sack of bricks and you swore you heard them crack against the wood floor beneath the worn persian carpet. he held out the small throwing knife to you with both hands in offering, desperately blinking up at you. your delicate fingers closed over his, softly folding over the blade edge as if he were trustworthy.

your sweet voice was melodic in dex's ears. "you'll begin with: 'forgive me, father, for i have sinned.'"

he swallowed, watching your carotid pulse in your neck a little too attentively. his pink tongue darted out to wet his lips, a smirk growing on them. he couldn't believe his own boldness.

"forgive me, father," he repeated with a deep sigh, near short of breath, mind far from christ, "for i have sinned."

"when was your last confession, dex?"

"i've never had the honor, sweetheart," he chuckled, smirk widening at the thought. "you'll be taking my confessional virginity."

your complexion burned shades darker, averting your bashful eyes at his insinuation. your voice squeaked when you spoke.

"oh, okay, well in that case, you may state that for his lordship's ears."

"gladly." you got a perfect view of his muscular throat as dex's head tilted back, adam's apple bobbing. you'd reprimand yourself later for wondering what it might feel like under your lips. "it's my first time, big 'G'. thanks again for sending me your loveliest angel."

dex threw you a charming wink and your lips twitched into a smile.

"i-i thank you f-for your kind words," you stammered.

dex's hands, brandishing the knife and holding your own with a grip you could've escaped, eased into your lap. his chest brushed your knees from his position kneeling on the floor, only centimeters apart now.

"forget about it."

a beat passed. "and if i don't want to?"

another stretch of silence. this time longer, as dex tried to wrap his mind around the situation he found himself in. his greenish gaze bore into yours, flaying you alive layer by layer. a long-forgotten, now-forbidden feeling stirred in your core.

"then don't."

the air in the compact room seemed to still, as if bating it's breath in anticipation. you could hear your heartbeat in your ears.

"i won't," you whispered, reaching out cautiously to trace his cheek scar. dex froze, soaking in the feeling of your warm, soft, little fingers dancing patterns on his abused skin. he couldn't breathe — not with you touching him, looking at him like he mattered. you could tell he wasn't used to grace.

"tell me your sins, baby," you coaxed softly, comforting him the best way you could think of.

a quiet groan slipped from that back of dex's throat before he could stop it, one of raw pleasure from the pet name.

"hnn…fuck."

"language," you challenged with a dignified, raised brow, despite the disgraceful wetness dripping onto your panties.

"yes, ma'am," dex responded, vast shoulders straightening slightly. his voice rumbled through you deliciously. your knees pressed into his abdomen with how close he leaned now.

benjamin poindexter's eyes flickered back and forth between your kissable lips and the ornate crucifix carving in the wall behind you, and that was the moment he was certain he was going to hell.

you cleared your throat, shifting in your seat again, trying to subtly relieve the tension between your thighs. dex, with his hawk eyes, saw every movement for exactly what it was.

and it was true what they said about him: he did get obsessed fast.

"my sins…" he mused.

"tell me," you prodded eagerly, eyes wide open in youthful anticipation. "tell me the first one that comes to mind."

dex's blonde brows knit together as if he were in pain, leaning into your hand. "wanna kiss you."

your mouth made an "o," plump lips giving dex horrific ideas. you swallowed slowly, feeling sweat begin to bead under the heat of his gaze. shame gnawed at your ankles like a stray animal.

dex pulled you by the wrist within an inch of his face. "now, you can be honest. you can confess. d'you wanna kiss me, sweet girl?"

your teeth sunk into your fat bottom lip in indecision, guilt paralyzing you. what would god think?

"yeah, that's it, i know you do. you can say it, honey. it won't leave this room. you can say you want me, too, 's alright."

a pitiful, borderline-submissive "yes" fell from your divine mouth and dex felt religious all of a sudden. a sick smile settled on his handsome face, eyes fluttering shut in a moment of absolute peace. he was on the righteous path—he was certain.

with no warning, his mouth swept yours up in an exchange of breath and lips and teeth and tongue. you moaned into the kiss — by god, when was the last time you were properly kissed?

the hand you had on dex's cheek slid back into his graying-blonde hair, fingernails gently scratching his scalp. he steeled himself to hold back a moan.

you broke away first, fingers wrapped in rosary ghosting over your swollen lips like a salve. "shit."

dex laughed.

a real, honest-to-christ-himself laugh.

and when the light caught his white, bunny-like smile just like that as he glanced back to you, cupid released his bow, and you were done for.

"tell me," dex's straight nose nudged yours, teasing, "how about you pray for us while i kiss your neck a little?"

"yes." the word tumbled out and you couldn't have stopped it. you were blushing to your hairline by now.

god help you.

dex grinned, highlighting his handsome crows' feet. before you could blink, he switched your positions, so you were now sitting on his lap and he was sitting on the confessional cushion. with no room on the sides to settle properly, your knees bit into his tree-trunk thighs. you heard the thunk of the knife as it fell onto the carpet.

he wasted no time before his lips were back on yours and your head was spinning. your lips clashed together, mouth opening wider so his tongue could dip in and explore. you whined softly into him as an experiment, feeling dex's hold on your waist get tighter, lips get hungrier.

dex's sinful mouth tore across your jaw with abandon. you unconsciously ground your hips against his rhythmically. his cock stirred, already half-hard. shame had you nearly in tears, the stimulation from grinding only adding to your frustration.

he groaned against your delicate skin, tongue licking and swirling, teeth skating and biting over the sweet spot on your neck he found. you arched your chest into his frame.

his whispered plea traveled straight to your cunt, "pray, baby."

you squeezed the rosary beads around your left hand — an anchor of reality — as you looked up and begged st. francis to forgive you on behalf of god. surely he knows better than anyone that you're simply following god's path as it's been laid out for you.

"o-our father, who art in heaven, h-hallowed be thy name."

your voice wavered with pleasure, though somehow not missing a beat even when mischievous fingers teased the hem of your skirt, flirting with your ankle.

"thy kingdom come." a shaky breath loosed through your chest.

"thy will be done, on earth as it is in h—" you bit the inside of your cheek to suppress a moan at the friction against your core, exhaling sharply through your nose. dex smiled against your tender skin. "heaven."

"…'and lead us not into temptation,'" he chorused with you, kissing and suckling just below your ear.

"'but'…what?" dex cooed patronizingly, kitten-licking your earlobe. you were a mess in his arms, purely pliant for him to use and you both knew it.

your traitorous lower lip wobbled as you finished the prayer with him:

"but deliver us from evil. amen."

his cock throbbed below you and dex pulled his leeching mouth off you. a chill raced down your spine at the way his blown pupils drank you in, getting a glimpse of the thing that shifted just beneath his skin and near-black eyes.

you didn't flinch, dex noted.

the calloused fingers playing at your ankle dragged upward, slipping under the fabric and ghosting over your nylon-covered skin, testing the waters. your lashes fluttered shut at the sensation, a gasp stealing into your lungs.

"i confess," dex sighed, "i want more than your lips."

your eyes shot open, brow furrowed in confusion. why? what could he want from you?

before you could raise your concern, dex's hand trailed up your calf, sending electricity through his touch. you were breathless as you maintained eye contact with him, noses inches apart, breathing the same air. your skirt bunched around your waist as dex burrowed further under it, dragging his enormous hand over your knee. your blasphemous core churned and you ground down onto his zipper. the metal bit into your cunt, pulling a moan that sounded like angels singing from you. dex grinned in triumph, climbing higher on your thigh until he reached the lacy edge of your stockings.

his hawk eyes snapped to your thigh, a slow, wolfish smile gracing his features. he looked back up at you without raising his head, words low and broken in your ears.

"tell me you're wearing a fucking garter belt."

he reached the strap connecting the alleged belt to your stockings and hummed down at you, like you were food to play with. a finger slipped between the strap and your smooth, holy skin, and pulled it away just far enough to snap back against your skin audibly.

fth.

it echoed loud — too loud — in the confessional. you bit a sigh as he soothed the reddened skin with brushes of his thumb.

"i may be," you whispered, inhaling sharply as he released the taut strap against your thigh again.

fth.

"fuck," dex sighed, nearly vibrating in restraint. he crashed his mouth to yours before he did something he probably wouldn't regret.

dex's lips were suffocating on you, not realizing his punishing intensity, but dutiful as you were to your congregants, you took what he was willing to give. his rough grip on your plushy thighs would certainly leave bruises in it's wake, but desire had you drunk enough that you couldn't care less.

his soul needed this. you could feel it.

perhaps it truly was god's will that brought the two of you together.

that's what you told yourself over and over again, trying to drown out the whine that stretched through the silence when dex pushed your hips away from his and slipped his hand the remaining distance downward to cup your cunt.

oh.

"shh, stay quiet, pretty girl," dex bit out, feeling blood rush to his cock at the feeling of the soaked lace. "you don't wanna get caught, do you?"

you shook your head 'no' fervently, but felt your cunt betray you, clenching around nothing at the idea.

"mm, maybe you do?" dex teased, cocking his head like a curious dog. you continued to deny it despite your hips' constant bucking, chasing any friction you could get.

his rumbling laugh seemed to echo through you as his fingers ghosted over the bead of your swollen, covered clit. your breath caught in your throat, sparks of pleasure blinding you as dex studied your reactions intensely.

"right there, honey?"

"yes," you exhaled, floating. utter pleasure washed over your face, creasing your brow. dex had the sudden realization that expressions of pain and pleasure are nearly identical. how interesting, the human condition, he thought.

with a smirk, dex set a steady rhythm of circles against the small bundle of nerves.

