Your throat is raw from all the times you've begged him to stop, but how could he when your ruined and swollen cunt is still clenching around his cock after he's spilled inside you without rest?

All of this is nothing but your fault, because your sensitive body keeps begging for it, silently pleading him with your little cries not to stop, to keep going, to bury your face in the pillows, to force your ass up with a bruising grip so he can thrust deeper again until you choke.

You force him to continue without even agreeing.

“Hah — look at what you make me do” he spits, voice husky, the tone dripping sheer anger, punctuated by a sharp thrust that pushes you forward and steals a sob you stifle into the soft sheets. “You're so fucking wet, I can still feel you gushing around it, but yeah, you don't want it, hm?” a low moan leaves his lips after his crude words, and his hand is pushing the back of your head even harder as his hips resume their punishing rhythm.

The obscene sound of skin colliding with skin makes tears well up, and he revels in the sight of your prickly skin, glistening with sweat, quietly worshipping the work he's done on you with his eyes full of need as he licks his lips and pulls his soaked cock completely out of your raw pussy only to plunge back in with a wet, sticky sound, feeding in the way you tense up immediately, trying to close your thighs beneath him because of the overwhelming sensation in your vulnerable flesh.

“Keep them open” his command is just a distant sound your brain can't quite process anymore. You've finished so many times, begged so many times that you've reached the point where you feel you're no longer in control of your own body.

Submerged until drowning in a sea of pain that was once sweet pleasure when you both started, now you're stuck in numbness. Your fingers no longer grip the sheets, and your eyes are no longer open as there's a pool of saliva beneath your cheek pressed against the pillow.

Now your plump lips only release broken little whines when he hits that place inside you that makes you see stars despite everything and your puffy cunt keeps throbbing for his weeping cock, and unfortunately, that's not the only thing that compels him to keep fucking you.

All of you is enough to drive him crazy and make him forget that you mentioned you were exhausted and you wanted him to stop.

made with homelander in mind obvi, even if I'm a sub homelander lover ik this will hit a nerve.

Weakness was such an unnatural thing on him that even the slightest signs of illness were immediately apparent for your eyes, and the onset of the illness was as surprising to him as it was to you.

It began one morning that left him stunned.

While doing his routine in the living room, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over him as he stood up from the floor after a few push-ups. His vision blurred for a few seconds, a sharp pain shot through his skin, and as suddenly as it had come, it was gone, leaving him paralyzed in the middle of the apartment, trying to figure out what had afflicted him that morning. Initially, he thought it was just another harmless headache like any other, or perhaps caused by the chronic back pain he suffered daily.

Whatever it was, he didn't bother taking medication because, in his opinion, it was temporary and insignificant, just another small issue his body would eventually overcome. He ignored the warning signs before it could appear again, molding the symptoms into some harmless thing, and he never told you.

Every pain and strange sensation, every moment when he felt that something was fundamentally wrong inside, he repressed behind the same composure he always maintained so that the changes were so subtle that they became part of his routine, and yet, you knew something wasn't right but you didn't say anything, you wanted him to accept it first.

A slight dizziness upon standing up too quickly, along with long pauses in front of his food without touching it, and a weariness that tormented him no matter how much he slept, caused his patience to begin to run out in unpredictable outbursts; irritation would appear fleetingly on his face before disappearing just as quickly.

Irritation mingled with sudden bursts of euphoric energy, during which he spoke faster, moved faster, and smiled more than usual, in a way that didn't reach his eyes. These moments never lasted because they always morphed back into a corrosive anxiety that vibrated painfully beneath his skin at all times. Even so, he silently insisted that nothing was wrong, and since he was still functioning, speaking normally, and navigating life with control, you preferred not to talk about the increased effort it took simply to stay on his feet.

Very soon, nausea appeared and worsened rapidly to the point that even drinking water triggered an unavoidable need to vomit. His stomach would twist violently as soon as the water went down his throat, so every attempt to hydrate ended in such an intense urge to throw up that he would tremble and sweat, sometimes hunched on his knees in the bathroom, silently enduring the disgust as if it could disappear.

Dehydration set in due to the lack of fluids, drying him out from the inside out and you began to give him water constantly despite how repulsive it seemed to him, reminding him to drink, watching him closely until he finished each glass, then you stayed nearby afterward to make sure he didn't vomit, and Dex would reluctantly comply, more to put your mind at ease than for his own well-being, but no matter how much he drank, his body seemed unable to retain anything. Therefore, you ended up staying with him in the bathroom, stroking his back from top to bottom, steady fingers digging into the raised scar that runs down his spine, soothing him as he expelled what little he had in his stomach, shivering at the grotesque sensation of being watched during such shameful times.

The color drained from his face until it acquired a sickly pallor so characteristic of anyone on the verge of death. Dex looked as if he had spent weeks trapped in winter without sunlight or contact with the outside world, and at the same time, he radiated a suffocating heat. His skin burned to the touch, his fever spiked, and sweat soaked his sheets at night despite the chills that tormented him with such force that he clenched and ground his teeth. To add to his agony, nightmares and voices joined the torture, and he suffered from a stinging frustration because how could a parasite that devoured his body also affect his mind, which was already shattered before this?

The dark circles under his eyes deepened, as dark as painful bruises, heavy and purple against his pale skin, somehow worsened by the fact that he now slept endlessly. He would spend entire afternoons unconscious in bed, his body desperately trying to recover from something it couldn't fully fight, and sleeping more didn't help; on the contrary, it only weakened him. He would wake up exhausted, no matter how much he rested; his limbs were heavy most of the time, that persistent pain in his back and wrists spreading to every limb until it slowed movements that were once quick, even flexing or cracking his wrists and fingers didn't help.

His condition also profoundly affected his mind long before he was ready to recognize the damage it was causing his body.

The arguments between you became more frequent, erupting suddenly with such intensity that even the slightest comment about his health could escalate into a confrontation. Questions sounded like mere accusations to him, and he would effortlessly become defensive, consumed by exhaustion that left him with an unstable temperament, so fragile that he crumbled under the slightest pressure from your words.

Every time you suggested going to the hospital, he reacted dangerously, because doctors were not an option, and no matter how much you insisted, the subtle mention of one triggered panic that he concealed beneath thick layers of rage.

When Dex was scared his defense was translated into violence, his entire body tensed at the mere thought of it; sometimes he would shout before you could even finish speaking in your feeble attempts to reason with him, his voice hoarse and unsteady, despair overflowing with anger, and in those moments, harmless objects became lethal weapons such a kitchen utensils, coins, glasses… Anything he found became a weapon he hurled blindly in his exasperation, not always at you, but never far enough away for you to feel safe.

One night, the living room television shattered when something sharp struck the screen, and the noise echoed throughout the apartment. Little by little, parts of the home you shared were damaged by him: the walls were dented, knife marks were found in the drawers, and the ceiling had several cracks.

But in some ways, the silence was worse, since beneath the anger, the humiliation burned him like salt on a fresh, raw and gaping wound; the unbearable mortification suffocated him mercilessly, poisoning every thought he had about himself and eroding the confidence on him. He could feel the changes taking place, no matter how much he denied them aloud, and his body no longer obeyed him as it once had. His strength was slowly leaving him, silently stripping him of what he had built his identity on for years, and now his hands trembled constantly.

Everything around him was as wrecked as he was.

The illness had reduced him to something slow and fragile, something he barely recognized when he stared at himself in the mirror for too long.

By then, your life had begun to revolve around him, and while he faced the parasite with anger and denial, you faced it with vigilance, each day becoming a meticulous observation of his condition.

You waited anxiously for the moment things would take another turn for the worse, for his body to suddenly collapse overnight beyond recovery. But there came a point where the situation remained dire because the symptoms stopped worsening, suspended in a cruel state of stagnation as Dex remained vulnerable and in pain. Constantly frustrated by his body's limitations, his pale, weak fingers pushed at you as he mumbled protests forced by nausea, his voice hoarse with shame, but you ignored him time and again, and his complaints subsided for a while, though shame never left his face when you cared for him like that.

Dex desperately longed for your help, yet the thought of you seeing him like this filled him with pure disgust, as he still couldn't bear the humiliation.

That's why he kept giving you every reason to abandon him until he realized you would never leave him, and thin tears streamed down his face as small sobs tore at his chest. Dex argued between hiccups, his voice breaking, begging you to let him die instead of forcing yourself to endure this version of him. His legs were too weak to support him; they gave way beneath him until he collapsed, panting at your feet, trembling with exhaustion because once again, you had stopped him from hurting himself.

His hands clutched desperately at the fabric of your pants, his fingers gripping them with what little strength he had left, with nothing else to hold onto. His face was buried in your thigh, hidden there, calming his breathing as emotions tore him apart, feeling so many things at once that his damaged body couldn't fight.

It hurt to see him like this, reduced to collapsing at your feet, crying out for a relief, begging for the pain to finally stop. Between ragged breaths and feverish tremors, he pleaded with you to let him die if this was all he had left to live.

His body shuddered as you knelt in front of him, wrapping your arms around him despite everything, and he immediately tensed, confused, effortlessly backing away, unable to comprehend how you could still touch him so delicately, silently wondering how you weren't repulsed by what he had become and even when he tried to pull away, his body betrayed him, melting completely into your embrace without the strength to resist.

He burned against you, each breath ragged against the skin of your neck, making your heart shatter as you tried to soothe him. You felt his entire aching body in your arms, discomfort gripping at him and unable to fight any longer, finally allowing himself to collapse into the consolation he had denied himself for so long.

Those episodes were always the worst, and you refused to miss them, which eventually led to your own life becoming less important to you. Everything that happened outside the apartment began to feel irrelevant.

You stopped going to university in person, constantly repeating that it was only until things got easier again, which was a lie. You emailed your professors with carefully crafted excuses about a sick relative who needed round-the-clock supervision, apologizing for your absences so sincerely that most stopped asking questions. They allowed you to complete assignments online, granting you necessary extensions, and your entire education existed only through the glow of your laptop screen at three in the morning while Dex slept fitfully a few feet away.

Regarding your job, arriving late and obsessively checking your phone the entire time you were there because you couldn't stop imagining him alone in the apartment with no one to help him recover ended up being the reason you quit. You didn't mind because it could be replaced; money could be figured out later.

For now, Dex needed someone willing to witness the most painful aspects of his suffering without looking away and as the sickness stopped feeling like something temporary, it became the structure of your lives.

By the time the storm hit Sunday night, Dex had spent most of the day asleep in his room out of your surveillance, while you sat at the table, your attention divided between the essay that was giving you gray hairs and worrying about Dex's sleep.

You hadn't checked on him in over an hour, trying to force yourself to focus on something else for once instead of hovering around him constantly like an anxious shadow. Even then, part of your attention remained fixed on him anyway, subconsciously listening for movement from the bedroom, for footsteps, coughing, the creak of the mattress, any sign that he was awake.

Soon, you rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand, staring blankly at the document while thunder rolled somewhere far outside.

Another missed call from Mr. Charles lit up the screen of Dex's cell phone which lay discarded on the table, and the name disappeared after a few seconds before the screen dimmed once more, only for another notification to appear instantly beneath the missed calls already stacked there. Your gaze lingered on them longer this time, brows pulling together slightly as unease stirred in your chest; you genuinely lost count of how many times he'd called throughout the day.

The persistence was excessive, too desperate, those repeated interruptions did nothing for your concentration.

So you exhaled quietly and looked back at your laptop instead, forcing your fingers to continue moving across the keyboard despite the growing headache pressing behind your eyes. The tapping of the keys blended with the storm outside while the phone remained untouched beside you, vibrating intermittently against the wooden table.

Minutes slipped by unnoticed as you remained hunched over the Word document, several tabs scattered across the top of the screen, all filled with articles and long academic terms you could weave into your arguments. Different perspectives clashed inside your head as you rewrote the same paragraph for what felt like the tenth time, too absorbed to notice the quiet sound of Dex’s bedroom door opening.

You only realized he was awake when he crossed your peripheral vision, slowly making his way toward the bathroom without a word.

Your eyes immediately lifted from the screen, softening the moment you saw him. “Hey.”

“Hmm,” he hummed in response, voice rough with sleep as he disappeared into the bathroom to rinse his mouth.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” he answered dryly, the sarcasm obvious as he finally glanced at you through the doorway. He looked as dead as always. Pale skin, heavy dark circles, hair slightly disheveled from sleep. “Haven’t finished?” he asked, nodding toward your laptop.

“Not even close,” you smiled faintly.

Your gaze traveled over him automatically, checking for anything worse than yesterday, your eyes fixed on his semi-naked figure briefly, he had opted for less clothing because he started saying that the fabric felt like blades on his sensitive skin, only covered by a pair of black shorts for reasons of modesty.

“Mr. Charles called again. Do you want me to text him back?” You raised an eyebrow.

Dex took his time answering as he stepped out of the bathroom slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before lazily dismissing the idea with a small wave. “No. Let it ring.”

The casual response pulled a faint smile from you.

“Aren’t you going to drink water?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

He shook his head immediately, already beginning to wander back toward his room.

You tried again. “Do you want something to eat?”

Another silent shake of his head as he kept pacing away until you finally used your last option.

“Banana milkshake?”

Bingo.

That made him stop mid-step.

He turned around just enough to look at you properly, a small smile pulling at his lips, genuine enough to fill you with quiet relief. At least he still wanted that.

“Don’t put whipped on it, please,” he murmured, voice hoarse and scratchy from dehydration.

You nodded, watching as he finally disappeared back into his room.

After a few more minutes, you got up from your chair, your back aching from sitting so long, and went to the kitchen to prepare one of the few things his body could still tolerate without complaint.

