mercury’s blog

you’re giving him the cold shoulder. it’s a reasonable enough reaction, dex supposes—he did kidnap you, after all—but still, he cannot help but be annoyed by it; he has never liked being cut off from you. he’s tried to change your attitude by coaxing you out with sweet words and compliments, trying to please you by bringing things he knows you like, talking to you about trivial things to establish a routine and create a sense of normalcy. and nothing works. but recently, sometimes, he’s sensed it.

like when dex folds his arms around your smaller frame possessively, chest pressed against your back, face curled into your shoulder with his nose poking at your cheek, and there is this tiny moment where you automatically lean back into him. like when he’s nosing at you and for just a second, you instinctively press your cheek closer, like when you shift your body nearer into the warmth of his body when he buries his head into your hair, inhaling your scent like a madman. it’s always a fraction of a moment, a short period of time where your body registers his warmth as safe, before your mind remembers what your body has forgotten.

it’s in those small moments when he can sense you’re at your weakest. when you’re the closest to giving in, to breaking, to opening up to him again. dex hadn’t wanted to take advantage of it, hadn’t wanted to manipulate you; he had wanted you to come back to him by yourself. but it had been weeks—weeks without a word from you, weeks without a touch from you, weeks without anything at all from you. but dex is not above begging. begging for love. begging for crumbs. anything from you.

“come on, pretty. won’t you forgive me? please baby,” he whispers into your ear as he plays with your hair, nosing at your cheek. “i’m sorry. i love you.”

his fingers find their way to yours. palm pressed onto the back of your hand, he entangles his fingers with yours. and then, there’s a moment where your breath stutters slightly, like there’s something you want to say. dex waits for it. waits for the words to come out of your mouth, heart beating like a drum in his chest as he does, talk to me talk to me talk to me—

before you close your mouth and start to tense. dex knows he’s close to getting you back, that weeks of coaxing had been effective, but he’s still not quite there yet. he is close, he knows. but he’s getting impatient.

a week later, he is the one who caves. he starts to beg.

“i can’t carry on like this, my love, i can’t—please don’t shut me out. i’ll do anything, anything for you if you just… talk to me,” he whimpers into your shoulder, breath trembling as he continues, “scream at me, yell at me punch me, i don’t care. i know i was wrong, i’m sorry, baby. i can’t live without you. please just… please.”

and this gets a reaction out of you. finally. your lip starts to quiver and there’s a tiny sigh before you speak, and dex gets to hear your voice again, and it’s the sweetest, most angelic sound he’s ever heard, and he cannot believe he ever went without it for so long.

from that moment when you caved in, it wasn’t too long until the two of you returned to routine. well, as much routine as was allowed, considering the circumstances. if you forgot about how exactly you had gotten into dex’s apartment, you could easily pretend that the two of you had simply moved in together. it was strangely domestic, in a way. you spent your mornings sleeping in late, washing up and taking a long shower, lounging and sitting around in the living room, sometimes you watch TV, push a CD into the record player or read a book that you stole from one of his bookshelves. there was nothing really to do, but oddly enough, that was the most relaxed you had ever felt, even though you had originally anticipated to become restless and anxious from doing nothing all day. then dex comes home, in a very “honey, i’m home!” way, you would make dinner and you would eat together. it wasn’t very good dinner, of course—it was often too salty, the flavour too weak or, in most cases, a little too under- or overcooked. nonetheless, dex ate it all without complaint, even adding the occasional compliment sometimes. “mmm, very delicious, baby, thank you.” all in all, it was all very homely, very cozy. familiar. it was almost too easy to forget about the past. so easy it was actually a little scary.

but you couldn’t really complain. dex was a fantastic provider, he treated you well and gave you everything you needed and requested and more. and he had been working really hard for your approval. you could tell he was holding back, the way he pressed chaste kissed onto your forehead, lingering just a second longer than necessary, but moving away in the end.

it’s hard to resist that kind of devotion and worship. that kind of attention and affection. you know he’s not a good person. not a bad person, but not a good person either. the stalking, the possessiveness, the obsessiveness—there was something not completely right with him. not inherently wrong, just… perhaps love expressed in all the wrong ways.

“i love you,” he hums into your ear, “my love. my darling. my true north star.”

you decide to forgive him. to forgive and forget. it is the beginning of your ruin and rebirth.

he would SO babytrap you. and with not even an ounce of guilt because he’s so afraid that you’ll try and leave him again that he thinks the only way to keep you tethered to him forever is knocking you up and putting his baby into your belly. he doesn’t think he’d be a good father—to be honest, dex isn’t all that fond of children and not good with them either. but he’d try, for you. and because that child would have parts of you in them—good parts. the parts that would make him love that baby.

and so, dex does it. he’s always liked filling you up, spilling himself into you so deep he’s rearranging your organs, and you’re so fucked out in sub space you don’t even notice. it’s the perfect plan, really. you didn’t even stand a chance. poor thing.

something in dex—perhaps the equivalent of what a moral compass is to a regular, normal person—keeps telling him he should feel guilt. or shame, at least. but he can’t bring himself to feel that when he’s lounging on the couch, watching you waddling around with your heavy, round belly, pregnant with his child.

you never stood a chance. when benjamin poindexter wants something, he gets it.

that includes you. especially you. always you.

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YOU’RE NOT EVEN HALFWAY through the door before your mother maneuvers herself into your arms, welcoming you heartily back home after your semester abroad.