"feels so good, dex, please don't stop," you whispered.

he groaned sensually, bathing in the praise, thrusting up into nothing. "yeah?"

you nodded your head, a soft sob escaping you. your nails dug into his solid biceps in a desperate attempt to ground yourself, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to muffle your sweet moans. his methodical fingers kept their pace, the pressure delicious on your clit. your hips stuttered as you felt a tightness build in your abdomen.

"please," you begged.

"tell me what you need, sweetheart, use those words."

"more," you said, nearly in tears, "just need more…please…"

dex wasted no time, sliding his middle and ring finger beneath your ruined panties and deep into your desperate pussy. a gasp stole into your chest, throat turning raw. he curled his thick digits toward him, gently stroking the spongy muscle that had your back arching and eyelids fluttering again.

"yeah?" he goaded, "you like that?"

your answering, breathless "yes" made goosebumps erupt on dex's flesh. each sigh and whine from your lips erased any remaining self-doubt in this unfamiliar territory.

his warm, large palm pressed wonderfully against your aching clit, creating the perfect friction when he thrust and curled his fingers inside you. the stimulation was mouth-watering. you clung to dex's broad shoulders, nearly riding his fingers, babbling praise against his neck.

"so good, dex, p-please don't stop."

another chuckle. "i won't, baby, don't worry."

your core felt taut, as if it were an elastic band with too much tension. the pleasure had you taking down big gulps of air, discipline being the only thing standing between you and the moans that threatened to expose you both.

his fingers worked you right to the edge, then you were one, two, three strokes too close, and a panicked look crossed your features. the pressure was too much.

"it's okay." dex's lips brushed the shell of your ear as he spoke. "it's okay, honey, you can let go. you're allowed to feel good."

having permission to turn off your guilt was liberating. pleasure mounting fast like a damn ready to break, you turned your head to look him in the eye. your mouth hang open as you rode the waves of your orgasm all over his hand.

"that's it," he encouraged, voice hoarse, "keep cumming, good girl. that's it."

you didn't feel entirely in control of your own body, as if someone else were jerking your hips against the callouses of his palm. a white-hot sensation exploded within you. the high was overwhelming to your senses; the pleasure deafening. sound tuned out of your ears for a few moments as you squeezed your eyes shut, determined to not let shame ruin the moment.

dex slowed the pumping of his fingers to a halt inside you, feeling your slick walls flutter around him. he barely registered his hips thrusting in tandem with each drag of his digits. it was heaven—your warmth—and dex wanted.

how many of his fantasies involved this? his expert fingers between your holy thighs? he may have lost count. a smirk slid onto his handsome face at the thought that it was between him and god.

he was straining painfully against his jeans' zipper, cock stiff and leaky. a shaking hand guided your smaller one to rest on his bulge. you should have known he'd be well-endowed.

"you feel what you do to me?" he whispered hoarsely.

"yes," you breathed.

his lustful gaze met yours, pupils blown so wide his eyes appeared black in the candlelight.

"can you pray for me, sweetheart? while i fuck you?"

a pathetic noise left you then; somewhere between a whine and an "uh-huh", which, in the end, sounded like a high-pitched "huh." your cheeks blazed in embarrassment, but dex was all smiles.

"yeah?" he teased, nodding as he planted kisses to your cheek.

"please," you managed, mirroring his nods. "please."

"fuck," dex cursed. he pushed his hips out, nodding encouragingly as you undid his belt buckle and zipper. he slid his jeans and boxers out from underneath him, halfway down tree-trunk thighs.

mother mary.

"you're stunning," you complimented, and it might have been a trick of the light, but you swore color reached dex's scarred cheeks. "it's true: he made us all in his perfect image, of course, but you are…something."

a coy smile met his pink lips and your heart did a flip in your chest. he wasn't used to flattery, you could see it.

frantic eyes tracked your movements as your soft hand closed around his girthy cock. your cheeks burned feeling his slight twitch at your touch. you watched pre-cum dribble down his thick shaft and swallowed the mounting spit in your mouth.

you met dex's captivating eyes once more and lifted yourself, adjusting to sit just above the tip of his cock. he kissed you with a passion you felt from the inside, hot tongue licking into your mouth. strings of wetness fell to cover him, tip teasing your clit and entrance methodically.

you felt like the whore of babylon as he parted your lips beneath your panties and pushed inside past your reborn virginity. sex in a confessional. what the hell were you thinking? god would never forgive you.

then again, he hadn't seemed to forgive you for much of anything recently. what was one more sin?

you grasped the edge of your white veil and pulled it clean off. letting it fall behind you, you leaned into dex. in turn, he sank you further down on his length, stretching you from the inside.

"dex," you whispered between sweet gasps. your fingers grazed his lips, hovering just centimeters from your own.

sweat slid down his forehead, the heat between you two in the confined space overwhelming. his mouth hanged open, cock throbbing inside you as he struggled to breathe. it struck you in that moment that you may be taking his virginity, too.

"it's okay, sweetheart," you said, pressing soft, gentle kisses to his mouth. he deserved a good first experience, too, as far as you were concerned. your hand stroked his hair on instinct as you began slowly moving your hips against his. "it's okay. it feels good for me, too."

you paused, letting him adjust to your heat. now was as good as any to pray for him, for both of you, at this point. your sweet voice was saintly in his ears:

"hail, mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee. blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, jesus. holy mary, mother of god, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.  amen."

dex let out a sob as you began moving again and you slapped your unoccupied hand over his big mouth. surprise lit up his face at your aggression, reading the don't get us caught in your gaze. his dark eyes twinkled with something akin to approval. you felt the edges of his lips curl beneath your palm, so you took that as permission to do as you pleased.

and god certainly knew you would. you threw your head back, bottom lip tugged between your pearly whites, as dex bottomed out. his tip kissing your cervix, one arm slithered around your waist to pull you tight against him while his other hand rested on your hip. you lifted yourself slowly until only that aching tip remained inside, feeling the thick veins along his cock pulse. dex let out a low groan, vibrating against your hand, as you pushed back down and he hit deep inside once again. desperation knit his brows together, coloring his doe eyes something beautiful. he looked like a fallen angel; lucifer if he begged for forgiveness.

you built a gradual rhythm as you rode him. dex thought none of the church choirs in the world sounded as good as the little moans slipping out of you, the delightful harmony of wet sounds from where you two met sending shivers down his reinforced spine.

he pulled your hand away from him, only for a moment.

"this what you needed?" his deep voice was wrecked, cracking at the high point in 'need.' you felt yourself clench around his cock at the sound. "this what you meant by 'more'? just needed to get fucked?"

you nodded enthusiastically, only able to manage a quiet "mhm." your mind was as scrambled as your eggs this morning. your grip tightened in his hair as he watched you heatedly, intently, breath coming out in sharp, short pants through his straight nose.

dex craned his head, mouth meeting the spot just below your ear. "i know it feels good, baby…i know…i know."

your arms lost their fight at his words, wrapping around his shoulders in comfort and surrender as he met your thrusts. you muffled your uncontrollable moans against the smooth skin of his neck.

"f-fuck, that's it, honey, don't stop," he whispered. "please, just don't stop."

you could only sob promises into his leather jacket that you wouldn't as you bounced up and down on him. the musky, salty fragrance of him invaded your nose and you drank it in, pressing closer like you couldn't get enough. dex found a wicked grin creeping onto his features at the pleasure you derived from his body—from him.

how many times had he not found sleep until he had a hand around himself, stroking at the thought of you and your righteousness?

his north star.

a shattered moan left him then. the poor thing so drunk on pleasure that he didn't notice how close he already was.

"shit, i'm…" dex wheezed. you were nodding, grinding on the panties that bunched near your swollen clit.

"me too, dex." hearing your broken voice had him on edge.

"oh," he moaned, eyes rolling back until they closed. dex could only whisper now. "so close, so fucking close…need you…need you to cum, baby."

"yeah?" you teased, echoing his tactic from earlier. he whined in response, bucking wildly, muscles flexing. your hips began to shake as that elastic sensation tightened in your core, each stroke hitting your g-spot, rubbing your clit delectably.

your fingertips sank deep into dex's arms, trying to anchor yourself to him. he welcomed the biting pain from your nails, surely leaving crescent indents beneath his shirt.

"just a little longer," you nearly wept, "you can do it."

"i-i can't," dex groaned, "'s too good."

"yes, you can," you encouraged, trailing sweet kisses up and along his strong jaw: now ticking, grinding hard in patience. if there was one thing dex was used to, it was patience. maybe he could edge himself inside you, hovering on absolute bliss, the masochism written all over his pretty face. after all, he had waited this long. dex steeled his remaining self-discipline and nodded, arms lifting your waist, up and down, just so, to hit the spot inside you hard enough to have your toes curling in your mary janes.

the sight was more erotic than dex could have ever imagined: you, hair loose on your shoulders, arms thrown around him, rosary tickling his ear, as you rode him, habit dress still on, with shaking legs, your pace becoming sloppy, and that same, beautiful look on your face as you neared orgasm once again.

"dex, i'm…" you exhaled, hovering on that cliff you so desperately wanted to tumble over with him.