You followed the steps as always, frozen bananas, milk, vanilla extract. Your movements were so automatic and practiced that you performed them without thinking as your mind was elsewhere. Then, from the deepest corner of one of the kitchen drawers—hidden under old utensils and things neither of you used—you took out the small collection of pill bottles.

Your hand paused for a moment over them, and you silently looked at the labels as you silently placed them next to the blender on the counter. Your thoughts focused on numbers, dosages, measurements, how much he needed today, whether the pills should be crushed more this time so he wouldn't notice the texture, whether the dose you gave him last week was correct and hadn't affected him so much.

The same sick routine you've been perfecting over time.

When you finished the sweet milkshake, the kitchen fell silent again except for the faint buzzing in your ears. You poured the drink into the usual glass before heading to his room, and as you reached the door, you paused for a few seconds, exhaling softly as you lightly squeezed your fingers around the cold glass.

A small smile spread across your face as you pushed the bedroom door open and Dex was sprawled across the bed, eyes closed, headphones resting over his ears while both hands lay folded over his chest, and beneath them sat the portable CD player. For a moment, he looked strangely peaceful despite what was carved into him.

You cleared your throat softly as you approached and his eyes opened. “White noise?” you asked, handing him the milkshake while sliding onto the left side of the bed beside him.

Dex took the glass carefully, though instead of drinking it, he simply placed it on the nightstand before removing his headphones and pausing the CD player. He nodded once at your question.

You smiled faintly, trying to think of something light enough to fill the quiet. “You should listen to La Fée Verte.”

Dex hummed, setting both the headphones and the CD player beside the milkshake. “Sounds depressing,” he muttered, shifting slightly to make room for you as you curled closer against him, your cheek resting over his chest while you settled into a comfortable position.

“Isn’t that the point?” you whispered back.

You felt the subtle vibration of a quiet laugh beneath your cheek, and it pulled a small grin from you. For a little while, everything felt normal, like before.

And he still hadn’t touched the milkshake.

Your fingers absentmindedly started to trace slow circles over the bullet wound on his right side, the tissue uneven beneath your touch where it still hadn’t fully healed. Dex gradually relaxed under the gentle touch of your warm finger, tension leaving him inch by inch.

“How are you feeling?” you asked quietly, never stopping the soft patterns against his skin.

Dex sighed. “Same as always,” he mumbled as his eyes fixed on his right hand, thumb pressed methodically against the base of his index finger before moving to the others, cracking them one by one. “But I’ll feel better if I don’t drink the milkshake, so don't worry.”

Those words made your expression waver instantly; the composure you had maintained for so long crumbled in a fraction of a second.

Even with his mind clouded by the thick fog that enveloped him, he watched you too closely, noticing what you were doing, and for the first time in a long time, an intense chill ran down your spine as realization settled in your chest.

The horrible knowledge that this reckless and desperate attempt to keep him by your side would never last forever, because Dex knew you knew both your guilt and your devotion, and that had become the problem, because he understood other people's cruelty, having spent most of his life surviving it.

The only difference was that you had allowed him to discover the nature of your love first, you had let him penetrate so deeply beneath your skin that he could now recognize when your love was corrupted.

Losing Dex no longer seemed bearable, and caring for him became intoxicating.

That's why you did what you had to do.

You only snuggled closer instead, refusing to let the silence widen between you and your lips pressed softly against his pec while your finger rested over the tender skin of the wound, applying the slightest pressure against the flesh there.

Dex waited for a response that never came, so he spoke again.

“You call me crazy all the time,” he murmured, voice husky. “You insult me, then drug me to isolate me, jus’ to keep me around…” A weak chuckle escaped him at the irony of it all, though it quickly dissolved into coughing, harsh enough to make his body tense beneath yours as the symptoms began creeping back in again. “And I’m the one who needs help.”

You stared ahead silently, expression unreadable. “I couldn’t take any chances,” you whispered.

Your arm slid possessively around his torso until you were wrapped around him entirely, holding him close as though someone might rip him away the second you loosened your grip. “He wanted to take you,” you grumbled softly against his burning skin. “Turn you into a weapon for pay.”

Your fingers stroked slowly across his side, soothing, “aren’t you tired of being used by people like that?” you asked tenderly. “I thought you were done with them deciding what you’re worth only when you’re useful.”

He stayed silent for a moment as the fever burning through him made his breathing uneven again, shallow breaths brushing against the top of your head while his body remained weak beneath your embrace.

“Hmm... Told you how they used me and all you learned from it was a tutorial,” he muttered amusedly, the words slurring slightly together and his thoughts already felt heavy, as if they were sinking beneath thick water no matter how hard he tried to stay focused and the numbness creeping through his body was familiar now.

Still, some part of him needed to hear you admit it.

“When did you…” He swallowed weakly, turning his head turning toward the nightstand and his half-lidded eyes are struggling to focus on the abandoned milkshake glass sitting there untouched. “Drug me again?”

His blurry gaze remained fixed on the glass as if the answer might somehow reveal itself there, while his body slowly relaxed further beneath yours against his will. Every movement seemed harder than the last, even keeping his eyes open was becoming exhausting.

You stayed curled around him in silence, listening to the gradual change in his breathing as the sedation pulled him under piece by piece, his fingers twitched faintly against the sheets before going still. The tension in his body dissolved until he became completely pliant beneath your embrace, weakened enough to stop fighting it entirely.

Docile and safe.

Only once his breathing finally evened out into unconsciousness did you lift your head slightly to look at him properly, your fingers brushing damp strands of hair away from his feverish forehead.

“Never sleep with the door unlocked, Dex.”

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 17 / 05 / 26

series ·‎ tag-list

Today's episode is going from bad to worse.

The characters' dialogue makes no sense, nothing in the scenes has anything to do with the main plot, they're giving way too much screen time to irrelevant characters who were added to please the fans instead of focusing on what really matters, and you think, as you sink deeper into the depths of this entertainment, that the industry is over and not even a miracle could save it.

It's painful to agree with that idea that came from your own head, and to relieve that pain you sigh deeply and don't take your eyes off the television screen, muttering insults under your breath for the character who continues to shamelessly steal the spotlight.

“They were doing crack in that writer's room,” you breathe to yourself, your voice a little muffled as your cheek is pressed against the plushy surface of the couch, lazily swinging your leg up and down, letting the rage consume you without fighting back because even though this season is terrible, watching it is necessary.

“Masochist,” you hear in the distance, and you raise an eyebrow as you feel a tap on your heels. You adjust yourself, turning sideways until your back is against the couch's backrest.

Dex is standing at your feet when your eyes catch on him, then your gaze lands on his hand, which is holding a huge bag of sour gummy worms. He's chewing on one, and you snort, a little bit hurt for the nickname he gave you.

“Look who's talking,” you grumble and he's grinning at your response. You adjust yourself so he can sit down. Now you lie spread, on your back with one leg resting on the backrest and your foot just over his shoulder, while the other is pressed into the floor.

Luckily, the couch is big enough for this.

Dex is also lost in the show, silently eating his gummies except for the occasional crunch of the bag as a few minutes pass with both of you staring at the screen TV, while he tosses you gummy worms that land directly in your mouth for you to eat too. You happily savor the flavors, enjoying until you just don't want anymore, and just as he's about to throw another one, you gesture for him to stop.

Dex complies, shrugging his shoulders in a motion that says "More for me," and momentarily the episode ends and the credits begin to roll.

What a waste of time, you think, the silence filling the room except for the sound of Dex's bag and your gaze flickers to his hands; he's currently rolling the bag, lowering his hands so his fingers are pressing into the bottom corners so that it ends up shaped like a bowl.

Now you realize how many worm-shaped sour gummies are in that package.

The blond man starts humming, plotting something inside his mind while his eyes are fixed on the colorful treats.

“Remember what you did on April 28th at 5 p.m.?” he begins with a purr, and you raise an eyebrow in confusion at the specifics.

You consider his question, trying to figure out what he's getting at. “Not really,” you reply. “Should I remember?” you add, looking at him expectantly, and he turns his face to meet yours for the first time and you can't decipher what you see in his eyes.

“Should you?”

He simply can't answer your question with another question, but you can't complain about the absurdity because he is moving. His hand gently closes around your ankle and places it in his lap. You swallow, unable to understand why he's still looking at you like that.

Balancing the bag of gummy worms in his hand, he begins to crawl on top of you, making you gasp in surprise as his weight settles comfortably in your lap, his thighs resting on either side of you in a prison and the sinister aspect of the situation isn't the position he's putting you in, but the fact that he looks like an overgrown feline in attack mode.

Damned be your imagination because thanks to it you have a vague idea of where this is going, but you still can't quite grasp the role of the gummy worms in this peculiar scenario. He continues to look at you with such an intense gaze while there's also a morbid smile etched on his thin lips that takes your breath away and makes your heart race, and you exhale loudly, feeling the need to look away as you're gathering courage to say what's in response to the way he's staring at you.

You're so ready to make a brief drama that both of you will not care about tomorrow.

“Look,” you begin, placing your hands on his thighs. “You're hot, you're a cool guy,” you say affectionately, tracing patterns on his left thigh with your index as you continue, very full of yourself to make it easier. “But this is never gonna work, dude. You're cute—in your own way—really, and these—” you add, patting his beefy thighs fondly while you let out a nervously giggle, “are huge,” you huff, putting an end to your words.

He stares at you, smiling the whole time while you... reject him? Of all the people you've imagined being rejected, you never thought Dex could take it so calmly. Maybe he misinterpreted it, and you need to refine the way you express yourself.

“But it still won't work because I deserve better, no offense,” another pat on his clothed thigh. “You’ll find someone worse than me who will be able to handle your love,” you add with authentic kindness, entirely proud of yourself, but Dex shakes his head.

And starts whistling.

If you were confused before and distorted the situation, well, now it’s much worse. His hand goes to the bag of gummies, grabbing a handful and looking back at you.

“Say ahhh,” he says playfully with a tone that is very close to mocking and you frown at the unfamiliar response.

“What?”

“April 28th, five in the afternoon,” he repeats, lowering his hand with the handful of colorful worms, and you open your mouth anyway, letting him put the delicious little things in your mouth as you start chewing, choking slightly on the citric taste.

His hand returns to the bag while you're still chewing, your mouth a little dry from the amount. You chew with difficulty, bringing your hand to your mouth to try and get some out, but Dex squeezes you with his thighs, stealing a puff of breath from you, and you start to panic when you finally manage to swallow.

“Dex—”

“April 28th, at five in the afternoon,” he says once more, in a dangerous whisper, and you don't really like this anymore.

“Water—I'm thirsty, move,” you start and tragically, Dex doesn't answer, instead, he's grabbing another handful of gummies, chuckling to himself softly.

“Five in the afternoon, April 28th,” Dex repeats and now you shift beneath him, your hands moving uselessly without getting anywhere, then finally they clench his fist dusted with sugar mixed with sour powder, trying to get it away from your face as he brings the bruised gummies to your mouth again.

“What the fuck are you talking about? move,” you command, already annoyed as he's roughly bringing his fist to your mouth and you close your eyes, your lips tight so he can’t put the worms in, and he makes a noise that doesn't sound good at all.

Seconds of struggle pass by and Dex makes that low, irritated sound again when you keep your mouth shut, your lips pressed together while he pushes his sugar-coated knuckles insistently against them. “At five in the afternoon, do you remember?,” he mutters.

You try turning your head away. “I literally don’t know what you’re—you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes. You. Do.” Every word is punctuated by another shove of gummy worms against your mouth until sour powder is smearing across your cheeks and your patience finally snaps.

“Dex!”

“Hmm?”

“Stop assaulting me with fucking candy!”

“Then acknowledge what you did.”

“What did I do?!”

Dex stares at you for a long moment like he genuinely cannot comprehend the question, and his pupils look huge, so offended. Then he abruptly moves to sit on your waist stealing your breath and he points toward the kitchen with terrifying seriousness and then suddenly his hand is on your face again, fingers digging into your cheeks hard enough to force your mouth open a little before he shoves another gummy worm between your lips.

You choke immediately. “Dex—”

“Chew.” His thumb presses against your tongue for half a second to make sure you can’t spit it out and your eyes widen instantly, a muffled noise escaping you while he watches with horrifying focus until your jaw finally moves. “There,” he mutters. “Maybe repetition will help your memory.” he mumbles, taking his finger out of your mouth, and you grumble for losing the opportunity to bite him.

“Fucking sicko—” another gummy worm gets forced into your mouth before you can finish, “mmfh—”

“April twenty-eighth. Five in the afternoon.”

You shove at his sides hard this time with your hands. “Stop saying that date like someone died!” you spit between muffled breaths, feeling nauseous at the flavors inside your mouth.

“To me, something did.”

“Oh my god.”

Dex ignores you completely, grabbing another fistful from the open bag. “You came home early,” he says, voice low and sharp with recollection. “You were wearing those ugly pants.”

“What—”

“You opened the cabinet.”

“I don’t remember this!”

“You stood there for four minutes deciding what to take.”

Your face twists. “How the hell would you know that?”

“...And you ate my gummies.”

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 11 / 05 / 26

series ·‎ tag-list

Your hands are already numb from the frozen banana you're holding while peeling it with the other hand, but you dismiss it because it'll be totally worth it after you drink your milkshake on a warm, peaceful morning.

You put the third banana in the blender, opening and closing your fist for mobility, then grab another, twitching your mouth because this one seems even more frozen than the last.

Then you hear a door open behind you and the footsteps get closer until you can hear Dex's soft humming as he enters the kitchen. You finish adding the fourth banana to the blender, discarding the cold peels in the trash bag.

As you continue with the procedure, you start talking without turning to look at him.

“Nothing yet?” You grab the milk carton, unscrewing the cap to pour less than half of it into the container.