“oh honey, i’ve missed you so much! it’s been unbearable without you,” your mother exclaims, complaints spilling out of her before you can even slip out of your thick coat.

“it’s been that bad?” you chuckle at her, grinning at her dramatic antics while you kick off your shoes, gladly welcoming the warmth of the house. you turn around, and face your stepfather—of whom your stepbrother, anakin, is the splitting image.

your stepfather looks older somehow, like lecturing your older but irresponsible and immature stepbrother has worn him out physically over the year, and he gives you a smile. a smile of exhaustion and relief. relief that at least one of his children, the one that was responsible, was finally back in his home.

“hey, you,” he greets you with a heartfelt hug before shouting up the stairs, “anakin! come down, your sister’s back.”

he gives you an apologetic look, “i’m so sorry about this, honey. i’ve been telling him to come down for ages, but he just won’t—”

“—listen to you,” you finish his sentence with a knowing look, “it’s fine, don’t worry. i’ll go up and get him. i wanted to say hello to him anyways.”

your mother nods firmly. “yeah, and you scold him for us! it’s like he never even listens to us. he keeps staying in his room—which, by the way, has become dreadfully messy—and never comes out. at least not when we’re there.”

“in short, he’s being rebellious again,” your stepfather summarises, a defeated sigh leaving his lips, “we were hoping you might be able to convince him to at least have dinner with us.”

you nod.

“i’ll do the best i can,” you reply to him, walking up the stairs as your parents shuffle into the kitchen, preparing the dinner.

and as you stand in front of his room’s door, you’re flooded with memories. his hand sneaking up your skirt, stroking your thigh. mischievous lips pressed against yours, soft whispers about how now he can brag to all of his friends that he’s fucked the straight a’s student. that the notorious teacher’s pet might be a bit more naughty than expected. and you remember his touch, rough hands on your hips, fingers pawing at your breasts as your head is pushed into his mattress.

you shake your head as if that can erase the memories. the more you’re near the door, the more sounds you can make out: there’s a lot of clicking, and soon after that always followed gun shot sounds. and vaguely sounds that appear to be some sort of explosions, as well as a voice you could never forget. you don’t bother knocking—you doubt he would hear it anyway—and just gently open the door. the sight is one you have seen throughout your whole life of waking anakin up, getting him to come down for lunch: anakin’s sat on his desk, x-box in his hand. his hair is messy and yet fluffy, and somehow he makes it look good even with his curls sticking up into various directions, curling around the headset he is currently yelling into. his eyes are fixed on his computer screen, which appears to be showing some sort of western fighting game with cowboys and guns and horses.

“no, dude, i said behind you, behind you—ugh, nevermind, just cover me, i’ll do it—” he screams into the headset and sighs. “idiot… fucking useless…”

“game not going well?” you ask casually, leaning in the door frame.

he whirls around in his gaming chair, right leg propped up as a smirk widens on his lips. he tilts his head and slowly drags his eyes over your entire body. your heart skips a beat, even if you don’t want to admit it, and you shift.

“and so, the prodigal daughter returns…” he drawls lowly.

you nod. “yeah. my semester abroad’s finished so i figured i could use some time home before the next semester begins.”

“lookin’ good. haven’t seen you in a while,” anakin comments as he ranks his eyes up back to your face, pausing before he says, “sis.”

jesus christ. you exhale. bad idea. this was a bad idea. a really bad fucking idea. you should have never come back. the last time the two of you had slept together, you had told him it would never happen again, and you had run off to university, although ‘running away’ would be a more accurate description. you had thought about him, of course. but there had been miles and an ocean between the two of you, so it wasn’t like you could’ve acted on it anyway. plus, you had thought the time away would clear your mind and his—bring you both back to normal. because if anyone ever found out… both your reputations would be ruined. hell, the whole family’s reputation would be ruined, and your lives destroyed.

“dad wants you to come down. we’re about to eat,” you say stiffly, on high alert all of sudden as you turn around. you grab the door and are about to slam it shut when you feel a hand on yours—warm, bigger, and you know exactly whose it is.

“leaving so soon?” anakin murmurs into your ear teasingly, and you can feel him standing behind your back. you can feel his breath, hot and dizzying, on your neck and his fingers playing with your hair as his hand squeezes yours once. “what about properly saying hi?”

you slightly turn your head without looking at him. you keep your eyes down because you’re afraid what you’re going to do if you look into his. “hi.”

“whaaat, no kiss?” anakin mocks quietly, words almost indiscernible if his mouth hadn’t been centimetres away from your ear. “show your brother some love, won’t you, baby?”

“anakin,” you breathe.

he snickers behind you. “that’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

you shake your head. “we can’t. not… here.”

not now, not ever is what you should have said. and you notice your mistake almost the same second anakin does because you’re looking up at him in shock now—and you have to bend your neck a little higher than usual… has he grown taller or is it just you?—mouth already open to correct your mistake when his eyes lighten up in excitement, or frenzy, you can’t tell, and he gets that look in his eyes that always gets you into trouble.

“yes, here,” he ordains casually and pulls you back into his room. and then his mouth is on yours, too familiar and wet and hot and dominant, tongue shoved down your throat as you mewl and your hands immediately find their ways into his hair, an instinct almost ingrained into you. there’s a string of spit connecting your mouths when you push him away and drag your hand across your lips.

you hold up an accusing finger. “no—i’m going to dinner. now.”

anakin throws you an amused look as he follows you out of his room, dragging the headset off his curls when he does.

“if i behave, will i get another kiss?”