"that's it. go 'head, angel, cum all over me."

the filth of his words and tone of his voice—the raw command in it—had your walls gushing around him instantly. dex crashed his sinful mouth to yours to swallow each others' moans as you came simultaneously. you cried out against him, pussy soaking, milking him. a warmth filled you from within, his cock throbbing while his balls emptied.

a thin layer of sweat covered you both as you fought to catch your breath. euphoria had your head in the clouds, resting your forehead gently against his. dex shuddered in your arms, his whole body twitching with pleasure. you thought he looked the most handsome like this: relaxed, without a sneer or scowl to be seen, his beautiful face free of worry.

he let out the softest of whines when you met him with a chaste kiss. your arms tightened around him, cradling his clear head gently. dex leaned into you, then, as well. his tongue explored your mouth lazily as your shaking pace slowed. the buzzing plaguing him earlier was silent now, chased away by sweet release.

dex felt obsession crawling under his skin like it was sentient. his desires were suffocating him and he could only get one thing straight: he wanted you, this, forever. he was on the divine path, now certain that you were a part of it. even better, a willing part of it.

your lips left his and pressed against his slick forehead in forgiveness.

“god has forgiven your sins. you may go in peace.”

a low chuckle sent a shiver through you. the pleasure coursing through his veins fueled his boldness. "i ain't going anywhere, sweetheart."

the bright smile that touched your lips was undoubtedly an act of god, dex thought. he could get used to it.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

a/n: hey guys i'm going to hell! pls forgive me for the amt of blasphemy. this wasn't requested i'm just a fucking freak. god 2x02 had my head SPINNING i couldn't write this fast enough but i wanted it to be Perfect, so i've been working on this for a minute. was this tew much? *elijah wood voice* maybe!

either way i hope u dexxed it. ;) #we'reback

pls lmk your thoughts! and as always, asks and requests r opennn! :)

xoxo, b

poindextergirl™ 2026. do not feed my work into ai, repost, or translate my work. reblogs are very much appreciated! ♱

if your pain had a color, you’d label it black. so vast and endless you felt consumed by it.

you couldn’t take a full breath. your heart stuttered when your eyes found your ceiling.

your ugly, rotting ceiling.

you had never been more grateful to see it.

tears stung and your hands trembled as you tucked your chin to your chest. your white top had been pulled to your ribs. the source of the blossoming ache was bandaged.

“what the fu—ah.”

okay. no talking.

“hmm.” you let your head fall back against the olive threads of your couch, eyes squeezing shut. something tickled at your temples. trembling fingertips found gauze wrapped around your throbbing head.

get up, y/n.

one leg first, then the other. you screamed as your stomach bent, teeth sinking into your shoulder, tears soaking through the fabric. you fell to your knees, palms catching the edge of the coffee table.

you and karen had a rule. some juvenile thing she only agreed to because you wouldn’t shut up about it.

whatever you’re avoiding, you have to do it by three.

both you and god knew this would be the worst countdown of your entire life.

“o-ne.”

still at one.

a shaky breath.

“two.”

fuck fuck fuck just—

“thre—ah—” the meat stitched behind the bandage folded and stretched against its hold and you bit down on everything that wanted to come out of your mouth. you hummed the law and order theme instead, digging your nails into your hips, teeth into the chapped pillow of your lower lip.

and then, slowly, you began to limp.

to where, you didn’t know.

once you reached the middle of your small studio you turned in a slow circle.

empty. no one. no sign of anything.

okay. you were going crazy. that was the only explanation. maybe the knife slipped when you were dicing tomatoes for your sa—

your sauce.

your head snapped to the stove.

four limps and you arrived.

more jarring than the pain in your midsection, the burner was off. and the pot? clean as a whistle. no sauce dribbling down the sides the way you’d last seen it, furious and bubbling and indifferent to what was happening to you on the floor.

you don’t know how long you stood there clutching the white countertop and staring down at the cold, undisturbed surface of it.

long enough that it was the vibration of your phone against the counter that pulled you out. the instrumental of a stevie nicks track hummed against the tile. karen’s face smiled up at you from the screen; cancun, four summers ago, her steel blue eyes doing that thing they did where they made everything feel temporarily safe.

against every better instinct, you picked up.

“h-hello?”

“y/n.” the relief in karen’s voice was immediate and slightly terrifying. “oh thank christ. please tell me you’re alright.”

a blink.

a glance down at your stomach.

a glance back at the pot.

“i’m… fine?” you sounded unsure because you were.

“good. good.” a pause, the particular kind that meant she was choosing her words carefully. “there was — it’s complicated. fisk sent someone to your address. a hit. but i guess they never showed up, so—”

“the mayor sent someone to—”

silence on the line. a flurry of hushed voices disagreeing just beyond the receiver. you swayed on your feet, lips parted, waiting.

“the most important thing is that you’re alright,” karen said finally, and the firmness in her voice meant the conversation was over before it started. “i’ll come by later. i love you.”

“yeah, i—”

you stilled.

because your eyes had drifted back to the island, and there, sitting upright, perfectly centered, clean as the pot and the stitching and every other impossible thing in this apartment… was a bullet.

the bullet.

weathered bronze. cold between your fingertips when you lifted it.

not a drop of blood on it. not a trace of copper, not a single thing to suggest where it had just been.

buried in your stomach…

and it all came back at once. the sauce. the floor. the ceiling doing that horrible swimming thing. the blood soaking through white cotton and the man crouched over you; masked, still, something behind his eyes that wasn’t quite human and wasn’t quite not.

you’re not karen page.

your would-be assassin.

who was either dead in a ditch somewhere or the very same man who had stitched your wound, cleaned the pot, turned off the burner, and placed this bullet here. upright, deliberate, like punctuation at the end of a sentence.

with trembling fingers you peeled back the edge of the bandage. expert stitching. clean edges. no blood smeared on the surrounding skin.

he left it here on purpose. you were certain of that the way you were certain of the moon.

chills moved slow and deliberate up your spine.

“hello?” karen’s voice cut through the static of your thoughts like a lone lantern in the night sky. you flinched.

you stood there for a long moment, thumb pressed against the cool face of the bullet, swallowing back everything rising in your throat.

“i love you too, karen…”

𖦏₊ ⊹

he should have left. practicality or whatever. his banana milkshake was sweating into banana slush at some shitty diner down the road, karen page was still breathing, and fisk would want his head on a silver platter for the miss.

that last part was the lesser of the pressing issues, as it turned out.

untied knots made him itch. hornets buzzing behind his eyes, loud and insistent.

it had to be perfect, there were three leads to follow, karen page was still breathing— and yet here he stood. perfect view from the balcony. shadow swallowed by a fern and the sheer frilly curtains his new little star had hung.

oh, look at her.

the sound she made when she cried out created an ache he hadn’t felt in a long time. not since julie. hot, insistent, spreading through his bloodstream before throbbing at his crotch. he tightened his grip on the rails. her pain was all his doing. the way she moved, like a legless fawn, so very oblivious of her audience.

he’d done that to her.

something about that sat in his chest and purred.

he needed to see more of it.

she’d been asleep two hours by the time he moved. he took the time to tidy the pigsty she called a home. there wasn’t much to see in such a small place, but her bedroom became his favorite very quickly. scattered perfume bottles and paint, and that haunting painting of lilies above her bed. signed page. she was a painter.

he’d learned many superficial things in his short time there.

he’d hovered longer than was necessary. he’d done his good deed, balanced the scale for her prayer. but something…

he catalogued the way her lips parted in sleep, the faint flutter of her lashes, the slow rise and fall of her chest beneath that ruined white top.

such a nice top…

she was young, early 20s at most. far younger than he was. he studied the bandaging he’d done himself, neat and precise, sitting just below the swell of her very pretty—

no.

the little gray bottle on her nightstand was labeled suboxone. recovering addict. rosary under the pillow, afraid or hypocrite. he filed it away with everything else. surface things weren’t enough. he wanted her thoughts. her reactions. wanted to peel back every careful layer and see what was underneath.

what would she do when she finally put it together?

oh, that maniac kept me alive. what is he gonna do next?

the corner of his mouth twitched.

awful things.

it took an agonizing while. his knuckles had gone white around the balcony rail by the time she finally saw it; the bullet. and something in him pulled taut like a wire about to snap. watching her turn it over in her fingers, slow, edging him. watching her eyes swell with fear.

he hummed low, squinting in the scope of his gun as she murmured something tearfully to the phone.

the hornets buzzed so loud his fingers twitched toward the sliding door.

what would she do?

thank him for his goodness? get on her knees and —

“no.”

forced through gritted teeth. one leg over the railing, then the other, quick and controlled.

no. no no no. not this time.

she was good. he had a sense of it after her little prayer. and he was doing good under the fisk administration. that’s what he breathed into his chest like scripture on the way down. concrete. order. something to obey.

because if he spent another moment on that balcony, so close to her.

there would be no good left in him.

Your hands tremble as the tea kettle on the stove screams. How long had that been going off? Your thoughts are racing, skin cold but sweating, heart still pounding. Blood...you can't even think about the blood.

There's a masked man in your apartment.

You can feel his presence from behind you. It's strong, it's dangerous, it's consuming. His breathing is labored, jagged, like he's in pain. A part of you hopes he's in pain. His blood soaks into your couch that you seriously doubt you'll ever be able to get out. His legs spread out like he's getting comfortable, his hand clutching against the seeping wound. You couldn't tell how bad it was, only the amount of blood dripping gave you an indication it was more than a scratch. You wanted to turn and look at him more but you were frozen, staring at the clock of your oven. 3:03 AM. You were scared to turn and look at him, but you wanted to.

What was that saying, curiosity killed the cat?

"Turn it off." his voice startles you out of your thoughts, jolting your body into action. You pull the screaming kettle off the stove, and go straight into auto pilot. You make tea.