Dex stops humming, his eyes fixed on you as he leans his lower back against the counter, crossing his arms, “he told me he’d give me some names and addresses in five days.”

While you listen attentively, you add two capfuls of vanilla extract to the blender, fumbling for the lid to place it on and pressing the start button; the loud whir of the blades cutting and mixing all the ingredients fills the apartment, and Dex continues talking, louder this time so you can hear despite the blender. “We'll be gone for a couple of months.”

His words leave you visibly perplexed because he keeps insisting on that topic.

“We?” you scoff, “I told you that's a hard decision to make, Dex.” as you remark that, your hands are tapping the few ingredients at the counter so you don't have to face him yet, self-soothing yourself.

He looks down, not even taking time to process what you said. “Doesn't have to be.”

That response makes you roll your eyes, and you wonder internally why he's still going on about it if he doesn't trust that Mr. Charles guy either, but you don't want to keep talking about it, so you let it go and then sigh.

Imagination begins to play its part and without much effort you picture him far away, on the other side of the world doing one of the things he is best at, finding the structure he so desires and it leaves a bad taste in your mouth but you don't let any of that change your mood. “A job is a job, after all,” you murmur, knowing he didn't hear you because the loud noise of the blender drowns out your voice, and finally you turn to look at him, Dex gives you a brief half-smile before your gaze returns to the blender.

It's obvious you want to change the subject because you don't want to dwell on what Dex and that guy have been talking about these past few days. Besides, he's not telling you much either; he's just trying to convince you, or rather, "mention"—on his own way— that if something comes up, you'll go with him, which isn't convincing you at all.

He says it will only be a couple of weeks, but you're sure it's something long-term, even permanent, and you've subtly suggested to him in quiet moments that maybe he should leave it all behind and go with Mr. Charles if he's focused on what he really wants to do in the future, but the dilemma in all this is that your suggestion or simple comment of "leaving it all behind" includes you.

Which is something he doesn't want to do.

You make a thoughtful face and then end up relaxing your shoulders, sighing, nothing will ruin this beautiful and sweet moment.

“I forgot to take these out. They’ve been freezing for a week,” you start again, looking at the bag of banana peels and the blender cycle stops, you remove the lid to assess the results.

As expected, the mixture looks smooth and inviting.

Dex frowns slightly at your words. “Thought you left them there to eat them frozen.”

You snort at that, grabbing the blender jar and raising an eyebrow at him. “You thought I sat here crunching frozen bananas like an animal?”

The blond puffs a brief laugh, smiling at you. “Now you’re putting words in my mouth,” he says, amused, and moves away from his place to the cabinets to get a glass for you. “You didn't put ice cream on it” he adds.

“Frozen fruit can definitely replace the ice cream's role in the drink,” you retort, expert in your own words. You didn't add ice cream because a certain someone ate it way too quickly, and that's a conversation for later.

“Pass me two,” you add in a rush, and he turns briefly and complies, bringing you two glasses to place on the counter and watching as you pour the milkshake into both, each with the exact same amount.

You hand him the empty blender to put in the sink, then he returns to his place and you're the first to raise a glass. Your eyes meet his, and you find him already looking at you, taking his glass too and making a small toast. You bring your glass to your lips; he's mirroring your every move, but you haven't started drinking yet because you want to see his reaction first, and Dex doesn't take his eyes off you as he drinks, humming when the first sip stops going down his throat.

Then he doesn't stop, drinking without pause, your eyes fixed on his throat flexing as Dex enjoys the texture, the flavor, and the temperature.

Sweet enough to make him smile with the glass in his mouth, smooth and delicious, the flavor of the bananas making his head feel fuzzy, the coldness on his tongue feeling perfect and there's a pleasant sensation raising inside his stomach, unfortunately for him, his glass is almost empty, and that's when you start drinking yours, not even surprised by the great taste.

There's a milkshake mustache on Dex's mouth as he tries to lick it quite happily.

“Shit…” he mutters after, placing a finger on the rim of the glass and bringing it to his lips to suck on it a little, releasing it with a loud and wet pop. “This is good,” he continues, very delighted with the drink. “Best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Please, I know,” you shrug, smugly and Dex laughs.

“Open a restaurant,” he jokes after, taking your glass from your hands when you finish and bringing it to his mouth, slurping the dregs at the bottom of your glass, making you grin. He makes a sound with his mouth followed by a few words: “I’ll clean.”

“Really?”

“Mhm,” he passes your glass to the hand holding his own, extending his free hand to pinch your cheek roughly between the back of his index and middle fingers in an affectionate gesture. “The best.”

How sweet.

His obsession began after that day, and he never asked you for the milkshakes directly. He would just arrive at the apartment with bags of very ripe bananas since those are sweeter, and it was a funny sight.

Dex was completely wrapped in his Bullseye costume, mask on too, menacing and imposing, with a bag of bananas in his hand, silently putting them in the freezer so that you would find them later and work your magic.

Sometimes he tried to make them himself when you weren't there, but they never tasted the same, even though he followed your exact steps. He did this for days until he gave up and preferred to wait by your side while you made milkshakes for both of you. He would stay quiet and calm, watching you intently as you took care of the process. He started helping you peel the frozen bananas always, not wasting a single bit of fruit and finishing quickly thanks to his skillful knife work.

Other times, he would go to restaurants to order the same thing and compare them. Of course, none of them were as good as yours. Some had too much sugar, others too much milk, some weren't as smooth, some were too thick, and some didn't even have the banana completely blended.

They weren't even close to your level.

As expected, the moment came when you stopped making milkshakes, and he wasn't happy about it. So he started sending you signals, buying whipped cream and cherries and leaving them on the counter. However, it didn't work successfully because you thought he was making the milkshakes himself, and he couldn't assure you of anything since you were getting home late, busy with work and college, busy enough to not see what he wanted.

So he opted for other methods, and that's when he started doing things for you that he hadn't done before.

You mentioned to yourself that you were missing something? Dex would buy it and hand it to you without even explaining how he knew you needed it.

An essay you didn't have time to finish because you fell asleep after a long shift? Dex would take your laptop and finish it after delving into extensive research on the assignment.

You had to be in two places at once any day of the week, but one was more important than the other? Dex would go in your place so you would focus on the other that matters the most. Like that time you had to take something important to a friend's house, and he immediately offered, getting you out of a bind while you had to attend to another priority.

It was your turn to clean the bathroom, but you didn't do it for some reason? You'd find Dex in the bathroom, leaving it spotless.

The weekend would arrive, and you'd start studying for your exams instead of tidying your room? Dex would meticulously clean your room and then assess you to make sure you were actually studying for the exam.

Besides his constant help, he started getting more affectionate, especially when he saw you approaching the kitchen.

He'd walk behind you and hug you from behind like a huge koala with issues, which you found strange because when he did that kind of thing, it was usually due to his mood swings and his need for closeness.

“What are you doing?” he murtters with a low tone, his chest pressed against your back, your personal space now nonexistent. Which irritates you a lot.

“What do you think?” you grumble, rubbing a pan with the soapy sponge, and you hear him chuckle behind you.

“Want me to take care of it?” he asks, finally pulling away, and you raise an eyebrow, assessing the value of his offer.

However, you were still kind of angry with him for no reason at all, so you had to be mean to him because it was mandatory in your dynamic and he was too obsessive about his need for sugar.

“Fatass,” you blurted out suddenly, your eyes glued to the dishes, knowing full well he just wanted another milkshake.

But at the end, you sighed. “Get the milk,” you said, and you could feel the joy radiating from him.

You were one hundred percent sure that the sugar replacing his blood was making him happier, becoming his dopamine rush, because all he could think about was getting home and drowning himself in glasses of that treat after committing atrocities around the city in chaos.

He'd arrive home, see you enjoying your time with the tv, and he'd lean forward on the sofa, looking at you expressionlessly, but his eyes screamed sugar in caps. All you could do was sigh, getting up from the sofa so he'd leave you breathe.

After finishing his milkshake, he'd clean everything, leaving it spotless with a soft smile on those sharp lips.

Sometimes you liked to tease him, patting him on the back while he cleaned, murmuring what a nice boy he was. He wouldn't respond, continuing with his chores obediently, daydreaming about himself at the supermarket buying more whipped cream and thinking about how many bananas you'd need to fill at least six or eight glasses.

Enchanted by the flavor; he continued doing things for you and receiving that creamy reward in return, and it was like this for five months... Until the seventh month arrived and the apartment greeted you in silence.

For a few seconds you stood there for a moment on the threshold with the keys still in your hand, then you let the door close behind you.

The plastic bag you were carrying rustled softly as you crossed the kitchen. You set it on the counter and took out the pack of straws and the bottle of vanilla extract.

When you went to the refrigerator the groan of the door opening was the only sound in your ears. You took out two frozen bananas that were rock solid, setting them aside before reaching for the blender jar, which hadn't been used in so long.

Peeling the bananas took longer than usual; the frozen fruit stuck to your fingertips, numbing them slightly. Then you dropped the chunks into the blender jar one by one, listening to the dull thuds they made. Milk followed, then vanilla extract, and you followed the familiar sequence unfolding effortlessly, the blender roared to life, violently loud in the stillness.

A few minutes later, the drink was finished.

You poured the milkshake into a tall glass, watching the pale, creamy swirl slowly rise to the rim. Then you added the whipped cream, expertly swirling it into a smooth peak, followed by the bright red cherry placed right in the creamy white center as the penultimate step.

Then you took one of the straws from the package and tore the paper wrapper right in the middle. You removed the top part first, then slid the bottom part down, crumpling it to discard it on the counter.

Finally, you inserted the straw into the drink and adjusted it slightly so it was in the right position, and condensation began to form near the bottom as the cherry sank gently into the cream.

Everything was done to his liking, and for a few seconds, you stood there, admiring it, a warm feeling almost blossoming in your chest as you watched it, because you couldn't help but think how much better it would taste if he were there with you.

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 08 / 05 / 26

For the record, this series doesn't have an ending nor a beginning.

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He has started crying for the second time tonight, and it is nothing but exhausting for you to have to submit to this self-destructive routine where you play a role that you abandoned so many months ago but that keeps appearing in your hands without your consent and it is thanks to him.

Dex's shoulders tremble under the hand you have resting on them, you let out a sigh that doesn't hide your tiredness and he continues to hiccup, pressing himself closer and you feel suffocated.

You muster the courage to speak, reaching your limit tonight.

“Leave,” you murmur, your eyes fixed on the ceiling, but there’s no reaction from him. He remains in his position, completely ignoring you.

His weight seems to sink fully onto you when you move, trying to push him away. There’s a small, muffled sound from his lips that are pressed against the skin of your neck, and that’s when he finally deigns to speak.

“Just—Just for tonight.”

You manage to hear him and close your eyes, frowning at the annoyance of having to hear those words again.

“Leave.” you reply.

“Please.”

“Put your fucking clothes on and leave.” You spit out in disgust, and he tenses up over you, finally pulling his face away from your wet, bruised neck, showing his face.

He braces both hands on either side of your head against the mattress for support as he stares into your eyes full of pure malice and his are so red and glossy, pupils dilated that the hazel is almost nonexistent now, his eyelashes wet with those poor tears, and a pout forms on his lips, making you feel nauseous, and you mentally brace yourself for another of his pathetic, empty promises.

“I swear— I swear to you it'll only be for tonight this time, and I'll leave tomorrow, in the morning, before you wake up, you won't even—” he hiccups, not even being able to let the words out. “Notice I was here.” he doesn't like how you remain silent, just staring at him with ragging repulsion and he feels sick.

His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes and the lack of change is making him feel anxious. “Say something, please, please tell me it's okay.”

The last part is just so hilarious, and there's a smile full of fake humor forming on your lips.

“Tell you it's okay?” you ask incredulously, smiling at him, and there's a glimmer of hope in those bright eyes until he's hit with the reality that you're mocking him without pity.

“Why would I tell you it's okay for you to stay here after I kick you out because I'm tired of you coming around?” You raise an eyebrow, waiting for an answer he won't give you, and at least he's buying you time to continue.

The situation is making you want to laugh out loud because he looks so embarrassing on top of you, there's an intense, hot sensation building up in your lower abdomen, and you lick your lips to continue, letting out an involuntary laugh.

“You're a fucking headache, Benjamin.” you say between ragged giggles, kind of hysterical, saying that name knowing perfectly well how much it irritates him, and more tears are welling up in his eyes after that. “Doesn't matter how much you cry like a baby, I won't let you stay. At least be happy that I let you in in the first place."

After that, Dex frowns, hurt by your words, by the use of the wrong name, then he swallows the lump in his throat and, still, ignores you again.

“Let me stay.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “No,”

His mouth opens and closes rapidly, his breathing quickens slightly, and his hand flies swiftly to your neck. You grimace, not even surprised, and before he can tighten his grip on your throat, you clench your fist and punch him in the cheek, making him stagger and tremble from head to toe, a small, involuntary whine escaping his lips and now his tears are falling down his flushed cheeks, thick and pathetic, and God, you regret it because now he'll get worse.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says in a small, childlike tone, as if he’s losing his voice, and his arms weaken.

Dex falls on top of you again, burying his face in your neck once more, snuggling closer and sobbing and you roll your eyes, contempt mixed with interest preventing you from shoving your finger deep inside his ear until it hurts him.

He continues apologizing against your neck, hiccuping about leaving right now, telling you that he’ll leave you alone for real this time, that he’ll finally change but that he will not bother you again.

Just other lies of his.

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 05 / 05 / 26

Do not think we take requests I will kill us both, but this submission got us like this

The first puff has a strange taste as the smoke settles on your tongue, a bitter and rancid flavor invading your taste buds and irritating the sensitive flesh as you hold it for a few seconds. Then you exhale, watching the puff dissolve into the air. The dim light from the balcony allows you to see the smoke disappearing, and you feel like laughing at how disappointing it feels after years without smoking.