Maybe in a few months from now, if you survive this, you'll laugh at the absurdity of this situation. A masked man, a wanted and dangerous vigilante, had crashed into your apartment through the window. AVTF sirens blared down the street. When he'd crashed into your bedroom through the window, you'd let out a scream, tumbled out of your bed, your foot twisted in your own damn comforter, caught like a hare in a trap. He had the audacity to chuckle as you scrambled for your phone, only to throw your own stuffed animal at your hands, knocking your phone away before he hoisted you up from the ground. His blood smearing against your skin, his rough gloves gripped your wrists together, as he pulled your through your apartment like he knew the layout. He'd set you in front of your stove. Told you to make him a cup of tea. A cup of tea. 

So here you were, pouring the piping hot water into a ridiculous looking cat mug. You didn't have any pets of your own, too much work for you, but that didn't mean you didn't enjoy animals and animal themed things. Why were you being self conscious of a mug? This was for a criminal, a murderer, a psychopath. You shouldn't care what he thinks of your interior or animal themed mugs. You should be tossing the scalding hot water in his face and bolting out the door right now --

Your name comes from the masked man, in low warning. He's reading your thoughts, he has to be. 

You grip the handle of the mug, trying to control your shaking hands. It was a hard feat as you carefully tip toe towards him, hands trying to keep steady. He nods to the coffee table where he's got his dirty boots crossed on top. You set it down and take another careful step back. Steam rises in the dark from the kitten mug, the moonlight illuminating from your windows into the living room. It's just enough to see, but not enough to get a good enough look on him. Not that you can. He's masked. But you can tell how big he is. His broad shoulders rising up and down with labored breaths. His left hand clutched against his side, the dark blood you can see just fine. 

With a dry mouth, you start with a creak, "I...I think you should go."

The man barely shakes his head, making no movement towards the tea. Just sitting there. Bleeding and watching. A flash of irritation shoots through you. 

"Yes." you hiss out firmly, "Listen, I don't know what you're doing here, in my apartment of all places, but I can't help you. I won't...I won't tell anyone you were here. I don't know you, I can't even see your identity -"

"You know who I am." He lets out a breathless laugh and adjusts his posture, his feet coming down to the floor. He leans his back away from the cushions, getting a tad bit closer to you. It makes you take a step back, keeping the coffee table in between you two like that'll protect you.

Huffing, you start again, "Still. I don't have anything to fix you." You gesture to his wound.

"You wanna fix me?"

Shame and embarrassment burn your face, his tone shooting something liquid down your spine. What the hell was his problem? Fear was slowly being replaced with anger.

"No. I don't. Not interested, Bullseye." There, you said it. You knew who he was. There were only so many masked vigilantes in blue suits. Suddenly your heart ached for Daredevil, or even Frank. Not that you'd met either, but you would've felt safer if one of them crashed into your window late at night. Bullseye was a maniac, he was unhinged. Barely contained himself and didn't care who got in the way. He had no morale. 

Fear started up again, the bravery and courage quickly shrinking as his name left your mouth, remembering exactly who you were dealing with.

"Dex."

"Huh?" Shock renders you dumb, your brain firing in so many directions at once.

"Call me Dex." he almost sounds amused, watching you try to keep up with him and your own thoughts, "Listen, I need a place to lie low. AVTF is crawling tonight. I'm hit. I'm beat."

Silence folds into the space as you assess each other. Worry swirls in your eyes, something Dex can see in the low light. 

"I won't hurt you."

Your lower lip trembles, "I don't trust you." You glance at your front door for a moment, still trying to figure a way out of this mess.

"Good. You shouldn't. Go back to your room."

Despite your better judgement, you turn your back to him, awareness prickling into your skin, the weight of his gaze following you. It stays even after you close your bedroom door and lock the handle. You doubt a flimsy door lock could do much against a man his size, but it gives you the illusion of a touch of safety. Trembling limbs carry you back into your bed, burying yourself deep in covers like you used to when you were kid, scared of monsters in the dark. The difference from then and now is that you have one sitting in your living room, eyes glued to your bedroom door. And you hadn't even registered he'd said your name.

Balancing your phone in between your shoulder and ear, you sigh, "Well, no, I don't know what happened, but I just need someone to come by and look at it, please? It's been three days since it's been broken. You're the last company I could get ahold of." A hint of desperation seeps into your voice. Your keys jam into your lock and you groan in frustration. Ever since you'd replaced the locks, the keys have a habit of sticking. Finally, it clicks and your door is open. Tossing your keys on your counter, you hold your phone in a better position.

The window company on the other end explains that your apartment building should be providing a window, that you needed to call your maintenance department. Another groan of frustration escapes you.

"I hear you. I've tried, trust me. They can't get a new window in until next week. I can't sleep knowing I have an open area in my apartment where anyone could get in. Or anything for that matter! What if it starts raining?" 

"I'm sorry ma'am, but legally we can't replace windows on any building without a permit or your apartment complex paying our company as a whole. We could fix your window if you were the owner of your apartment, but because you rent-"

"Forget it. Thank you for your time." You hang up and close your eyes, head tilting up to the ceiling. You knew it wasn't their fault. You weren't trying to be rude, but you could cry with how frustrated you were over the situation. You hadn't had a good night's rest in three days. Bullseye screwed that up for you. Opening your eyes, you immediately cringe at the stained couch. Still had to get rid of it. You had tried your best getting the blood out, but you weren't exactly equipped with blood destroying chemicals. Another thing Bullseye had screwed up. Moving into your bedroom, you assess the almost clear plastic you covered the window up with. It wasn't the best, but it kept enough of the outdoor elements out. Another thing Bullseye screwed up.

Anger stirs in your stomach. You can hardly sleep in your own bed because of the broken window, terrified anyone could get in. You can't sleep on the couch with how stained it is. You haven't been able to call a friend over to help you remove the couch, for fear of having to explain this entire thing. What would you even say?

Bullseye, one of the most wanted men in New York City, smashed your window, bled all over your couch, and left early in the morning? You can imagine the questions. Why didn't you call the Task Force? 

Well, you see, you answer your imaginary detective, I was scared he would kill me before I got to the phone.

Why did you make him a cup of tea?

Because he asked for it.

Why did you just go to bed?

Because he told me to.

You smack your hand against your forehead, cringing at the thought of arguing with yourself and over the events of the other night. Seriously, what had you been thinking? You blame the shock and adrenaline. Rolling your shoulders, you snap yourself out of your thoughts. Something you had some issues with lately, obviously. Staring across your room at the plastic-barricaded window, you let out a breath. A shower sounded nice, but that was another thing you'd been too nervous to do. What if someone came in while you were in there? Chewing your bottom lip, you decide you'll be fast and bring a change of clothes in the bathroom with you. Gathering your stuff, phone included, you step into your bathroom and lock the door. 

The water pelts down onto your skin and you wish with a passion that you could just relax. But you can't, not with what happened a few nights ago and certainly not with that window. You're in and out of the shower in under ten minutes. Clean, but not refreshed. You pull on your sleep shorts and tank top before leaving the barely fogged up bathroom. Stepping into the plush carpet of your bedroom, a slash of fear crosses you. The plastic window has a cut straight down the middle. Your heart crawls up your throat as you freeze at the sight, phone clutched in your hand. Dusk is settling in, the last rays of sun leaving you like the last bit of security and safety before the night.

Trying not to hyperventilate, you press 911 in your phone. Two rings before an operator answers, and you quickly rattle off your emergency, that you think there's an intruder in your house. You step back into the bathroom, trying to be silent as you shut the door and lock it. The operator stays on the line with you, but you can hardly process what she's saying. You're trying to listen to the sounds of your apartment, ear pressing against the wooden door.

"Why is your window not fixed yet?" A deep masculine voice says from right outside, like he's standing the same way you are.

You barely catch a shrill in your throat as you scramble away from bathroom door and in your startle, you drop your phone. You race after your phone, picking it up and almost cry when you see it somehow hung up on the operator. 

You hear him sigh lowly, "Are you going to answer me?"

A multitude of emotions race through you, so many you can't settle on a single one or know how to feel. A part of you feels relieved that it's him, and another is scared. You have no idea what his intentions are with you. The operator had said the police were fifteen minutes out. Fifteen minutes of this, whatever this was. It feels like it'll be eternity. 

"Bullseye-" you start, your voice wobbly with fear and adrenaline.

"Dex." He interrupts you, still right outside the door.

"Dex." You start again, this time a little bit more confident, "The police are on their way."

"So?"

Shock again, renders you speechless. So? You bite your lip in worry and frustration. Oh God. What if he kills them all? And then you? What will the cops do against someone like him? Someone who can't miss a target. They don't even know who they're up against. You hadn't known either so you couldn't warn them.

"I hear your brain working a mile minute, sweetheart."

Gritting your teeth and steeling your nerves, you practically seethe at the door, "What are you doing here? If you wanted to kill me you should’ve done the job the other night.” 

“If I wanted you dead you’d already be. I need a place a lie low again.”

Anger sears through your veins, “My apartment isn’t a damn hotel and if it were you’d owe me a lot! Look at the state of my window and couch!” 

“I’ll buy you a new one.” 

“My window?” You grind out, incredulous at this conversation. You get closer to the door.

”Your apartment complex should take care of that.”

Your brows pinch with frustration. No one can help you with the window. It must be the build up of anger, from lack of care from practically everyone you’ve spoken to about your window, the lack of sleep, the lack of safety, whatever it is, it builds up and pours out in this single moment.

Without thinking, your brain turned off from your anger, you rush through the bathroom door, not registering how you unlocked the knob so quickly or how fast you seem to be moving. Your hand knocks in the wounded side of Bullseye, his shocked and pained groan rushing out of him with the hit. You push against him further, using the momentum, making him stumble back until you shove him hard enough that there’s space between the two of you.

His eyes are filled with surprise and mirth, his scarred face unmasked. A flash of surprise and attraction rush through you as you glare at him, his lips turned up in a mischievous and smug smirk. His smugness quickly squashes your temporary emotions, back to anger you go. You don’t falter.

”It’s your fault that it’s broken! Your fault I can’t sleep at night, I don’t feel safe, I can’t take a shower longer than ten minutes, I’m—“

A hard knock on the door causes panic and doom to shoot down your spine and in your stomach. Worry etches across your features and you rush towards Dex, hands pushing him gentler, towards the plastic window.

”You have to go,” you whisper to him, urgency filling your voice. He’s letting you push him towards the window until you get just right in front of it. 

“NYPD open up!”

You look back towards your bedroom opening, “Just a minute!” Turning back to Dex you gesture to the window hurriedly, “Go!”

You won’t have the lives of these men just doing their job in your hands. Or more blood stains in the apartment. The thought makes you nauseous.

Dex makes a noise of amusement, a smile teasing his lips, “I’ll be right outside. Make sure they don’t get too close to the window.” 

You nod frantically and basically push him out as he climbs through the plastic onto your balcony. Running through your bedroom, you shut the door behind you and rush to the front door, opening it up for the three policemen. They look at you in question, and then past you into your apartment. You stiffen. You hadn’t even thought about the bloodstained couch, adjusting your posture to hide the room behind you.

“I’m so sorry, it was a false alarm.” you start, sweat gathering along your brow as you lie to the officers.

”I thought you said someone had cut into your window? That it was broken?” The first officer starts, his hand resting on his gun at his hip.

With a dry throat, you shake your head. Lying is not your best suit and you try to keep a blank face, “No, I’m so sorry, I checked it and it was just torn from the wind.”

The cop gives you a once over, not buying it. “What wind?” 

"Well regardless," the shorter cop in the back starts with a much calmer demeanor, "We'll need to sweep your apartment. To make sure you're safe, we can't just leave without checking."

You swallow and stare at them before stepping aside. If you argued, you're sure it'd look even worse than how you're acting now. Suspicious. You stay at the front door as the walk cautiously inside, shutting the door behind you. You pray Dex has left the window, that he's still not out there. Trepidation fills you as the officers get to your couch, the one who was more suspicious of you, turning to look at you for an explanation.

Sweat rolls down your back, "Uh, that was my paint. I've been working on a project."

"A project?" He turns and looks back at the stained couch with slight disgust. It was gross. You needed to get rid of it.

"I don't have a shampooer." You try.

"Hm." He returns to sweeping the living room, looking out at the dying light outside your windows. His gaze settles on the bedroom door, "Is that where your broken window is?"

"I, um, yes. It is. In my bedroom. But really, I just came out of there, you don't have to go in. There's nowhere really for anybody to hide in this apartment." It's true, it was small. New York was expensive to live in.

"Why'd you shut the door?"

You surprise yourself with a calm shrug, "Habit. Trying to keep the elements and bugs to one room."

The officer gets closer to the door, looking back to his two coworkers. They nod, hands on their guns as the officer opens the door, and this is when panic really settles in you. You follow him in, trying to stop him suddenly as he starts towards the damned broken window.

"Wait! Really, it's okay, you don't have to check!"

Your words are useless as he nears closer to the window, hand reaching out to part the plastic, you heart beating in your ears. He pokes his head out and you brace yourself, waiting in dread.

He turns back around. "All clear." He steps away and notices how relief sags your entire body. "You really need to get that fixed."

"Tell me about it," you grumble, keeping an eye on the window. Where had he gone?

Moments later, the officers have left after giving you a long talk about calling and wasting time, but to be assured that you were in good hands if something really did happen. You know, the whole mansplaining thing men did in positions of power. You couldn't wait to be rid of them now for more reasons than one. And that one reason, was gone.

You'd checked the window and the small balcony you had that you'd imagined he would have been standing at. The night air met you and you shudder, quickly ducking back into bedroom. Turning to your bed, you grab the big kitchen knife you had grabbed earlier and a pillow. You yank off your comforter and go back into the bathroom, making a not-so comfy makeshift bed in the bathtub. You felt safer this way, with door being able to lock. Sleep hardly comes.

A week later your window's been fixed, giving you a sense of security back. Though something else has been nagging your mind.

You haven't seen Dex since that night the cops came. Haven't heard a thing on the news. A large part of you is worried, which concerns you in itself. Why would you care about someone like him? After all this trouble he's given you.

There was something that had happened, though. To know that he was maybe still alive. A furniture company had come knocking on your door right after you got home from work, the day after the cop incident. They were called to remove your old couch and replaced with an even better one. Something way too expensive for your own accounts. You'd asked who called and the men frowned, confused at your question, answering with an obvious, 'your boyfriend.' That had put color in your cheeks. You didn't doubt who it could have been, knowing you'd never told anyone about the couch. Remembering his words, 'I'll buy you a new one.'

You close your front door, exhausted with the work week. You were glad it was Friday. Reaching up in your kitchen cabinet, you grab a bottle of wine saved for special occasions. It wasn't really special, but you felt like you could relax for once. Your new couch was something you enjoyed sitting on, despite it reminding you of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Showered and in your pajamas, you slink down onto the couch, glass of wine and TV on. You make it about thirty minutes with the glass half full before you're out like a light. 

Something tickles you awake. If you can call it that. You're drifting in between that soft spot of sleep, hardly conscious, fading in and out. It trails along your collarbone, causing you giggle and stir away. You sigh as it moves down your bare arm, back up, tickling your skin into goosebumps. It feels good. It feels overstimulating in this sleep state you're in. You want more. You want it to stop. Your head rolls to the side, the tickling moving to your cheekbone, dusting over your skin, down your face to your lips. It makes you part them, your tongue dipping out to chase the movement. A suck of breath above you jolts you awake. Your eyes part to see a dark figure above you, shrieking, you scramble up on the couch, feet kicking under you.

Dex watches your reaction to him with amusement, staying still, frozen in time. His hand still lingering in the air from where he was touching you. Oh God, you licked him. Embarrassment stains your face. 

"Wh-what the hell are you doing?" you hiss at him, hand pressing against your chest where your heart threatens to burst.

"I see you like the new couch."

You're dumbfounded, really. You hardly know what to do or say with him. You look down at the couch under you and you nod, glancing back up at him. "I was going to say thank you, but it was your fault my couch was ruined in the first place." Speaking of, your gaze trails along him. He seems fine, like he's unharmed, in regular clothes of all things.

Since he hasn't hurt you, yet, you find your confidence. There needs to be some serious boundaries set in place with this man. You stand, a little too close to him, expecting him to move back to accommodate you. He doesn't. Like he likes standing that close to you. You clear your throat and take a small step back, giving yourself some distance from him. He watches you with an unwavering gaze, like he's studying every moment you make. It makes you feel like prey. A shudder racks through you, causing you to look down at your attire, similar to the last time you saw him, you're in small tank top and shorts. You practically feel naked. Crossing your arms over your chest, you look back up at him with a little more conviction.

"You cannot stay here."

"I was just going to ask for some tea." He raises a shoulder in passive shrug.

Pressing your lips together in irritation, you ignore how his gaze flicks down to your lips. "I'm not making you tea."

"Why not? You listened so good last time."

You refuse to acknowledge that.

"You stole my mug. Don't think I didn't notice."

"I wasn't trying to be sneaky about it."

"So, you just stole it without caring?"

"I didn't say that. I cared about it too much, which is why I took it." Dex's smirk comes to life. It makes you want to smack him.

"I liked that mug."

"I know."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing out slowly. Changing the subject, you gesture around the apartment, "How did you even get in? Don't tell me you broke my window again, or I'll be severely upset."

A chuckle releases from him as he shakes his head, "No broken windows. The newer version is much easier to unlock."

You're still. Speechless. 

He uses it to his advantage, stepping closer to you, his hand slowly reaching out to pinch a lock of your hair between his fingers.

"Why are you here?" you whisper, watching him watch you.

"Missed you." Another shrug as he twirls the lock of hair in his fingers, inching closer to you. Unease and...something else you refuse to admit burns in your belly. "It's getting harder to stay away. I didn't mean for all this to happen, not like this."

You wet your lips and Dex watches the movement like a hawk. "How would it happen, if you could change it?" Your curiosity burning inside of you. His darkness calling to you like a moth to an open flame. The consuming way he's staring at you. It makes your skin prickle with a whole different reason, heat beginning to crawl under your skin, spreading through your lower belly. 

"I'd make sure we met in public. Somewhere you like. That café down the street," his fingers drop your hair, moving to your collarbones, trailing lazily against your skin. You shudder. "You'd order your regular. Hot vanilla latte. With whipcream on top. Light cinnamon dusting. I'd get the same. I always do." You don't know how to process all of this as he's touching you. Your brain turning off with his touch, his breath hitting you as he whispers softly, closer and closer to you, until he's close enough to kiss. He doesn't stop. Two hands on you now like he can't help himself. Your skin burns with want. It's wrong but so good. You're entranced.

"I'd say something about it. Spark the conversation. You'd tell me things about you, things I already know. Your name. What you do for work." his head dips to your throat, an inhale of your scent makes him shudder, his breathing getting heavier, "I'd make you tell me where there's a good pizza place. I already know your answer. I'd ask if you wanted to join me. You'd say yes because why would you say no to me?"

You shiver as his nose brushes up to your ear, his hands just barely grazing against your sides. Like he's still testing if you're going to pull away from him or not. When you don't, he presses his hands into you, fingers spreading like he's trying to touch enough of you all at once. He groans lowly at the contact. You're trembling now, not sure if your body is reacting to the fear of his admittance, or to the burning want of him. Perhaps both. 