You were expecting something more cinematic for some reason, since a relapse should be more intense.

Your surroundings are quiet, creating a heavy and comforting sense of fullness in your chest. The city's bustle is distant, the usual sounds of cars dulling the silence, and a beautiful darkness stretches across the sky, dotted with stars worthy of taking the time to admire as you pollute your lungs with tobacco.

You rest your elbows on the cold metal railing, the cigarette between your fingers, gazing at the stars with a half-smile, thinking that this would be so much more perfect if you were seeing it when sleep wasn't killing you.

Thanks to your distracting thoughts and the beauty that unfolds around you, you don't hear Dex's approaching footsteps—he's quiet when he wants to be—and the disappointingly small sliding door opens with a soft click. You don't tear your eyes away from where they're fixed, taking another drag of your cigarette.

He stands beside you, leaning forward with his arms hanging over the railing.

“Can’t sleep?” he begins.

You glance at him, exhaling the smoke away from him so it doesn’t land in his face, silently grateful for the lack of wind.

You lower your hand to ash the cigarette and nod at the same time. “Nope, what about you?” You tilt your face toward him, and he watches the cigarette burn down between your fingers.

“Me neither,” he replies, then moves closer until there’s almost no personal space left, until you feel his body heat radiating from him next to you, and your response is to switch the cigarette to the other hand. “When did you start again?” His eyes are also on the stars, occasionally turning his face to look at you.

You let out a soft laugh at his question.

“You know I started today, Dex,” you look at him amusedly, and he gives you a smile and nods.

“So the correct question would be why did you start again, hm?” he corrects, his eyes now focused entirely on you and you exhale the smoke, looking down and then back at him.

“I don’t know, going back to bad habits, I guess,” you shrug and the truth is, you don’t know exactly why you broke your nicotine-free streak.

Dex hums, wrinkling his nose as he smells the smoke from so close to you.

“Unhealthy,” he grumbles passively, and you’re already rolling your eyes. “It can damage your lungs, and we don’t want that at your young age, do we?” he punctuates the last part with amusement, so annoying.

“There are pictures on the box, I'm aware... And maybe I want that,” you joke, bumping lightly into his side with a crooked grin pulling at your mouth as you play with him.

He huffs at your words, grinning, “you smell bad. Don’t sleep in those clothes,” now he is raising his hand to give you a quick flick on the forehead using his index finger and thumb, making you smile as you drop the filter in the ashtray, watching the ember die out before your hand moves automatically, already reaching for another and Dex’s eyes follow the motion without blinking, locked onto the movements. He can’t quite understand the reason you keep going, either way, he refuses to look away.

The silence settles between you and it's filled only by the faint crackling of the ash and the distant hum of the city below. You shift your weight slightly, shoulders relaxed, breathing in the smoke. Beside you, Dex remains still and relaxed, even with the scent clinging to him now, woven into the fabric of the worn clothes he sleeps in... The simple white tank top and gray sweatpants.

The minutes pass like this, smoking in silence and in a shared stillness, until he breaks the lack of sound again.

“Do you like how it burns your mouth?”

Those words make you hum in confusion, your gaze flicking back to him as you frown and take the cigarette away from your mouth to speak, letting the smoke escape freely, not caring that this time it hits him directly.

“Feels nice?” he persists, more quietly this time, trying to draw out a response and his profound hazel follows the thin column of smoke that slips between your lips, then those eyes linger there at your mouth, studying the way you exhale before settling back on your eyes.

“Yeah,” you murmur lazily, tapping the cigarette against the ashtray. “It’s not so different from when you’re looking for a beating from him every couple of weeks.” you tease roughly.

The corner of his lips curls.

“Then you do know why you started again,” he concludes arrogantly, always holding the key to his point.

You let out a genuine laugh that fills the space and dissipates the accumulated tension, eliciting a short chuckle from him as well.

“You’re right,” you agree when you catch your breath, tilting your head while holding his gaze and his eyes drift back to your hand, to the cigarette between your fingers, but more specifically to the burning glow of the tip.

The ember pulsates as you inhale again, a brief orange flash alive for a second before going out again. You notice him staring at that part with a lot of attention, and you wonder if he’s curious to try it.

“Want one?” you offer right after, extending your hand and the cigarette is suspended in the space between you in an invitation.

Dex dismisses it with a slight wave of his hands and then shifts, leaning his side against the railing to face you directly. The new angle gives him a better view, and he takes advantage of it, considering the ideas forming in his mind.

“You know,” he starts, casually, “there are better ways to use that.” He points to the cigarette.

“Like what?”

Dex has an expectant expression, and something prickles on the back of your neck. “Want to see something cool?”

You hesitate, instinct urges you to distrust him, but curiosity wins out anyway because with him, you never know. “That depends on your definition of cool,” you reply after taking a long drag and exhaling as you speak.

He doesn't smile, but there's a hint of something similar at the corner of his lips, and then he extends his left forearm, showing you the underside and the dim light from the balcony is illuminating his pale skin, your eyes staring at the few prominent veins.

You watch, frowning, still trying to piece it all together until he finally speaks again.

“Here,” he mutters, tapping the skin. “Burn it.”

For a second, you stare at him, waiting for the punchline that it's a joke, but it doesn't come, and suddenly everything around you is silent.

“…Get the fuck out,” you finally say, snorting in disbelief even though you believed him. “You're kidding.”

“I'm not.”

There's not a hint of humor in his voice, and he lowers his hand but keeps his arm extended, flexing it, offering it as if it were the most reasonable request in the world, and you immediately shake your head, taking a half step back.

“I'm not going to use you as an ashtray, what's wrong with you?” you huff, still laughing a little because he has to be messing around.

“Come on,” he insists and that's when you realize he's very serious about this “...It's just a burn,” Dex continues as if he's not asking you to burn him.

“Yeah, that doesn’t make it any better,” you reply, looking into his eyes.

He’s staring at you like an excited dog, so eager to show you how great it would be, and you’re picturing it all while the cigarette slowly burns in your hand.

“This isn’t right,” you comment then, making sure anyone around you knows you’re not okay at all with his offer and that you’re being pressured.

“Mhm,” Dex hums, his arm still stretched and you look down, shaking your head and sighing.

“Shit…” you mutter under your breath. “Just once, okay?” You shoot him a stern, scolding glare, and his face lights up with excitement.

What a weirdo.

You take his wrist to silently pull him toward you, and Dex moves closer, staring at you until his gaze seems to swallow you whole and your intense stare only breaks from his to see the cigarette between your fingers and the underside of his forearm.

There's a shared breath first, then you place the cigarette down, bringing it so close until it’s millimeters from his skin, and he feels the intense heat burning him like a gentle kiss, even though it’s not yet pressed against the skin.

Indecision keeps you there, but your mind screams at you to do it, and Dex is in the same state, waiting for you to give in and not change your mind at the last minute.

Finally, you squeeze his wrist as the ember finally touches his skin, and you don't hear the slightest sound in his breathing; not a single sound escapes his lips.

There's no reaction, and you look at him again. Dex maintains an impassive expression, except for a half-smile on his lips as he watches you, his dark eyes fixed on yours, without looking away.

His eyes are fluttering now and your grip on the cigarette falters, ready to let go in a matter of seconds, but his words stop you, “You can press it...” he whispers hoarsely, and his right hand rises to rest on top of yours and presses down, causing the burning tip to sear deep into the thin skin, piercing through to the next layer, delighting in pleasurable pain.

Smoke rises lightly, and you wonder if it hurts him excruciatingly and he's just acting this way to impress you, or if his pain tolerance is truly that captivating.

Dex's chest rises and falls gently, your gaze flickering to his collarbone, down his chest and you part your lips slightly when it comes back to his face, fascinated by his lack of reaction; he's taking it as if it were a pleasant stroke.

Seconds tick by and the cigarette burns out on his skin, crumpled between your fingers from the pressure. His hand still lingers in yours, enveloping it in the warmth radiating from his palm, and the hand that isn't holding the spent cigarette still grips his wrist. You watch Dex longer than necessary, unsure of what you're looking for in his expression, so pleasing to the eye.

“Do you want me to take it off?” a low murmur, and he lets out a noise close to a hum at the sound of your voice, satisfied to know you enjoyed this small, peculiar act of intimacy.

“Only if you want to.” his eyes leave yours just to see where your hand covers him, eager to see the mark, but wanting you to be on board too.

You don't say another word, you just nod and try to pull the cigarette away without taking your eyes off his face. He's no longer looking at you; his piercing gaze is fixed on his forearm, and you feel the cigarette stuck to his skin because it doesn't budge easily. There's a tiny twitch of his lip as you pull the damaged tip away from the tender flesh, leaving it raw once there's no more contact.

You release his wrist, discarding the filter in the ashtray, and your hand travels up his forearm, caressing it, placing your fingers right next to the ugly, deep red mark, surrounded by burnt skin in a uniform circle with welts painted a deep gray that are part of the pain. Your fingers now float over it, craving to feel it beneath your fingertips, unsure if it's right to do.

“Hurts?” you ask, your eyes never leaving the wound, reveling in the contrast between the healthy and the damaged skin.

“No,” Dex denies, gaze plastered on your face, “...touch it, it’s okay,” he invites you, and you do it, pressing gently with your index finger to test the waters, but again there is no reaction and you let your impulse guide you, sinking the pad into the fresh prickly wound, tilting your finger to press the nail, stealing a little trembling sigh from Dex, and you’ve heard enough to be aware that this one wasn’t emitted because of pain.

Which makes you smile, and you stop pressing, releasing his forearm and returning to your original position, facing the railing, while Dex turns his back to it, eyes glued to the mark, and you feel a slight shiver even though it's only just starting to get cold.

“So,” you begin, not bothering to hide your curiosity, “bad old habits?”

With that, Dex is deciding how much of an answer you're going to get right now. “Sorta.”

It's vague on purpose, and you tilt your head, “elaborate.”

He shrugs, looking away from the mark, and leans back against the railing, crossing his arms before replying, “Hmm... Same goal, different method.”

That's all he says, and you understand every word he means.

A half-smile spreads across your face as Dex looks you up and down with a subtly intense gaze. “Don't forget to change your clothes.”

He finishes speaking, readjusting himself to go back inside, without saying another word.

What a curious midnight.

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 03 / 05 / 26

An apology if you do not appear on the tag-list, leave a comment so we can add you.

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Dammed be the overwhelming desperation that makes his wet cock slip out of you because of a needy, clumsy movement, causing Dex to grunt softly beneath you. Before you can even catch your breath, he blindly searches for his cock, shoving it roughly back into your swollen ruined pussy, ripping a shaky moan from your lips.

His hips resume their punishing rhythm, pounding upward in vicious thrusts that have you tensing and arching off his chest in a poor attempt to escape his overheated body. But his hands are tight on your hips, holding you captive as his cock rubs relentlessly against your G-spot.

Sobs, gasps, and small whines are all that escape your parted lips while you're just trying to beg him for a tiny break.

You have no idea how many times you've come, how many times you've dripped all over his cock until you've soaked the sticky sheets, all you know is that Dex hasn't come and seems to be on the agonizing edge for a long time, just pounding and leaking and whining and cursing because he can't fill you up and he's bringing you to his torture, ruining you as he's at it.

The sounds he makes in your ear are nothing but broken, pained with frustration as he sweats profusely and his freckled skin is deeply flushed, pretty blush trailing down past his shoulders and you feel another orgasm building inside you as his hand slides from your hip to your cunt, his middle finger beginning to make tight little circles on your swollen clit.

“Dex! Wait—wait,” you huff, whining, instinctively closing your legs, but you hear him refuse behind you, and a loud smack of his four fingers against your soaked cunt sends you shuddering, your thighs opening again thanks to the delicious sting.

“Open—” he commands, muffled in that hoarse voice, “keep them open, come on, come on baby, don’t close them, I don’t want it.” His voice is weary, desperation dripping from its tone, and you're sobbing, gripping his wrist because your clit is so sensitive to the touch. His hips don’t stop, his finger continues to abuse your flesh up and down, side to side, pressing while making circles, and he notices you squeeze his weeping cock tighter when he puts you under a restraint.

He starts thrusting rapidly into your cunt, some strokes of his finger softer than others, causing you to gasp his name and try to move your hips away from him, but he's still frustrated beneath you, accelerating his thrusts and slapping your pussy harder until the sound is so obscene and wet that you reach other orgasm, pain and pleasure merging into one, and you clench around him, coaxing a curse from him as the wave of pleasure tear your feverish tight body apart.

“Shit! Oh fuck—Ah, again, again” he sobs eagerly, feeling himself almost finish again but going back to the torture of not being able to, there are tears welling on his eyes and he's keeping his hand on top of your cunt as he fucks you, and the overwhelming stimulation is making you try to escape again, still fresh and tired from your orgasm and when his cock slips out of your quivering entrance again, he lets out a muffled sound, complaining and unable to bear how your body keeps trying to get away.

Regardless of your silent protests, he places his forearm around your neck, pressing against your throat roughly, causing your body to freeze on top of his. Your hands move up to grip his arm, his bicep, pawing and gripping at the muscles as you feel strange sensations rising towards your bladder and you force your throat to work, trying to spit out pitiful excuses of words as your body burns.

“S—Stop, Dex, please, please, I feel—” you mutter, a smack knocking the wind out of you, and you regain your voice while he's trying to merge with you. “M’gonna pee…” you sob, so embarrassed. “Dex, I’m gonna pee—please!” and you're not even sure if you're actually going to pee or it is just squirt, either way, both mean a mess on top of him, both mean shame when you're so overwhelmed and weak to think about the sweet benefits.

A burning tremor runs through every part of Dex's body at the your words full of panic and he has to swallow hard to speak.

For a split second, his thrusts cease and a quiet gasp escapes his lips. “Yeah? Are you sure?” he begins, his free hand traveling down your body until it rests on your stomach, and he's purring, talking again. “Do you promise?” he whispers eagerly, pressing his palm hard right over your lower belly, and you squirm, tensing as he starts moving his hips upward again quickly, stealing your breath and making your cheeks burn with shame.

He never thought about stopping.

Now you're letting your tears flow, trying to muffle your pitiful little cries as you're feeling your limit break faster than you can bear and Dex is babbling softly in your ear, making it so much worse for you. His forearm finally lets you breathe and suddenly he's using both hands, letting them rest on your bladder, maintaining such pressure that you arch your back, trying not to make a fucking mess on top of him as your chest rises an falls because the sick bastard is kneading at your stomach, milking you.

You can feel his cock twitching inside you, intrigued by what's coming next. So hard and eager for it, Dex is humming when he feels you just can't take it anymore and he lets out a hoarse, shaky laugh, so excited he's lost his mind and completely forgot about his own impossible climax.

“It hurts, right? The restraint... Worst part is that you're doing it to yourself,” he purrs amusedly, gently pounding upwards, nothing compared to what he's doing on your belly. “I'm not even doing it anymore... You love to restrain yourself when you're with me. It's sad.” he whispers and you sob because it hurts so much and he's right.

“My girl, you make me feel bad for this. But you won't leave until you do it.”

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 02 / 05 / 26

I LOVEEE DOING THAT DUMB SHIT WITH ENDINGS OMGGGGGG 😭😭😭WHO WANT ME😭😭😭😭

The warm air lazily caresses his bare skin, tracing every muscular contour while making his flesh hypersensitive, amplifying even the slightest movement and his hands remain restrained behind his back, the handcuffs just tight enough to remind him of the fact he can't escape even if he tries.

His lips part slightly without conscious thought as he's releasing a silent breath and his pupils are so dilated, obscuring the color of his beautiful eyes, leaving only that dark, intense gaze as it scans you with a shameless, undisguised hunger. He shifts slightly in the chair while anticipation is coursing through his body, eating him alive from whiting, waiting for you to decide what comes next.

He feeds on the intense disgust in your eyes, that hatred that seems to emanate from you in waves so dense they could drown you and he absorbs it in the most thirsty and starving way possible, letting it settle under his skin like fuel and that hatred of yours would only become a problem for him if the ritual ever breaks and you suddenly start seeing him as a person, rather than what he wants to be to you.

Dex knows you too well for someone you claim to despise.

He understands your inclination towards cruelty, those tendencies to inflict pain and the intense thrill that courses through you at the sight of freshly spilled blood. He has seen how your breathing changes, how your attention focuses, how the sickening darkness seeps through the cracks of any self-control you pretend to have.

You give, he takes, and it works because there's no one else who fits this space like him.

No one else can handle this balance of repulsion and filthy longing that is ugly and deeply uncomfortable, and perhaps that's the most pathetic part of it all... That out of everyone, he's the only one who understands how to satisfy it, Dex is the only one who can please you in this way, however pitiful that may sound.

He licks his lips, watching intently as your finger slides across the table, testing how smooth and resistant the surface is.

“Aren't you going to ask me my safe word?” he purrs playfully, his voice husky, low with amusement.

Your eyes shift from the table to rest on those pools of hazel and you remain stoic, ignoring his joke, “how many?” you ask softly, reaching closer and raising your hand to place it on the back of his head and he's immediately tensing as your fingers tangle and tighten in his hair.

Dex swallows, unable to control how the blood rushes to his groin too quickly and his useless hands clench, taking a breath before replying.

“Until I wish I had a safe word.” he mutters, listening to his heart pounding so loudly in his ears and he's lying, he would never use a safe word since he expects you to never stop.

There's a tingle traveling beneath your skin, and your hand tighten his hair.

“Breathe.”

Just as he's about to inhale, you roughly force his head back and slam his face against the table and the sound is so loud, echoing through the place and Dex gasps from the pain that starts in his nose, spreading like flames across his face and you keep it pressed against the surface dragging it slowly, the first blow leaving you breathless.

And you don't stop.

You do it again, lifting his head, then crushing it against the smooth wood.

One, two, three, four, five blows, each one harder than the last and he's shivering in the chair, thighs tensing beneath his black cargo pants, hands shaking behind his back.

You're panting for breath now; each blow resonates more deeply in your ears lodging itself in your brain.

Dex is in the same state.

The table breaks his nose, there's warm blood gushing from his nostrils as his lips are split, he feels his gums burn and bleed, smiling widely at such delicious feeling and each blow widens the split on his cheekbone caused by the impact and his forehead is aching.

He wonders what his fresh bruises look like, and the mere thought makes his cock throb and leak untouched inside his warm clothes.

You let him breathe after the eighth impact, pulling his face away from the filthy wood, now darker with blood that belongs to him. You let out a little huff as you watch the red and thick strands of drool connecting his split lips to the table before they snap from the shake you give to his head to make sure he hasn't passed out.

He's grinning with his eyes closed, so ecstatic and pretty it makes you sick to admit it, so writhing in pain that burns his swollen wounded face, then you grip his hair tighter and you need to see him die like this, quivering and panting in agony until he just can't take it anymore.

You want his indestructible skull to crack because of you, you want that adamantium to damage his brain somehow, you hope he stops breathing once you've finished off his pretty and perfect nose.

The fact that he can still endure more infuriates you, and he's begging you for more as you stare at the fresh and inviting blood adorning his disfiguring face.

“P—Please, more, more more,” he babbles, drooling as he keeps his mouth agape to pray to you in sheer devotion, and you want to know if his teeth are loose, you want to see if you damaged them enough for him to spit one out.

You bite your lip hard until it's bruised and return to your task with more fervor than before, smashing his face again but with more force, maintaining a solid grip on his now sweaty hair and his shoulders go slack. You don't need to look to know he's pushing his hips up for some sweet friction.

You just continue, harder, a tenth time, frowning at how starving you feel for more, clenching your teeth when he lets out an agonizing groan on the tenth blow. His head even slips from your grasp from the force, and you have to place your hand on his neck and grip it to lift his face again.

Then your hand travels to his hair, tilting his head towards the light and he's so broken, head lolling pathetically being held just by your grip and he has a satisfied smile on his blood-soaked face, bruises adorn him beneath the sticky deep red, his half-open mouth salivates nonstop and his eyes are no longer open, you hope he has a weak pulse now, you hope his brain hits his skull.

With the finger of your free hand, you caress a cut on the bridge of his nose, smearing your finger with his blood, and bring it to his mouth, just to test how conscious he is.

Slowly, his pink tongue peeks out, his mouth barely moving because he can't even feel it anymore. He wipes the blood from your finger using his warm tongue, humming at the metallic taste, and you can't help but smile with satisfaction. Then, as your final display of pleasure, you grip the hair that falls over his forehead and pull down, his face slams back against the surface with a loud thump, listening to something breaking that makes you puff a shaky breath in fascination.

Dex tenses all over and not a single sound escapes him, and you see him squirm slightly after a few seconds.

Such a whore for pain.

So adorable, he came inside his pants, making a mess inside the fabric that sticks to his weeping, thick cock. His torso is covered in sweat, every muscle glistening making you so hungry, wetness adorning his freckled flesh that must taste so salthy and good.

You push him off the chair effortlessly; he falls to the ground with a heavy thud and weakly settles onto his back, huffing in need, groaning in pain that intensifies when he feels air hit his raw face.

You're standing in front of him, staring at how dark the faded fabric is in his crotch.

So wet.

You stare more than you should, fascinated at how he's so big and worthless, too easy for you and you are licking your lips, your shoe slides into his groin without any little gentleness, reveling in how hard he remains even though he's just finished.

Dex whines silently, pushing his tired hips against your shoe, arching his back when you press too roughly, eliciting a guttural moan from his dry throat; poor, sweet boy can barely breathe.

His cock hurts so much it's not even pleasurable anymore, but he's so delirious by it. He's drugged by the excruciating pain, choking when you press a little harder right where his aching tip is, and then you pull your shoe away when you realize that not satisfying him will only make him feel worse.

Which is all that matters.

You take a step back, admiring the work of art before you.

He looks like a masterpiece, blood trickling down his neck, his face perfectly disfigured, his chest rising and falling so gently it seems he's not breathing anymore, perky nipples hard and sensitive adorning his tits, thick thighs spread, his cock waning before you and his muscles are loose, adjusting to the discomfort of maintaining his hands behind his back.

You feel the urge to touch him, to dig your finger into his swollen cheekbone, but you're disgusted by the thought. So you just reach into your pocket, pull out a pair of small keys, and toss them aside.

“You have ten minutes to leave. Clean my table,”

You mutter, not caring if he heard you or not, and you hope he didn't.

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 28 / 04 / 26

The missing tag is implied murder kink but it was going to ruin the plot if I put it at the beginning.

You find him seated cross-legged on the living room floor with an oasis of lethal order in front of him when you enter to your home.

As you approach, your eyes are drawn to each weapon laid out in neat rows, fitting together like a puzzle despite their different shapes and sizes. The disassembled pistols are arranged in orderly rows in the center, their metal parts aligned with geometric precision. The knives are placed at identical angles, arranged sequentially, even the dirty rags you can make out when the light helps, are folded impeccably beside them. There are several small bottles on the other side.

Dex is whistling casually with his shoulders relaxed as his hands are moving meticulously, rubbing the rag on the weapon in his hand. He only breaks his concentration when you're close enough for him to say a little goodnight.

And the problem you have with that is that his tone of voice is too familiar to you; he can't hide the amusement dripping from it, and you're aware that, thanks to your silence—which speaks volumes—he already knows what you're going to start complaining about.

So clever, it makes you sick.

Exhaustion seeps into your bones with every step you take toward him, the irritation building in your chest, ready to explode as you start “stop it,” your voice is sharper than any knife he's polishing.

Dex doesn't tilt his face up to see you; his eyes glance up at you, needling with such creep stare and if it weren't for this angle, you'd realize he's about to give you a little smile.

Instead, what actually comes next is him raising an eyebrow, a hint of confusion in his expression, pausing briefly before continuing with his activity. “Stop what?”

His innocence is so feigned it manages to surprise you.

“Stop following me around every time I step foot outside.” It sounds more like an order than an answer to his question. Your fists clench at your sides. “Seriously, you have to stop.”

He sighs at the aggressive, scolding undertone of your demanding voice. His eyes drop to rest on the cloth in his hand, which slides along the edge of a gorgeous kunai. His firm fingers massage the solid material through fabric, and you feel jealous of his calm demeanor because you can't afford to feel that way.

Dex places it with the others when he finishes polishing it, perfectly aligned, before picking up the next one and then saying, “wasn't following you.”

That's it. He doesn't give you anything more.

His attention fully returns to his weapons now, as if you've already been dismissed and you just close your eyes taking a deep breath, trying in vain to contain the anger that rises at how he acts so ignorantly, so dismissively.

It's exhausting and terribly sad that he lies to your face like this when you know he's been breathing down your neck for so long.

You know him too well, you can feel his breath on the back of your neck every time you go out, a prickle behind your head when you go out to eat with your friends, when you're walking around campus, anywhere, even at work, from afar. You know he's there in the distance, watching you.

The ironic part is that you can't hate it how you want it because there's something strangely comforting about it; you like having the knowledge that no matter where you are, someone lethal is paying attention and nothing gets too close without him knowing first.

Even so, that doesn't take away how suffocating it can become and the fear that runs through you when he's behind you, because if he's watching you, who's watching him?

This leads to the overwhelming stress of work and college; it's already too much to worry about to also feel afraid about him going out while the AVTF is on the streets, committing their disgusting brutalities at night like ravenous predators.

You're aware that they won't approach him because it's clear that Dex is a target who must be eliminated from a distance, which would lead to chaos that would be even harder to stop, engulfing people who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time without knowing it, people walking at night whose chances of being caught in the crossfire are never zero, terrified and with no way out of what will explode when the authorities discover that Bullseye is prowling the same streets every night.

Turning them into collateral damage.

Those animals would do horrific things to civilians to get information about him. Hurting innocents before planning to reach their dangerous target.

Your imagination takes flight, and the images that appear in your head cause a lump to grow in your throat, making you swallow hard in an attempt to get rid of it so you can continue with your little intervention.

Dex continues working, but you know he's listening closely; he can probably even hear the change in your breathing, how your voice falters before you speak again, this time in a more controlled way.

“I understand it’s hard for you to have nothing to do when I’m not around,” you begin carefully. “But Dex, I’m working. College is killing me, and sometimes I need time to be with my friends or just by myself.” Your lips seal, waiting for a reaction, but he knows you're not finished.

“You can't be following me around when that happens,” you continue, stepping closer, “you can't risk being discovered by someone including my friends... They know exactly who you are.” This finally makes him look up at you, his gaze now completely fixed on you. “And I know they would never say anything if they found out I live with you, but this is my way of protecting them, and if you keep following me everywhere they could—” You sigh, shaking your head. “...It's dangerous.”

He doesn't hide his negative reaction to your words. A small crease forms on his brow, becoming more prominent as you continue, and you hear him humming, absorbing your words. What he can process is that you're asking him to get away, to do something different than keeping an eye on you, and he can't do that to a certain extent.

Dex sighs, and you think maybe there's hope, maybe he'll agree with you, but he just looks up, and you can't tell if he's challenging you with that look.

“I said I wasn't following you... I went out to visit our counselor friend,” and there's a grain of truth in that, but that thread of truth is woven into a lie.

And you stare at him, feeling your composure crumble.

“Come on.”

“Hmm?”