"How...how is it going to happen now?" your voice is small, breathless. 

Dex takes a long inhale, like he's trying to control himself. He raises his head, away from where he was breathing you in, to catch your gaze. His pupils are wide, his hands squeeze you slightly when you look up at him with need. Something he's been fantasizing seeing on your face for a long time now. 

His voice is rough, husky, full of want and desperation, it rakes up your body hearing it. "I'm going to sit you on the couch I bought you. You're going to take your shorts off." as he's painting the scene, he's turning you back towards the couch, keeping you facing him. Two small steps backwards and the back of your legs are hitting the cushions. You sit. He watches you darkly as he slowly hooks his fingers under the band of your shorts, pleased when you lift your hips to help him take them down. You're blushing now, watching him with bated breaths. 

"You're going to spread your legs and I'm going to kneel." His grip is surprisingly gentle, for such dangerous and calloused hands. It makes you shiver, the contrast of it. The contrast of him. His hands part your thighs, his gaze never leaving yours even as you try to dip away from it as he spreads your legs open. Shame and desire eat at you, the fabric of your underwear doing nothing to hide how wet you are. He kneels.

The sight of this broad shouldered man kneeling in front of you makes you a little light headed. This isn't right, but it feels so good. Dex is reading your expressions, the hitch of your breath, the pink dusted on your cheeks, like he's saving it away. Keeping it in a file in his mind for later. You try not think about it, what he said. Try not to let it talk to you in a way that a part of you likes it, likes that he has an obsession with you, that he's so carnal. That he wants to know everything little thing about you, even the ways you react to him. Especially the ways you react to him. You start to feel yourself want to back out and he knows it already. The palm of his hands petting down your thighs, closer to where you're aching and wanting him to touch. It distracts you again. 

He needs you to not think about what's right or wrong. Like he does. He could be a little bit more like you. But you need to be a little bit more like him right now. 

Dex tilts his head in a way that feels like a predator pinpointing a weakness. You feel weak to this attraction, this want, this need. Good. It's how he's been feeling about you lately. You bite down on your lip as his thumb gently brushes over the waistband of your ruined underwear. Your core clenches. 

"You're going to let me take these off," the way he says it, it's not a demand. It's not even a command. He states it like it's a fact, something that's just going to happen. He isn't reveling in it, he isn't being pushy, he's being honest. And you know that you will. You're going to let him do whatever he wants to do you. You're going to listen to him, because when haven't you? 

You nod and he hums, that familiar smirk coming back to his lips. He mocks your nod back to you. "I know, baby. You're going to let me eat you out. You're going to cum on my mouth. And you're going to make a mess." 

He hooks his fingers under your panties and you lift your hips again, aiding him without a word. What do you even say to that? You're worried anything you say will sound like begging. He does it slow, and you're not sure if he's doing it to torture you or to give you one last chance to back out. Your hands grip the cushions underneath you, breath quickening as he reveals the evidence of your desire. He sucks in a sharp breath as he lays eyes on you for the first time. You bite back a whimper at his reaction, like he's enamored and in disbelief. You're soaking, pussy painfully clenching with want. 

"Fuck." And that's the last you hear from him before he's dipping his head down, latching onto your clit so quickly and precisely that you startle with a cry, hands coming down to grip his head, unsure whether you want to pull him in or push him away from the hard contact. 

You try to squirm, but his large hands hook under your hips, holding you to him. He yanks you down close to him. He’s licking you up like he’s starved, he’s firm and unashamed when he groans loudly against you, the vibration of it adding to the stimulation. You let out a loud moan in response, fingers flexing in his hair. His grip tightens on your hips, your reactions causing him to react in fervor. 

His tongue flattens to lick up as much surface of you as he can, his tongue coming up your clit, circling around before he’s adding a sucking pressure to it. Your gasp comes out sharp and in shock, fingers flexing against the strands of his hair. He doesn’t stay on your clit for long, drifting his mouth to lick a slow and vicious lick along your slickness. He dips his tongue back down, slipping inside you, nose bumping up against your clit while you grind down into his mouth. You fight a whimper, which catches pathetically in your throat as you rock your hips. 

Dex’s dark eyes gaze up at you, the moment causing your thoughts to catch up to you. The weight of his eyes were heavy, you can tell how he's cataloging every moment, every movement, every sound you make. How long has he been watching you? God. What were you doing? 

He seems to notice you falter, his tongue dragging back up slowly to your clit, done with teasing and tasting you. He wants to make you cum. Wants to turn your brain off, defy the logic and the fear still inside of you. He latches back onto your clit so accurately that you almost blank out for moment, your hips coming up to squirm away from him. He lets out a groan deep in his chest, as his arms come up to wrap around your thighs, sealing your fate to him.

"Oh, God-" you let out on a broken moan and that seems to encourage him even further. His mouth keeps the pressure around your clit, his tongue adding a flicking motion, up and down, side to side, until he hears which one you like best. Until you're sitting still in his grasp, letting him consume you. That's when he knows he has you. 

And you have him. You're so close, his mouth hurling you towards the throes of your pleasure, body subconsciously clinging to him, trying to get what it wants. Your hands are tangled in his hair, like a part of you thinks he's going to lift his head and stop. You're ensuring he'll stay there and finish what he started. Your back arches, your moans eating away at the silence, louder, longer, breathier. Your head tips back before it falls forward, catching his never ending gaze again and that's when you fall apart. 

You come hard, vision spotting, the last that you saw clearly was Dex's dark eyes leveling yours right between your thighs. The image burns into your mind as you come down, heart beating through your chest as you heave for air. 

He pulls back from your clit, the missing contact makes you want to cry out. His weighted gaze is still on you, never left. Never will. It makes you shy, starting to close your legs on impulse, causing a quiet but sharp, tsk, from him. Reprimanded, you blush, holding your legs open, letting him see the aftermath of your soul crushing orgasm, pussy still pulsing with the aftershocks of it. 

"Good girl," he breathes quietly and the praise goes straight through your stomach to your core. The pleasure spiking in your blood. He notices and smirks, his lips coated in your shine. Maybe that's all you needed, some encouragement.

His fingers swipe down the core of your pussy and you bite back another cry. He pushes them back up against you slowly, just missing your throbbing and sensitive clit, parting the lips of your cunt. You watch his eyes grow darker at the sight and his jaw clench as he takes the sight of you in. You can feel the slick of your pleasure and want drip out of you, onto the couch. His other hand comes down to barely brush against your fluttering opening. You suck in a breath as you watch him. 

"You made a mess." his fingers coating in your cum as he traces your hole.

Shame paints your face and you fight yourself from shutting your legs again. You start to say something to defend yourself, lips parting, and he shakes his head. He looks happy, lips tipping up in a sharp and dangerous smile. 

"I said you would." His fingers push inside of you, making an obscene squelching noise with how wet you were. 

Your remark dies, whatever it was you were going to say, and he loves watching your brain go blank for all the right reasons. You don't need to talk or think. He'll do all the decision making from here. All you had to do was listen and be good. And you were good, you were so good. You were good like this, like he knew you'd be. His fingers hook up in you, his weapons against the world now turning into extensions of what he wanted to do to you. He fucks them up into you while his thumb swipes your sensitive clit. His fingers stretch you out in a way that you know will do nothing to prepare you for the real thing. His stature is large, you can only imagine what he has down there, something you haven't seen with his kneeling posture.

Your head tips to your shoulder, like you hardly have the energy or care to keep it up, eye lids drooping. Though, you're still looking at him. His chest swells with pride. You're moaning without thought, pleasure drunk eyes on him, nipples poking through the flimsy fabric of your tank top. The sight of you makes him feel crazy. How long has he pictured this exact scene in his head? Imagined the noises you'd make? The way you'd look with his fingers deep inside of you, legs spread open for only him. His fingers fucking up into you with deep thrusts, thumb still swiping gently on your clit. He can feel your wet pussy clenching around him, pulling him back in and he fights a moan, thinking about it wrapped around his cock. His thoughts about you turning darker as he watches you take what he gives. Your perfect lips fall open to tumble out another moan, his free hand going up to cup your chin. Sharp shock rings through him as you dip your chin to catch his thumb in your mouth, cheeks hollowing, tongue slicking against him. The shock turns into straight primal need. 

"You're a dirty girl, aren't you?" his voice is just barely above a whisper, keeping the conversation close, like the two of you are sharing a secret. His other hand still fucking a steady rhythm up into you, each thrust he swipes that thumb harder against your clit. Your hips twitch and you nod, moaning with your tongue and mouth still wrapped around his thumb. His nostrils flare. He didn't expect this. But he likes it. He's corrupting you, he's turning off your logical part of your brain and he's making you into something entirely his. 

He keeps fucking his fingers into you with a steady rhythm, each thrust his thumb delivers a swipe against your sensitive clit. He can feel your cunt clench more and more around him, and he is starting to see the telltale signs of when you’re getting close. A flush in your chest and across your cheeks, your moans getting louder and airier, thighs and hips twitching with the stimulation. Your hot mouth lets his thumb go to breathe out his name in a plead. 

He groans hearing it, almost whimpering back to you. It makes him feel insane, he has to make you stop chanting his name like that or he’s going to yank the waistband of his pants down and give it to you. He has to make this night last, has to study you more, touch you more. He leans forward, catching your mouth to consume his name and your moans. 

You immediately embrace him, something that makes him shudder with need. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, pulling him close to you as your lips part to swipe your tongue against his. He whines into your mouth, the sound going straight to your core, pushing you right to the edge. You cling to him as his fingers keep pushing up into you, hitting a spot that makes a pathetic noise fall from the back of your throat. Dex swallows it, his hand cupping the back of your head to keep your mouth against his as he kisses you senseless while you fall apart. 

Your thighs tremble as you come back to your body and reality, heavily aware of Dex’s mouth on your skin. He gently eases his fingers out of you, causing a loud whine to leave you. 

An airless laugh leaves him in response as his mouth trails down your neck, “It’s okay, baby. I’ll give you more.”

You shiver at that, not sure how much more you can take. You’re weightless, thoughtless, overstimulated. His hands snake under your back and hips, pulling you to him as his mouth latches onto that sensitive spot on your neck. You moan lowly, rolling your head to the side to give him more room, goosebumps ticking on your skin. He’s lifting you up now, arms wrapped around you, keeping you against him as tight as he can as he stands. Your weak legs wrap around his waist, shaking arms around his neck. You feel where you’re moving, back into the bedroom. His lips move back to yours, catching another kiss from you as he gently eases you down to your mattress. 

His fingers grip the hem of your tank top, slowly pulling it up and over your head, exposing you to him fully now. He breathes out, taking you in. Naked and sprawled on the bed just for him, unwound from the orgasms he’d given you. His knees dip onto the bed, and you reach up to touch his shirt.  He shakes his head once and you frown.

”I can’t see you?” you ask in a small voice.

Dex stares down at you, your nipples tight in the exposed air. He wants them in his mouth, wants to make you cry out. His gazes goes back to yours. “Not right now. It’s not about me right now.” You didn’t understand, he didn’t want to be distracted when he still had so much to discover about you. Didn’t want your hands and eyes all over him while he was supposed to be mapping your entire body. He wanted his hands, eyes, and mouth on you instead. 

You’re not used to this intense amount of attention. You’re feeling shy again, almost like a bug under a microscope. His features soften, realizing he’s losing you again to that logic in your brain.

”I need to see you. I need this. Please understand.” His hands move to either side of you, caging you against him and the bed as he hovers over you, his head dipping down close.

You bite your lip, brow dipping in question. You’ve trusted him this far, though the post orgasms and reality of the situation were weighing into you. Especially now, as you lay naked and vulnerable under him, no doubt in your mind where this was going to end. 

You wet your lips, a movement yet again tracked precisely by the man over you. “How’s it going to happen?”

He’s gaze flicks back to your eyes, pleasure and mirth filling his. He knows what you’re doing. Giving him the go ahead while asking for reassurance. He likes this, this game you’re playing, like you were playing earlier. He leans back down to you, mouth just brushing above yours.

"I'm going to kiss you again." His lips capture yours, pulling you in a kiss that leaves you dazed and breathless and wanting him all over again. Your hands come up to grasp his broad shoulders, causing him to shudder. It was strange, he wanted you touching him but it was so distracting. He wanted it too much. So he leans back, breaking the kiss, grabbing your hands gently, easing your hands and arms down over your head. He's got them pinned with one of his. You test his grip, with a pout on your face. He laughs again, want and need making his voice darker, "Later, sweetheart. Later." He likes this too, having you manhandled onto the bed, pinned with nowhere to go, looking up at him with such need. 

"You're going to keep your hands there like a good girl." He watches with slight amusement as your keen with the praise. He hardly has the patience anymore when you buck up your hips to grind against his length. He hisses out at the contact, his own hips twitching in response, rolling forward to grind down into you. You let out a small moan and Dex shudders as he stares down to where you're connected against him. His free hand goes down to cup one of your breasts, earning him a gasp and your back arches, trying to give him more of you. He swipes a thumb over your nipple before he's dipping down to suck into his hot mouth with searing lick. 

Dex's grip on your hands leave you, but you keep them where he left them. For fear of disobeying of him. You hadn't tried it yet, maybe you never would. Listening and obeying him felt so much better. But you did ache to touch him, to pull him into you, to dig your fingers in his hair and keep his mouth against you. You didn't. You were good. 

His hands roam and grope you, mapping your body like he's trying to memorize every inch of your skin. How you feel against him. His mouth switches to your other peaked nipple, giving it the same attention. His fingertips trailing down the sides of your ribs, making you squirm, his clothed and hard length still pressed against your naked and sensitive pussy. The texture of his pants is almost too much, too harsh, but you can't get enough. It's just like his attention on you. He rocks into you, groaning at the stimulation. He's been leaking and throbbing since he first broke into your apartment. Months ago. He remembers the night he finally made contact with you. A miscalculation on his part. He hadn't meant to broke the window. Hadn't meant to scare you. But he liked it. Liked how you trembled in fear and still listened to him. That's when he knew. Knew you were perfect.

He moans against your skin, his mouth trailing down your sternum now, licking, sucking, kissing. His hands roaming still. You feel dizzy with the overstimulation, arms trembling over your head as you grip your own hands together to keep them there. Dex eases up, lips puffy and red, eyes glassy and dark with lust. If he had his camera he'd take a picture of you right now, to remind him of this moment. Skin flushed, hair a mess, sprawled out on your bed just for him. Staying still just for him. He takes a breath to steady himself.

"I'm going to fuck you now."

It's soft, the way he says it, like a part of him can't believe it. Again, like earlier, he delivers it in such a way where it's not demand. Not a threat. Not menacing, or dark. It's a soft fact. Like there's nothing you can do change it, and like he knows there is nothing you'd do to change it. 

But you answer him anyway.

"Please, Dex." you breathe out, the raw unfiltered need for him showing through your tone in such a way that makes his eyes grow dark. 

He makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat before he's tugging his shirt off and over his head. You watch with curiosity and awe, his muscles moving with his body, reminding you of just how dangerous he is. Scars litter across his torso as his muscles flex and move with every moment he makes. The wound that got the two of you in this mess, still healing at his left side. A dark yellow bruise surrounding it. He leans back, his fingers hooking at his waistband, his focus zeroed in on your expressions. He wants to see how you react to him. Wants to see the way you look at him for the first time. The evidence of his desire pressed harshly against the seam of his pants, doing nothing to really show you just how big he is until he peeling away his pants. No underwear. The fact makes your mouth dry and heartbeat quicken. You see a light dusting of his happy trail as your eyes travel down lower, lips parting as you take him in. He's rock hard, thick and throbbing. Precum dripping from his pink tip. You subconsciously wet your lips and Dex makes another pleased sound. He'll get your mouth on him later. 

He doesn't let you take the sight of him in for long, before he's parting your legs and crawling on the bed in between them. Your thighs shake with anticipation, hips jolting when his skilled fingers swipe through your slick once more, like he's still making sure you're ready enough for him. He takes a steady breath, as he looks down at your exposed cunt, catching a groan at the sight of you, cock jumping with need. He hitches his hips up, sliding the tip up against you, teasing the both of you while getting himself wet with you. He groans at the contact, his length spreading you open, dragging his cock against you. You moan, hips raising to meet him as you feel just how long and thick he is. You would shudder at the thought if you weren't aching for him. Dex braces his hands on either side of you, head hanging low so he watch where you two meet. He lifts his hips, catching his tip just barely at your entrance as you rolls your hips down. Your breath catches and he starts to ease in slowly, the stretch and the burn beginning. A whimper escapes you as he keeps pressing, the pressure pulling noises out of you that you didn't know you had. 

"Easy, baby. Relax." his voice is shaking, like he's trying to hold himself back, his gaze coming back up to catch your expression. Your brows are furrowed, mouth parted, chest stuttering with the air you're trying to pull in. He keeps shifting forward. He drops down to his elbows so his upper body is pressed more against you, his mouth coming to catch yours. You let out a whimper into his mouth and suddenly he shoves forward, done being nice about it at all. You let out a shrill, hands coming down to grip his shoulders, nails digging in. He lets out a devastated moan against your mouth, breaking the kiss with pleased hiss.

"Fuck. I'm sorry, sweetheart. Fuck." His hips stutter, his forehead coming down to press against your shoulder as the initial shock and pain turn into burning desire. "I couldn't hold it anymore, you feel so fucking good." his hips roll deep into you, pulling a sharp gasp from you as he hits your cervix, fingers digging into him again.

His mouth bites down into your shoulder, as he whines into your skin. This wasn't going according to plan but he couldn't stop. Your pussy clenching around him so tightly, so slick and warm and perfect. He could cry. He drags his hips back before he's snapping them back up into you, your moans quickly turning into something he needs to hear, to feel. To have. His pelvis grinds against your clit before he's snapping his hips back and forth, his own mouth spilling obscene noises and things he can't believe he's saying to you.

"So good. So good, fuck, I'd never thought - never imagined how good," he whines, mouth leaving kisses and licks across your skin, anywhere he can get as he fucks into you, loving the way your nails dig into him, how you touch him. "How good you'd be."

His words make you moan and clutch to him, hands digging into his hair now as his cock drags inside of you, stretching you out and filling you up. He's heavy on top of you, keeping you pinned against him and the bed, his thrusts taking the air out of you with each push. You can hardly catch up with what happening, how he's talking to you in such a whimpering tone, it makes your skin burn with desire. How long had he thought about this? His mouth catches yours to steal your breath and kiss, before he pulling back, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you down to meet his thrusts. Your vision nearly goes black as your eyes rolls back. 

"So pretty, baby. Taking my cock. God. F-fuck." he growls out into your ear before he's looking down at you, watching you take him. He licks a stripe up your throat, nipping your jaw before he soothes it with a kiss. Hands and mouth and cock branding you in a way that you know you'll never escape the feelings from. Even his words.

You can't say much of anything with the way he's delivering his hips into you, the pleasure ballooning in your belly as he drags you closer and closer to the end. "Dex," you whine, his name the only thing your brain can settle on. 