“Don't treat me like I'm stupid,” you hiss. “Don't even think about it. You're good at hiding but you're terrible at lying,” you whisper dryly. “Don't give me that shit because I'm not our neighbor for you to lie to as you please, Tony.” you spit the false name he uses on his daily basis in a mocking tone and he rolls his eyes for then grin with amusement at your irritation.

“This isn't a joke,” you insist, raising your voice despite you trying to remain calm. “I like my time alone when I get it. But what do you do when you have yours, huh? What do you even do?”

That question hits him like a slap, and you don't stop; the absence of his smile gives you the urge to continue.

“You need a job,” you continue, relentless. “Something to do with your life besides following me around and that isn't just your little ‘good deeds’ while you’re stalking Daredevil like the guy didn’t throw you off a roof after you killed that attorney, man, your gay shit makes me want to kill myself in front of you.”

That elicits a genuine, natural reaction.

He smiles sharply, so smug and proud, with his bunny teeth on full display like you just said the funniest thing in the world and you can’t stand it. You’re tired, exhausted, your job sucks, your assignments are about to be due, and he’s laughing at you, not even trying to help and you close your eyes tightly taking a breath, trying to push away the need to grab one of the neat knives and slit his throat.

“All you do is kill people, eat crackers, and follow me around!” you spit suddenly, the words tumbling out. “And when you’re not doing that, you’re doing the first two.” Your frustration keeps you talking. “Your brain needs to be occupied with something, obviously that’s why you need to focus on anything other than what’s screaming inside your head, but oh my fucking God, focus on a job, Dex.” You order him, crouching in front of him, careful where you place your knee and your hand slides to the back of his head, your fingers threading on his short hair until you grasp it roughly and Dex tenses, frowning, but doesn’t back away.

“You are smart, dedicated, you know how to pretend when it suits you... you have amazing skills, you aren't—ugly and can be so charming and sweet for your own benefit.” Your grip tightens just slightly, “You could work somewhere where nobody cares about anything. A kitchen, night shifts. Sometimes you can’t even sleep, Dex, you could drive a damn taxi all night and just…” you huff out a breath, “anything. You could find a hobby if you don't want a job.”

“I have one.” he mutters, piercing eyes burning yours.

You let out a humorless laugh. “Throwing paperclips at flies when you're bored isn't a hobby.” You release his hair from your grasp, remaining crouched in front of him and he keeps his head down, his fingers pinching the rag in his hands, and you feel bad for a second.

“Why are you doing this?” you hear him whisper and when his gaze flickers back at you his expression is blank, stripped of everything.

“Because you’re drowning me,” you admit, quieter now. “And I care about you too much to just ignore you, that's why I'm asking you to do something ”, Dex frowns because of the softness of your voice, as if your suggestion wasn't directly an order.

“I am doing something.” His voice sharpens as his eyes lock onto yours. “So why are you telling me to stop? I’m helping you. I’m doing it right. I don’t want to stop, and I’m not going to. You don’t get to—to tell me what to do.” his words quivered for a second there, but it was so tiny your brain didn't catch it.

He keeps going when you remain silent. “I never tell you what to do,” he adds, leaning forward slightly until your breaths intertwine and you are glaring at him, annoyed, despising his response when he adds at the end. “So don’t do that to me.”

“You are not helping.” you declare and you see the twitch in his mouth, slowly losing his composture.

“I keep this place stable for you.” he spits.

“Because you need to please me even if I don’t want you to!” you fire back immediately. “Don’t you see that? I offer to pay rent. I try to help you when you're dying on the floor and you refuse, you even threaten me. And yeah, I’m grateful when you take care of everything this place needs—but sometimes I feel useless, Dex. I want to contribute. I want to keep this shitty place standing too.” your voice trembles, cracking when you contine. “We’re in this together.”

“Yeah, we are so why are you ditching me?” he shoots back, a hoarse laugh slipping out as he's feeling his eyes suddenly wet and you freeze. “You just contradicted yourself, why?” he asks in a small voice, and you turn away from him, standing back to your place before you say something you can't take back.

“You know exactly what I meant,” you mutter.

The silence lingers, and when you turn around to look at him again, you see that vulnerability and fear in his eyes; all his previous behavior disappears, replaced by that part of him that you have seen too little of for your liking, and it hurts to see him this weak and exposed, small where he's sitting, thinking, processing, feeling so many things at the same time that he can't fully express them, burning his throat as his chest rises and fall, you think about getting close again, but you are tired of doing the same thing every time he cannot accept what you tell him.

“Stop following me,” you say firmly, “or I will leave.”

His eyes widen slightly, not so much surprised because his mind was already warning him that you would say that, but hearing it is much worse than just imagining it.

“You won’t,” he says immediately, not able to stop what comes out of his mouth.

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing. “Or what?” you challenge, “you’ll kill me?”

His hands curl into fists and there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, clenching his jaw and you don't wait for an answer.

“Find a hobby.”

Those are your last words before walking to your room, closing the door with a quiet click that feels louder than any slam.

Dex stays on the ground, his heart pounding, the air suffocating him with a nonexistent toxicity in its element. The silence is dulled, becoming a loud, familiar buzz that used to be under control most of the times and his blurry gaze is dropping, taking in each weapon, observing the organization, and feeding off the control he wields over them with just a glance.

Thoughts overflowing in his mind beg him to pick one up and let whatever happens, happen, because your words are still penetrating his brain, burying themselves in every flaw in his neural connections, making him feel as he did in those times when he was lost, alone, trying to find structure in less-than-ideal forms, and suddenly he misses those tapes that burned before him.

The blond man closes his eyes tightly, relaxing the tension in his shoulders, adjusting his posture, twisting his neck from side to side, clenching and unclenching his fists.

He inhales, exhales.

Again.

And when he opens his eyes, there's a relaxed smile, regardless of how his body is throbbing all over, how the control was about to slip away, and your last words are all that stick in his head in the end.

Hobby, hobby, hobby, hobby, hobby…

If you want him to find a hobby, he'll find a fucking hobby and make you proud, so proud.

Days pass after the argument.

And for the first time, Dex stops following you.

As expected, you had to test whether your argument had finally paid off first, and so you did for about three days, taking longer routes home, stopping to enjoy the fresh air, double-checking once or twice just to be sure, and finding nothing. It was liberating, and you feel good, trusting that Dex will take care of the suggestions while you're busy enjoying the space you demanded.

At home, everything remains the same.

However, Dex moves carefully around the apartment, replaying and taking into account everything you said and evaluating what he can do to make it up to you and help you feel good again.

During this process of improvement, he gave you a detailed list of how much you could contribute towards the bills, without much debate about him keeping the larger amounts. Both of you also discussed which days you would alternate cleaning and which days you would do deeper cleanings, among other things. He also gave you simple tasks that you could do without affecting your studies or work to contribute. Of course, if you ever can't do them, he will take care of them without hesitation.

Although it all stemmed from that intense conversation, the topic hasn't been mentioned again even once. You both act as if nothing happened, as always, but the positive change is palpable, and you keep in mind that Dex thinks about the argument every minute.

The guilt remains under your skin because you believe you were harsh, and yeah, maybe you said some things out of pocket, and yeah, you were also overwhelmed; both can coexist.

You still bother him as always, he still watches you obsessively, but he doesn't leave when you leave.

Things are going well.

It's late one night when you return home.

Your keys jingle softly as you push open the door, and you find Dex sitting at the table with a laptop in front of him and you're one hundred percent sure he didn't buy it, so there's no need to ask.

You pause, staring at him for a second and he doesn't even look up when you enter, completely absorbed, his posture slightly hunched forward as he listens intently to the voice coming from the device. You walk over to him, curious, and on the table is a small knitting kit along with thin white and blue yarn resting on the left, and you focus on the video, your eyes wide with curiosity, drawn to the title.

Knitting for Beginners: Basic Chain Stitch Tutorial.

You can't help but smile with pleasure. Dex's hands move with careful precision, a hook between his fingers, yarn looped and pulled with methodical intent. He takes his sweet time with each step and grumbles under his breath when he makes a mistake.

The sad reality of a perfectionist: he's not good at something he has just started learning.

He's watching, pausing, rewinding occasionally, but every movement is clean. He's memorizing the rhythm, scanning the video, rewinding it with a quick click when a step isn't clear. You feel good seeing him like this. You want to ask him so many things, but you don't interrupt.

For once, he's focused on something that isn't you.

And you're not about to ruin that.

You put a hand on his shoulder and feel him relax at the touch, and while his fingers are busy, he mutters “night” with a small smile.

“Goodnight, Dex,” you murmur back, turning away to head to your room.

And the next morning, you wake up earlier than usual, wishing anyone would investigate in depth the phenomenon of waking up early on weekends while on weekdays opening your eyes is a chore.

You're yawning while rubbing the back of your neck, and stop just outside your room when you find him already at the table.

Correction, Dex hasn't moved.

He's in the exact same position as last night, laptop still open in front of him. The only change is the natural light illuminating him, and the final results of his nighttime process are placed besides the laptop. You raise an eyebrow, curiosity urging you to basically run over to him for a good look, and the laptop displays a different video.

This one's not for beginners. The person on screen works quickly, hands moving in a blur, creating something intricate, multicolored, moving those hands in hypnotic loops.

Dex mirrors it perfectly.

His hands move faster than they should for someone who started last night, two strands of yarn running through his fingers, switching seamlessly, tension controlled with surgical precision.

It looks like he's been doing this for weeks.

There's disbelief settling in your chest; it's just too impressive. His brow is furrowed, his mouth tightly closed, and his gaze is intense over the screen.

“Dex…?”

He hums, clearly waiting for you to speak while he's still on his thing and you take a good look at what he's doing.

It's beautiful.

A compact, clean spiral with colors that blend smoothly into one another; there are no loose stitches, the yarn obeys him so devotedly leading it into becoming art, and your surprise must be evident, because he finally looks at you with an expression full of pride, with a touch of arrogance.

He says nothing.

You let out a little laugh, shaking your head slightly, making no attempt to hide the joy you feel.

“…of course you can do all this in one night, freak.”

“Mhm,” he smiles.

That's the moment when nothing will ever be normal again.

Hours later, a navy blue cushion appears on the sofa, with the same muted spiral pattern he was knitting that morning.

Then another cushion appears the next day.

After that, a throw, folded perfectly over the armrest.

Five days later, you return home and find a thick, heavy, circular rug, with a spiral much larger than the one on the cushions. It's placed in the small living room, and he seems pleased with it.

“Dude—”

“I made it.” he doesn't even look up when he says it, hands already working on something smaller.

The thing intensifies, spreading like a pretty mold, reaching the bedrooms.

Now there are covers on the beds, custom-made with impeccable edges and no imperfections; he doesn't expect you to use them suddenly, they're a silent suggestion. But they're so soft and large that you do consider it.

After the large comes the small... Oven mitts, coasters, table runners.

Your eyes widen as you realize there are also holsters for guns, holsters for all his weapons that don't even look good, but it's obvious he does it for reasons other than just aesthetics.

Each one fitted so precisely over his weapons it makes your skin prickle.

“…Are they necessary?” you begin, asking somewhat worriedly, picking one up and frowning because it looks like a sock.

“They protect the metal.”

You don't know what to say.

At some point, he acquires an open bookcase that appears out of nowhere. It's very tall and full of compartments; inside there are countless of yarn organized by thickness, texture, and color. The dark tones are grouped together, the light ones separated, the materials arranged like a catalog display.

Now there's polyester fiberfill too, bags full, carefully stored for stuffing.

The sofa is piled high with cushions, the kitchen looks nicer, the apartment becomes… warmer, so soft, and you hate how much you love it because, if you analyze it too much, you worry about how his dark circles are spreading.

But you stop thinking about it when he gives you an adorable keychain; it's small and it's about something you love, with such a pretty shape, recreated in wool with incredible attention to detail.

You stare at it for a while in your hand, so well made, so soft and cute. “For me?”

“Yes,” he says, looking at you with a slight smile at the corner of his lips. This time there's no arrogance; he's pleased to see the gleam of adoration in your eyes for the little gift.

“It's really nice, thank you.” you say eagerly, feeling the need to hug him and slap his face for being lovely whilst concerning.

A month has passed and he hasn't stopped; on the contrary, it's getting worse, because now Dex is always knitting and you feel like you're losing your mind.

Sitting, standing, talking… he always has yarn in his hands. His fingers move without him even looking, looping, pulling, hooking unconsciously, muscle memory doing the work, and you've seen him talk to you while finishing an entire section of yarn work without even looking down.

With thicker yarn, he doesn't even need a crochet hook anymore because his fingers work with experience.

One of the worst parts is that you don't even know which rich piece of shit he's currently terrorizing to get money for his fixation because, obviously, this is expensive, he enjoys very specific textures that are not easy to find anywhere.

And it's Sunday morning when you finally grasp the gravity of the situation.

You're on the couch, half asleep, watching the news more out of habit than interest, and that fucker is nearby with a ball of yarn between his dangerous fingers like a big cat; you just can't quite place him, but you can feel his presence.

“…In other news,” the reporter says firmly, pulling you from your thoughts, “several AVTF agents were found dead under unusual circumstances.”

You frown slightly, paying closer attention to what's on screen because Dex hasn't been out much since finding his new reason for living, so who could possibly be killing members of the task force? You wonder as the reporter keeps speaking.

“They were discovered with what appear to be small handmade dolls—”

The screen displays images, and your eyes widen immediately.

They're plushy, small knitted figures, clothed in dark blue and black, adorable little masked dolls.

Perfectly shaped little… Bullseyes?

The reporter mentions that each stitch was placed directly over the fatal wound on the corpses.

Like a signature... And you can't believe a single thing you're seeing and slowly turn your head.

Dex is already looking at you and the TV, and oh he's wondering if you'll make the same face when you discover that little chip inside your beloved keychain. He's wondering if you'll like his next project which is a life-sized replica of you so he can have two of you as friends.

The mere thought makes him smile with excitement, and he winks at you, so happy for his actions.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you mutter.

He just grins at you as he continues stitching.

“You told me to get a hobby.”

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 27 / 04 / 26

I was listening to I'm Just Ken on repeat while writing the first scene and ended up making some bullshit as usual.

series ; tag-list

What Dex does with his life simply couldn't interest you enough.

As long as he kept paying the bills and avoiding bringing any problems directly to the apartment, you were content living under the same roof as him.

However, you can't help but feel just a little bit worried when one morning you check the pill cabinet in the bathroom and notice that the pills prescribed for his chronic back pain haven't been opened.

He's supposed to be taking them every morning, to begin with, but the lid is tightly closed, and the container is in the same place where you put it a long time ago.

Maybe he hasn't finished the ones he keeps on the nightstand, you tell yourself mentally as you give the container a little shake.

Either way, you'll keep an eye on him to confirm your hypothesis.

A few days later, you have enough evidence to confirm that you're right.

You've contemplated his morning routine, carefully observing his every move, and that's when you bear in mind the tiny grimace he makes every time he bends down, how his lower lip twitches almost inevitably as he twists his torso, the soft grunt that escapes his lips unbidden when he gets up from the ground after his push-ups.

You were evaluating various factors, one of which was that it might be related to his age, but for him, these are definitely not age-related problems. When he was still taking his medication, he moved with impressive and precise movements, demonstrating years of training and dedication in his incredible feats.

So seeing him trying to act as if he still has the same capacity indicates that something bad is going on with him, more than usual, and if he smiles right after those grimaces to replace them and act like nothing happened, softening his expressions and returning to his causal attitude, then he's an idiot for thinking that you wouldn't notice.

And by the time Sunday arrives, you'll have already moved beyond the stage of pretending.

The morning unfolds with a comfortable, domestic calm that almost makes you doubt yourself and put the matter off.

The warm, cozy sunlight floods every corner of the apartment, illuminating the edges of all the furniture and creating a pleasant feeling as you both have breakfast facing each other at the small table.

Dex finishes eating first, placing his utensils vertically on his plate, ready to get up and start cleaning everything, but you silently stop him by placing the painkillers on the table, right next to your soon-to-be-forgotten plate of food.

The blond man stops, raising an eyebrow, his eyes glancing at the container, then back at you, who appear impassive but your eyes don't even bother to hide the glint of irritation.

“Would you be so kind to explain why you haven't taken them?” you begin with a voice deceptively passive. Your fingers slide toward the small bottle on the table, tapping the lid a few times, the hollow sound filling the silence between you.

Dex's hesitation says it all.

His eyes flick briefly towards the bottle, then avert, and you can see the moment he understands where this is going. His posture shifts slightly, and his expression turns bored, already aware how senseless this will become.

He exhales through his nose. “Don't need them,” muttering disinterestedly.

You let out a dry snort. “You know damn well you do,” you retort, letting your irritation show and then lean slightly forward, squinting as you study him, “you think I haven't noticed how you're having trouble moving?”

Your voice begins to gain weight, “You're in pain, Dex, I know you,” you declare.

A faint, uneven smile plays at the corner of his lips, so characteristic, never quite reaching his eyes and his gaze is penetrating, assessing you.

“I can function,” he says lightly, then continues, “which is enough.”

You stare at him for a second, incredulous, frustration beginning to intensify in your chest. “That's not the point,” you snap softly, each one of your words tinged with bitterness. “It's not about whether you can keep functioning or not. It's about you refusing to take the medication that would literally help you with one of your many problems.”

There's a brief pause, just long enough for the next words to sound heavier as they're spoken. “We had an agreement,” you continue. “I let you stop taking the pills for your other issues—even though you clearly need them too—because, for some reason, you hate the idea of feeling good.”

“Take the ones for your back. That was it, the bare minimum,” you add after a few seconds, letting a long sigh lower your annoyance by two tones.

But Dex has started abruptly laughing before you finish speaking. “Wait,” he manages between breaths. “You let me?” He repeats the word like it's absurd, his eyes locking onto yours with something dark settling behind them. “Who do you think you are, hm?” he asks, the humor still there as the laughter fades, but the edge remains. “Those pills don't help.”

There's a beat before he adds, far more cutting, “maybe if you stop to think for a second and consider that I actually deserve it…” his gaze doesn't waver, “you’d understand that you don’t get a say in this.”

You shake your head immediately, not caring about a single thing he just said, “that’s some fucked-up justification so you don’t have to deal with the fact that you could feel better and you’re choosing not to.”

His eyes narrow. “Or,” he says, his voice dipping just slightly, “it’s none of your business.”

There it is.

You lean forward. “It became my business when I started watching you wince every time you bend over.”

Dex murmurs something under his breath that you can't read on his lips, leaning back in his chair in an exhausted manner before speaking again.

“I don’t understand why you’re suddenly so interested in this now, or why you feel that itching need of yours to meddle in my business instead of minding your own.”

You both glare at each other defiantly, letting the tension build just enough to suffocate you.

“So what? You expect me to just ignore it?”

“I expect you to stay in your lane.” he bites back.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snap, “I didn’t realize basic concern required permission, forgive me for that.”

Dex rolls his eyes, the motion exaggerated enough to be insulting, before letting out a half-hearted laugh that doesn’t carry any real humor. “This revolves around my boundaries,” he says, like that should end the conversation and as if he's not sounding like a total fraud.

That right there is what makes you laugh.

It spills out of you before you can stop it, fully incredulous, the idea itself is too ridiculous to process and you shake your head again, staring at him trying to reconcile the hypocrisy standing right in front of you.

“Don't start talking about boundaries, that's the last fucking thing you respect. Don't be a hypocrite. You’ve got enough going on being a psychopath in pain.”

With that, his gaze is breaking away from yours, dropping down to the plate in front of him as his fingers hover near the cutlery, and when he finally speaks, his voice is lower, stripped of the earlier bitterness. “Well then,” he mutters almost to himself, “it’s my body.”

“And you treat it like you deserve to suffer,” you say without thinking. Obviously, he deserves to suffer for several reasons, but you’re too upset to question why he shouldn’t.

Dex’s jaw tightens at your words. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it.”

“I don’t owe you that.”

“Oh my god,” you say, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah?” he asks defiantly. “So what are you right now?” He starts pushing and doesn’t stop. “Oh wait, I know now, you’re just a kid sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Nothing annoys you more than when he brings up the age card.

Now completely pissed, you get up from your chair, grabbing the pills with you, and walk towards him as he looks at you totally unbothered.

“Take them.” You begin, unscrewing the cap, and Dex looks at the bottle, his expression now changing. You can see him internally fighting the fact that he's disobeying.

“No,” the refusal is immediate.

“Open your mouth,” you order.

“No.”

When you manage to open the container, he moves swiftly, his hand closing around your left wrist with a precise movement, stopping you before you can do anything else.

“Let go of me,” you snap, trying to wriggle free from his grip because he’s already tightening it, his steely hold hardening on your skin.

“Drop it.”

“No!” you shoot back, your frustration boiling all over you now, your eyes traveling anxiously from his face to your trapped wrist, and you hiss at the pressure that has now turned into pain. The veins in his hands are becoming more prominent, and now he’s really squeezing, his fingers digging in as deep as they can.

“Drop. it.”

You clench your jaw, loosening your grip on the bottle lid to grab the wrist of his hand that is still gripping you.

“You’re hurting me,” comes out as a warning, but he doesn’t let go, and you’re already getting desperate. “If you don’t let go right now, I’ll slap the shit out of you,” you say through gritted teeth, and the little shit has the decency to smile, pulling your wrist closer so you can lean in.

“I’d like to see you try,” he whispers with a hungry grin, and you can see the adrenaline blooming in his eyes.

That's the last straw, and you quickly raise your hand, making a fist, and then punch him hard right in the nose, causing his face to tilt and him to gasp before laughing hoarsely, which infuriates you even more.

“Is that all you—” you don't let him finish because you punch him again in the same way, but harder, this time drawing blood from his nostril, and he glares at you, then he's quickly releasing his grip on your left hand then he's pushing you roughly and the pill bottle falls to the floor. His shove sends you sprawling too, and he leaps from his chair swiftly.

Before you can stand, Dex snatches the fork from his plate with a sadistic grin, and before you can even blink, he hurls it at you, making you gasp in surprise as it pierces your clothing, right at your side in the same height where your ribs are located. The fork pierces the floor, and as you try to get up again he's menacingly approaching, but you simply can't get up because he's pinned you to the ground with the fork and the fabric of your clothes.

“Fuck you!” you spit loudly and he's looming over you while you can solely writhe and complain and kick your legs. Dex is now straddling your hips, his weight pressing down hard as he settles onto your thighs and you mentally curse endlessly the day adamantium was created. His robust anatomy is forcing you to puff a breath while there are muscular—heavy—thighs holding you in place as you try to hit him again.

Unfortunately, with his left hand he grabs both of your wrists, yanking them down over your stomach and in his free hand, he holds the container you didn't even see when he grabbed it. He leans over and shakes it in front of you like it's a treat, trying to get your attention, grinning like a maniac as he mocks you.

“You're so keen for me to take these, maybe you're the one who really wants them,” he says hoarsely, eagerness shinning wild in his dilated pupils. Your eyes widen at his words as you realize his intentions. He releases your wrists and he uses that same hand to keep you quiet now, placing it over your mouth as you start to curse him.

You jerk again under his weight, landing with both hands weak blows on his chest, face, and throat as you watch terrified as he tries to open the bottle with one hand, your screams coming out as useless mumbles against his palm.

“Stop—stop” he starts, but it comes out half-laughing, half-breathless. He’s enjoying this way too much, and the constant attempts to hit him are useless, so your defense now is to bite.

Your teeth sink into the fleshy joint between his thumb and his index finger, digging deep into the flesh, and Dex frowns, enduring the shooting pain, breathing deeply as he's snorting at how good it hurts and he's just sick in the head and finally, the container is open, then he's trying to pull the hand you’re biting away, hissing because your teeth are pulling at the fresh-bitten skin there, Dex starts grinning once again when it is free, now the wounded hand is wrapping tightly around your neck, keeping your head still and defending himself against your mouth.

“What is wrong with you?!” you pant with a raw voice as he tilts the container and painkillers start to fall onto your face while he laughs at you, there are some pills landing on your lips but not going into your mouth. Then he gets rid of the bottle by throwing it behind him, the remaining pills scattering on the floor.

“You are wrong what's wrong with me,” he shoots back after making that mess, and you quickly realize you have your hands free now so your brain is working fast, your eyes are flickering down at where he's sitting and before he can completely process what you're going to do, your fist abruptly moves down with malicious intent, but with his sane hand he grips your wrist to stop you in a blink.

But you still have one hand free, and it moves quickly, landing hard on his crotch and he groans from the sharp, stabbing pain that spreads through his body. You basically crushed his dick with your fist, and he falters, falling to the side, bringing both hands to his crotch, freeing your neck and his movements causes his thigh to dislodge the fork from the floor, and you roll to the side to escape the prison of his thighs, you take the fork with you as you crawl, intending to grab one of the pills from the floor or just fucking escape from him, but he's on you again.

Moving quickly, his hand—still raw from your teeth—grabs the back of your shirt stealing a breathy little“fuck” out of your mouth while he's pulling you backwards making you collide with him hard, your spine hitting his chest, and his forearm tightens around your throat when your body is flush against his, choking you as you squrm.

You cough on top of him as he's putting you in a very painful headlock.

“You need to stop moving!,” he rasps behind you.

“You need to fucking die!” you shout with nothing but hate, choking around the words and with the fork in your hand you blindly begin searching for his torso beneath you as he presses his forearm harder against your vulnerable neck, so in a few words, you don't know where you're aiming right now, and you end up going lower than you intended.

And he doesn't have time to react; he only feels the painful pressure against the side of his buttock.

Poor Dex.

You've buried the fork right there, piercing the fabric of his sweatpants, and he lets out a harsh grunt, flinching when you sink it roughly, penetrating meaty flesh.

“My ass? Really!?”

He doesn’t even sound hurt; he sounds like you betrayed him by stabbing him in the ass and as you twist in his hold, it gets harder and harder to breathe, but he doesn’t let go.

Dex looks down on his side, staring at the fork embedded in the side of his buttcheek and can’t help but laugh, breathless, a little unhinged like this is the funniest thing that’s happened to him all week. Then his forearm tightens around your neck again, and you start hitting it, scratching him to get free, then your arms rise stretching them impossibly until they’re level with his face, and you hear a dull thud coming from Dex who presses his head to the ground so you can’t reach it, and his hand reaches your nose and mouth, covering them with the intention of putting you to sleep; such a disgusting combo.

However, your hands still fight, managing to bury themselves in his hair when he leans forward slightly, and you pull as hard as you can.

He's choking you while you pull at his hair, making his scalp hurt, and you both stay like that for a few seconds until you start to give in. So just as Dex feels you relax against his body, he confidently loosens his grip, freeing you with a sigh.

But luckily for him, you successfully lied.

You regain your strength, trying to pull yourself up from his torso, but he pulls you back down with a firm hand on your waist.

“Benjamin let go!” you groan and try to get up again, but he pulls you back down, sitting you on his hips and stealing a deep gasp from him. You move your hand, finding the fork embedded in his ass, and you twist it, burying it impossibly deeper, and you feel him tremble beneath you, hissing,

“Don’t call me that.” he mutters through gritted teeth, delivering a sharp blow between your shoulder blades that knocks the wind out of you and leaves you weak.