It spurs him into a furious snap of his hips, the slap of your skin and obscene slick coating him filling the room with your moans and cries. His arms wrap around your torso, pressing you close against him, bear hugging you while he keeps fucking you into oblivion. He's unhinged in the way he fucks you, like he can't stop, can't help himself. His own brain finally turned off, debased into a creature of need. Not a creature with everything under control, you under control. Himself under control. This is his most human form and you've brought it out of him. 

His gaze captures yours, his brown eyes glassy with unshed tears, the sight shocking you before you're pulling him into a kiss. He whimpers into it, hips stuttering. He pulls back with a begging voice, "Tell me you need me." his lips just barely leaving.

You moan out, legs wrapping around his hips to keep him against you. You're so close, the pleasure and pressure building deep inside you with every thrust he delivers.

"Tell me." he whispers again, fingers gripping onto you in a way that you know will bruise later.

"I need you, Dex." you have your own form of whine in your voice now, panting as you get closer, "Dex-"

He interrupts you, "Tell me to never leave. That you won't leave me."

His admittance makes your breath stutter, heart flutter. The obsession he has on you is clear enough to you now, and you don't hate it. You're curious by it. Morbidly so. You know you shouldn't want it, but it makes your blood yearn and want with such force that it turns out the logic and the fear of it out your mind. Your pussy clamps down on him and he almost chokes. 

"I won't-" you gasp, fingers digging into his back, "Dex, don't leave, please don't. Don't stop." 

He revels in your begging, his voice dark, "Good girl. Now give it to me."

It's like he already has your body trained, already knows it's tells. Already knew how close you were. Knew what would send you off the edge. Your body seizes up as you let out a cry, hands gripping him tightly against you as you break on a moan. Pure euphoria rips through your body, cunt convulsing around his thick cock, making his hips stutter with a cry of his own, your orgasm pushing him over the edge. His head drops into the crook of your neck, both your bodies trembling as you come down from the white hot explosion inside of you. Your chest heaves, limbs boneless as you feel his cock pump inside of you. You feel full and peaceful. Not worried about the consequences of your actions just yet. 

Dex lets out a pleased sigh, holding you still against him, making no move to remove his softening cock out of you. He nuzzles his nose up your neck, breathing you in as you both settle into this new time and reality. Your fingers find themselves drawing swirls and meaningless things on his back, earning goosebumps on his skin. He shudders against the stimulation, enjoying the feel of your hand on him. 

You're the first to speak after a few minutes of this bliss, "I want my cat mug back."

"You're not getting it back." He smiles against your skin, "Unless you come back to my place."

"How's that?"

No. Don’t look, not too closely. But ski masks behind him shift impatiently. He knows that any one of them would have already broken her open. They made that much clear. He’s doing this so she won’t have to experience that. He’s the lesser evil. But for how long until they get tired of waiting and decide to do this themselves?

He swallows, his mouth dry, as he looks at his daughter, his only child. Gritting his teeth, he slides his hand down her inner thigh, and she flinches, her hands tugging uselessly against the rope that keeps her still. From the corner of his eye, he can see a the ski masks moving floser, and a blinking red light.

“Dad, wait, wait…!” she balks, and he has to look away, at the floral patterns of her pillowcase, so he won’t have to see her betrayed expression. But he can still hear the snickering and hooting behind him, and her choked whimper, and feel her curls and her soft, tender folds against his fingertips. She’s not wet, of course she isn’t, and with a deep breath, he quickly brings his fingers up to his lips, already smelling of musk and piss and his daughter, and he licks at them, soaking them in his own spit before he shoves his hand back between her thighs.

“Dad—!”

“Shh, shhh, sweetie…” he whispers as he feels her blind, other hand grasping at her thigh when she tries to squirm away, “This will make it easier, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, shhh…”

Her protests die into helpless little whines when he finds her clit. It’s soft, and tender, and as he starts to rub circles on it, he’s both thankful and ashamed of how instinctively his fingers do so. How familiar it feels when this is the first time he touches her, how much like a woman his little girl feels. There’s a click, and the scratchy sound of zooming, and he makes the mistake of turning his head, only to see what he already knew was there: one of them, with a handheld camera pointing straight between her legs, at his hand, working on his child.

He wants to slap it away, to yell at them to stop, to stop robbing his family of its last shreds of dignity, but all that leaves him are pathetic, rasped “stop” and “please”s, and the cameraman’s companion is still pointing a gun at him and his daughter, a smug smile somehow clear even through the mask. Instead, he’s forced to see how the glass eye of the camera travels up her body and settles on her face, and beckons him to look at her too. At the tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, at those big, helpless, betrayed eyes that widen and then squeeze shut when they meet his.

“Don’t,” she begs, trying to press her face against her arm, but she can’t, not with how they are tied up, “Dad, please, please don’t—”

“Shhh, shhh,” he whispers, tears in his own eyes, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sweetie, but this is just so I can— oh, God, I’m sorry, I’m trying to make it easier for you, I’m not going to let you get hurt—”

She throbs under his fingers. And when she does, he suddenly realises how easily his fingers move between her folds. How slick sounds have started to permeate the air.

He’s making his daughter wet.

It was the goal, sure, but it still has him reeling, sick to his stomach, that thought. It echoes inside his head and shoots down into his cock as a horrible surge of warmth.

“Looks like she’s ready for her dad,” the one with the camera says, and turns the camera to her wet cheeks again, cooing at her, “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

He pulls his hand from her as if she just burned him. She is burning, warm and pulsing and he doesn’t want to think of it, his mouth is parchment-dry and she’s so wet it has dripped down on her ass and he doesn’t want to even look at her.

“Please. Please, I already— God, isn’t this enough…?!“ he cries out, holding out his hand that, God help him, glistens with his own daughter’s slick. He can smell it, the musky, buttery scent and he wishes it made him nauseous, but it doesn’t.

“What more do you want?!”

“You still haven’t fucked her,” one of them beside the bed notes, his companions agreeing with snickers behind the masks.

“We agreed. It’s either just you, or us. Your choice.”

“But it’s a pretty obvious one unless you are a shitty father…”

He stares at them, pleading. Trying to find any way out of this than the obvious. But the gun glints in the light of the bedside lamp, and he knows there’s none, so he tugs his slacks down and stares at the wall with too many shadows, silhouettes of their watchers, and he hears his kid whimper in fear. Horror. He’s ashamed of how hard he is already. No need to jerk himself off.

His hands finds her thighs again, and his breath hitches when he feels her against the tip like a kiss, wet and warm and everything his own daughter shouldn’t be to him. He looks at her, at his child glistening with juices he coaxed out of her. He looks as his own hand, like a stranger’s, that grasps and guides himself where he can feel her open. His own cock, aligned with her, looks too big, too much to enter the little hole he had created.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and slowly, so slowly, he starts to push in, and forces her to stay still. She cries, strangled moans breaking into sobs that have her whole body heaving. He can hear the men around them snicker and hoot, this horrible moment of defilement reduced to nothing but entertainment for them. He wishes he couldn’t hear anything, not her, not them, but there’s still the sight, there’s still the feeling, her soft flesh under his palms and strangling at his cock in painful panic and, God, how is she so tight, he thought she had had a boyfriend already—

“I’m sorry,” he grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut as he starts to fuck into his child, every movement punctuated with an apology. He tries to imagine someone else. His ex, the girl from the centerfold, some Hollywood actress, anyone else, but even as she lets out sounds that he didn’t even know she could make, it’s unmistakably his daughter. He wants to feel himself soften when the image of that one Bond girl once again fades from the way of his child’s teary, scrunched face, but he doesn’t. And he realises too late that he has been staring at her while allowing his hips to pick up the pace.

The camera with its blinking light has captured it all, every tear and whimper from her that doesn’t belong to these bastards. Growling, he leans down, his arms around her head, pulling her face into the crook of his neck. Into the safety from the camera and their eyes, he tells himself. But her moans against his throat have him pounding into her just harder, groaning into her hair “I love you”s in the midst of his “I’m sorry”s and “Please forgive me”s and “It’ll be over soon”s.

***

He has tried to forget that night, and everything that immediately followed. The police, the shame, the anger, the humiliation, the helplessness. His ex-wife tried to get their girl to move back in with her, painted him into a monster, threatened to sue, and the worst part was that he couldn’t even disagree. He had failed so utterly that he knew he deserved it all. What he didn’t deserve was his child, still there beside him, still wanting him in her life even if it took months until she could look him in the eye.

They couldn’t live in that house anymore, though. He got a new place, one with a tall fence and reinforced locks and a security system with 24/7 monitoring. He got rid of the bed on which it all had happened, on the backyard of the old house. He thinks back on it, sometimes, the flames licking at the blackening wood frame and the stench of the burning mattress. And he has decided that other than the charred husk of a furniture, he will never allow that bed or anything adjacent to it to cross his mind ever again.

Until he gets that email.

The sender’s address is an unintelligible mix of letters and numbers. The subject is “Good memories :)”. But there’s nothing except a link. And he knows he shouldn’t open anything that come from weird emails. When he lets thempointer hover above it, he can see it’s not a file — probably — but a link to a porn site he sometimes frequents.

Dread of the thing he doesn’t quite dare to name settles inside his guts like a stomach ache. He really shouldn’t open that. He shouldn’t. Everything is finally good— well, tolerable— between him and his daughter. A work in progress, and they might never be as close as they once were, but at least she’s still there. He can’t betray her, not ever again. And besides, he hated that night as much as she did. He did. He did—

Half-accidental twitch of his finger is all it takes.

“Baby, please,” he hears himself rasping through the headphones, “Please, I can’t do this unless you relax.”