And finally, finally, you collapse, your back falling onto his chest once more, gasping for breath, and Dex lets his head fall to the floor, lips parted as he pants with his eyes closed.

Sore and exhausted, the back pain was really getting to him.

“You're the worst thing that has ever happened to me,” you start after a while, your voice hoarse, feeling his rapid heartbeat on your back.

Then as if you haven't gone through enough, you hear him giggle; he’s let his guard down.

“You’re welco—” he doesn’t finish because a bitter taste hits his mouth and his eyes widen as he realizes you’ve blindly shoved a pill down his throat while he was speaking.

It gets stuck and he starts coughing, choking because of it and you hope he finally dies.

“F—Fuck you.”

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 25 / 04 / 26

For the record, it's obvious he was holding back; if I had written it correctly he wouldn't have let reader land the first blow on his nose... Obvious masochistic undertones coming from him starting there.

This is all your fault.

You remember waking up in the middle of the night about three weeks ago to the sound of the door opening, you found him in the kitchen, bending down to look under the sink for cleaning supplies.

Dex had dried blood on his hands and a smug smile on his face as he mumbled a cheerful, soft greeting when he saw you, and you didn't respond because your mind was a little fuzzy from sleep and all you could see was the blood on his hands.

And that's when you made your mistake by opening your mouth.

“Damn, I bet you did good. You should start counting how many good things you've done out of the goodness of your heart until you reach, I don't know, a big number,” you joked for absolutely no reason.

By adding "goodness of your heart," you made it clear that it was a tasteless, silly joke that definitely slipped out due to your lack of self-control while half asleep.

The problem is, he didn't see it as just another one of your ridiculous jokes.

This new hobby of his—if you could even call it that—started within the line of what is considered normal.

You'd heard him muttering it to himself, so you didn't pay much attention until he started telling you directly, quite interested in your response.

You were brushing your teeth when, suddenly, he headed to the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed as he watched you. The space was already too small for him to be there, so you hoped whatever he had to say was relevant.

“Hold the door open for someone today. Plus five,” he said after a long, awkward silence where he was scanning you with those hazel eyes.

You didn't understand at all what he meant, so you frowned and spat out the minty foam from your mouth. “Five what?”

“Points.”

You turned your gaze to finally see him, and he was looking at you expectantly as if seeking your approval; in other words, what seemed to be his natural habitat.

“...Right.”

Not even five seconds after you looked back at the sink, Dex kept talking.

“Didn’t push a guy onto the train tracks, I think that’s plus ten.”

You sighed, silently asking for a little patience for what was coming, and you interrupted your rinse for a second so you could speak. “Dex—”

“Fifteen total,” he added thoughtfully, and you decided not to ask any more because you simply didn't feel like using your voice.

By the second week, he already has a notebook dedicated specifically to his calculations, along with other materials that are completely unnecessary.

You arrive at the apartment exhausted, and the first thing you notice as you approach is him sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Papers, books, drawing axes, and graph paper are meticulously arranged in front of him and three pens of different colors are positioned right next to his hand, when you get close enough, he lifts the page he's working on.

“There's a curve,” he says, tapping the thin paper. “Morality isn't linear”

You look at him intently. “Obviously,” you say, hoping your response will cut him off, but it doesn't.

“No, listen.” His eyes turn away from the flawless graphic to look at you again, and it is unpleasant how sharp and intense his gaze is, practically forcing you to pay attention to him. “Good actions have diminishing returns if they’re repetitive. But high-impact actions... Those spike the graph.” he savors the last words with delight and you can’t deny you’re a little curious about how his system works.

So you play along.

“What counts as high-impact?” You raise an eyebrow, and Dex grins, glancing down to find another sheet of paper in the lower left corner. He holds it up so you can see it clearly.

It’s a rather long list; you don’t even want to read it completely, so you focus on the highlighted sections, which are the most impactful.

Saved a child from being hit by a gray Kia Forte: +80

‎ Didn’t kill the driver afterward: +15 bonus restraint.

Further down the list, underlined with a fluorescent highlighter:

Ate your leftovers without asking: -10

You stare at the sheet of paper, and he watches you, waiting.

“…You could have asked for them.”

“I did, you ignored me.” he smiled.

By week three, which is now, there's a small whiteboard hanging on the living room wall, which you definitely don't like having there, but he's already dragged you into it.

The whole whiteboard is covered in numbers; it's more structured than the notebook, but less detailed, so you assume what you're seeing now is the basics.

You focus on the numbers and the categories written in capital letters.

MINOR GOOD (1–10 pts)

MODERATE GOOD (10–50 pts)

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED: MAJOR GOOD (50+ pts)

And in a different color just below that:

JUSTIFIED NEGATIVE ACTIONS (VARIABLE)

You raise an eyebrow, curious. “Dex,” you begin slowly, “What's that section?”

He turns to you, taking the cap off a green marker and a black one. “They're not really negative,” he explains, “Context matters there.”

And now he's writing something new.

Eliminated armed mugger: +50

Then underneath:

Occurred in front of 8 civilians: -25 (public distress penalty)

You sigh, shaking your head in disbelief and then glare at him. “You killed someone in front of eight people and you're calling it a net positive?”

Dex lets out a hoarse laugh “When did I say that, huh?” he asks defiantly and then continues. “They were very grateful, no need to whine about it... Don’t mess with my numbers,” he warns firmly but still with a hint of amusement.

“Don't you talk to me like that, fucking freak.” After these words he's just smiling at you, and that's a reminder that you can't even insult him because, for some sick reason, he seems to enjoy it.

All you can think about at that moment is that you should move out, hell, you should have moved the moment you found out who he really is. Sadly, you always end up hesitating because the rent is cheap, and he, let's say, he pays eighty percent of it and doesn't ask for much.

And surprisingly, nothing bad has ever happened to you because of him, even though he mentioned several times in vulnerable moments that everyone around him ends up leaving him.

That's when you realized it's best not to even think about leaving, so thanks to all that, you now find yourself putting up with his antics.

“Good news,” Dex says one night, collapsing onto the couch next to you while he's wearing his Bullseye costume, and if he’s sprawled out like that, it means he hasn't done anything yet and the suit is brand new again, which you mentally thank him for.

You keep staring at your phone screen, but you pay attention anyway, knowing he’s referring to his score thing. “Did you get a new high score?”

“Mhm,” he hums contentedly.

“I see, how much?”

“Five hundred.”

That’s impressive enough for you to turn and face him just to find him grinning like the Cheshire Cat and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes are more prominent, which fully awakens your curiosity. “Since when?”

Dex shrugs. “Cumulative adjusted.”

You roll your eyes at his response, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh. “That’s not how it works.”

“It is now,” he replies in a relaxed manner, leaning back on the sofa with his arms outstretched, sighing delighted while showing a conceited smirk that he definitely shouldn't have and you think for a few seconds about how you once believed he could get something worthwhile out of all this because he was "trying"—in his own twisted way—and perhaps in the very, very distant future he would realize that being good means something quite different than what he believes it means now.

How naive you were.

Of course he would change his own rules from time to time for his own benefit and to adapt them to his orthodox methods to obtain results that make him feel like he's doing good things that do not harm good people.

“Been making better decisions,” he adds after a few seconds, nodding toward the whiteboard and you turn your head and glance at it.

You hadn't even noticed that it now includes complex equations too, they're something about weighted morality coefficients.

And suddenly your attention is solely drawn to those red letters, written to be more noticeable and legible than everything else.

Your eyes widen as your brain registers the information. “Dex…” you say carefully. “Why the fuck does it say '+20; I didn’t kill my roommate'?”, even if it's ridiculous to admit it without even saying it out loud, your annoyance stems from the fact that it's only twenty points instead of more.

When you finish speaking, you look back at him, and he looks genuinely confused.

“Haven’t killed you yet.”

You don’t even care anymore.

“Okay, man,” you exhale, completely offended even if you do not care, sinking back into the sofa with your phone in your hand, and Dex moves closer to you, snuggling in your side settling in to join you in your peaceful scrolling.

“So glad I’m contributing to your growth.” you mumble.

“Mhm you are,” he purrs sweetly, and you roll your eyes.

Fucking sicko.

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 23 / 04 / 26

I made it a series omg I have so many ideas y'all...

Hello guys, we saw this is getting attention again, and we want your help to report this character AI bot that was made using this fic. We are aware of the high possibilities that nothing will happen, that doesn't make it less gross though.

If you're going to keep using generative AI, at least try to make it look like you contributed something by giving it ideas that came out of your own asshole. Have the decency to think about it by yourself, give those fried braincells a purpose.

Tears stream down his temples as his face, smeared with dried blood, wears a lascivious expression. You disengage the safety with a sharp click and keep aiming the gun just below the swollen head. The pathetic pleas he emits between thin lips chapped by your severe blows that managed to split his skin are enough to make you climb onto the bed, keeping the gun there, rubbing and pressing it against his sensitive frenulum as if your finger were drawing greedy little circles on a swollen clit.

Dex starts hyperventilating at your proximity, his sweaty chest rising and falling as you quicken your movements, the entire barrel of the gun painfully dragging up and down his wet cock and he mewls louder because it hurts so bad, it is burning his raw skin, reddening it much more, and that only pushes him closer to the edge.

Just when you know he's about to finish, when the thrusts of his hips are too sloppy and desperate and he's drooling like a wounded dog, you pull the gun away from his flesh to press the barrel hard against the mattress and then pull the trigger, discharging a bullet right next to his hip and the loud noise makes him jump, then tense up tightly while his pitiful release hits your lower body as he's arching his back, coming untouched too quickly for your taste, he's humping the air like a needy little thing, muffled sobs escaping his agape mouth and there's sticky warm cum staining his stomach, your clothes and part of his firm thighs.

Dex remains silent during that moment as you try to control your ragged breathing, and to your surprise, his brain plays sweet tricks on him; giving him the painful and overwhelming sensation that you shot him right there and there's blood flowing freely from his cock and an agonizing pain licks under his overheated skin and as he hallucinates with those torturous sensations he tries to breathe again, swallowing the lump in his throat.

He's laughing, sounding so broken, tears running down the corners of his eyes nonstop, soaking the pillow as he quivers. Sickly and chocking sounds fill your ears, and you start scattering kisses across his grimy face because he did so good for you.

Poor thing is just a sick and nauseous mess.

Pain envelops every inch of his body, adrenaline completely consumes him, and he simply can't stop crying beneath you, so euphoric and fascinated by the kind of pleasure only you can give him.

I CANNOT WAIT FOR TOMORROWS EPISODE BRAH I'M GONNA ROLL AND SQUEEZE HIS PROSTATE BETWEEN MY FINGERS LIKE A STRESSBALL THEY'RE FEEDING US SO GOOD AFTER YEARS OF BEING HUNGRY AS FUCK FOR SOME OF THAT BOOTY. IM BLOWING MY SHIT CLEAN OFFF

He smiles wearily when you try to lift your weight again after he insisted more than ten times that you can sit down and do whatever you want with him.

You would do it if it were that easy... If only shame didn't gnaw at you every time you grind your warm and wet pussy against his chest while your swollen clit gently kisses his hardened nipple with each small forward thrust, making him tense beneath you and look away from your face.

“Why—Why do you keep looking away?” you huff, trying to adjust yourself so you don't put all your weight on him in this awkward position while still being able to keep rocking on his breast, spreading your slick all over his soft skin.

Dex gasps when a particular movement of your hips makes you let out a breathy little noise that makes him feel dizzy so quickly, affecting him more than it should, managing to make his clothed cock twitch under his soothing hand.

“Nothing…” he breathes out after a moment, desperately trying to hide his flustered state while still being quite proud of making you feel that way. “It’s just that you look—look so good.”

That sweet and hoarse voice causes your face to burn in sheer embarrassment and your movements quicken over his chest without even wanting to, his words are accompanied by his free hand moving up your thigh, manhandling you and pawing at the flesh possessively until you’re finally sitting on him completely, at an angle where each thrust rubs your bare pussy against his nipple and the curve of his breast, parting your wet folds, soaking his muscle with your wetness.

The sensation of the skin against your sensitive clit weakens you more and more, and you have to lean forward to place your hands on either side of his head to be able to keep going and he yelps your name, almost high pitched, so pathetic, panting in ecstasy for the way you’re hovering over him now.

His hand is quickening its movements, the thin fabric of his pants is clinging to his weeping useless cock that doesn't stop leaking and he must be so wet, so sensitive.

The mere thought is enough to double your arousal, sending sweet tingles through your lower belly, and you decide to compliment him as well because you want to hear more of that needy little tone, “you look good too, Dex, so pretty...” you manage between broken gasps, closing your eyes to concentrate on how good and arousing it feels to hump his tit without stopping. Dex arches his back, squeezing his cock in fear of coming so quickly with just a few words while you use him as your toy.

“Do I? ” he asks so eagerly, looking at you with glossy eyes and adorable rosy cheeks, he's ruined and you haven't even done anything. How can he be so pathetic when you're not even touching him? It's truly obscene how much of a shameless whore he can be while you're fucking his big and pretty tits.

And to respond to his pitiful little question you just hum and nod desperately, suddenly craving more friction, going faster, dripping and panting incoherently when it doesn't seem enough.

Now, to make matters worse, it's his turn to mock you even though he's so close to finishing as he's stroking his cock roughly. Dex grins at you as he brings his free hand to your stomach, feeling the heat radiating fron your skin then going a little lower to press against your lower belly to make you quiver and twitch on top of him, forcing you to tell him again how good he looks while he purrs about how well you're doing for him.

Both of you constantly seeking the delicious praise that only you can give each other.

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 20 / 04 / 26

There isn't a single part of his body safe from me oh my days I'll soon post some bullshit about his spinal scar too since God personally asked me to.