pattie

The room was cold and unwelcoming.

The floor was even worse, stony and uncomfortable underneath your knees. How many days have passed since this torture began? You could not tell. But each day, each time you returned to this room from your cell, it felt like an eternity.

You received questions, again and again. Never told why, or what it was that they wanted from you. You responded to queries about things you've never heard of, and every answer seemed to be wrong or not good enough.

You were always with the same man whenever you were allowed to see. Sometimes they would blindfold you, but the voice would be different. You suspected it was still the Interrogator; something from his sadism never changed despite his efforts.

This man was driving you mad. He wanted to make sure you would not leave that interrogation sane.

Or alive.

Today was different.

Every day was different.

This time, there was no table, there was no chair, just a mirror secured to one of the pillars, and the man, in his white shirt, staring down at you.

He was eyeing you.

You wondered if he planned everything before or if his torture was a spur-of-the-moment thing. It was all so precise that it made you believe everything was a plan he had made ahead, but then, when he would lash out and change his behaviour altogether. It felt too real for you to think it was a scenario.

But maybe this was his plan? To make you question everything.

He wanted to make you doubt yourself.

The Interrogator was planning to sow the seed of uncertainty in your mind. To break the body was not enough; one had to break the mind to get what he wanted.

He came over, no emotion on his face.

What would he be like today? Will he start nicely and then change? Or will he force himself on you from the start?

The latter happened.

The Interrogator forced you down on your knees, pulling you by the hair and making you stay in front of the mirror, then he dropped down on his knees behind you. He sat peculiarly, forcing your legs to remain parted as he inserted his own knee between yours, his thigh under your cunt. The man's chest was flush against your back, and his lips were by your ear.

The uncertainty was driving you mad. You swallowed.

The Interrogator stared at your reflection, waiting for you to do the same. The sight was making you want to look away. Too many days he tortured you, so all you wanted was to force your gaze away, but he hated that. Your task was to obey and look, and when you acted against what he wanted, he punished.

The Interrogator gripped your jaw and forced you to stare right at your reflections together.

At first, he said nothing, only giving you time to take in the sight. You had a white, ragged dress they put on you when they abducted you. He, on the other hand, was always dressed freshly, clean and shaven, and in a suit. This time, no suit jacket, only his suit trousers and shirt, without his glasses, but with the same piercing expression on his face. His arms were muscular, and you saw it well now that his arms were around you, keeping you still and forcing you to look at yourself.

To see yourself and him, to become painfully aware of every marking on yourself. To recount every day spent under the interrogation, he gave you. You had no escape but to relive every second of your abduction.

"What do you see?"

"You and I."

"Wrong."

The Interrogator's hand gripped your hair roughly, pushing your face into the mirror, giving you no room to wriggle about. You were still as your face made contact with that icy reflective exterior.

"I asked, 'What do you see?'. Not, 'who?'"

"I see you forcing me to do something I don't want to do."

"WRONG."

He hissed again, pressing your face against the chilly surface until your breath formed cloudy vapours on it.

"What do you see?"

"I don't know what you want me to say!"

"Say the truth. Say that what you see is depravity. You are a whore, are you not?" The man's voice became lower, more intimate as that last word flew from his lips and lingered in your ear like a sentence.

"You are a perverse woman; you only comply when we force you to do so, it causes you pleasure."

You grunted, trying to close your eyes, but he pulled painfully at your hair until you had to open your eyes again.

"I will ask you again."

The Interrogator pulled your head back from the mirror, this time making you stare at your reflection again. You were kneeling with this man behind you, one hand of his on your shoulder, the other in your hair, keeping you still. He leaned in your ear again.

"What do you see?"

"Depravity."

You mumbled, but your head got yanked back, the hand from your shoulder moving around you, to your breast, squeezing it roughly through the thin fabric of your dress.

"Not enough."

"I am a whore."

His fingers found your nipple through the fabric, twirling it roughly. The Interrogator's mouth moved by your ear, and he gasped sluttily by it. The sounds made you react, and you tried to squeeze your thighs closer together, but he pressed his knee between them from behind, further up, forcing you to kneel with your thighs apart, cunt throbbing against his thigh that kept them parted.

"You are." His voice softened considerably, almost as if he were a different person. As if he regretted what he was doing to you. That ambiguity drove you mad because you could not tell which side was the real him. Each time you started to believe he was a cold, ruthless man who abused you, but when he softened up this way, you began to distrust your judgment.

"But that is fine, you just have to admit to it, and it all becomes easier."

He kneaded your breast through the fabric, in such a way that it no longer felt like a punishment but like a reward, and so the pleasure made you lean back against his chest, cunt resting on top of his thigh.

"It feels better when you come clean. Does it not? When you tell them the truth."

The Interrogator released your hair, his hand moving lower, to your knee, tracing his fingers up and under your dress. He lifted it, pushing your knickers aside. You could see it in the mirror.

The man had you against him, his chest against your back, arms locked around you, with one hand on your cunt and the other on your breast. He began to trace his fingers over your cunt, but when you tried to look away and not see the scene, he bit your earlobe until you squealed and returned your gaze to the reflective surface.

"See your own depravity. Be ashamed of yourself for loving every moment of it."

The Interrogator's previous sharpness returned, and you quickly complied to his order, watching how he eased his fingers against your slit, taking your arousal on them, then punishing them inside you, moaning by your ear to challenge you. Your cunt squeezes around his finger, and you grit your teeth, and he licks a line across your neck.

"You are so responsive."

His softness returned, the maddening change of his personality making you sit on the edge every second.

"You take it well, you deprived little thing. Look at yourself."

He squeezed his arms around you, locking you further into him while a second finger began prodding your cunt, joining the first one. You were throbbing around them, forced to watch how he pumped them into you. Your breast was in his other hand still, squeezed and kneaded to make you squirm.

And how you squirmed after he added the second finger and upped the speed of his ministrations, you jerked and rolled your hips. He held you so tightly into himself that all you managed to do was to worsen your case because your cunt was grinding against his thigh, leaving a wet spot on his trousers.

"Oh, sweet whore, look what you are doing. Can you not stop yourself? Are you that vile that you can only think about getting fucked?"

His fingers worked harder, his thigh pressing up into your cunt, making you mewl and toss around, forced to see yourself while he used you.

"I can fuck you, you know. No one will know. No one will believe you. I bet you will like it, you like these things. You are so wet while I use you. It's disgusting. You should be ashamed."

You felt your cunt was nearing an orgasm; it was so close that your tossing and your actions were nearly uncontrolled. The Interrogator knew that and pushed forward, calling you out while his fingers continued their attack on your cunt, until, when your orgasm was nearly crashing over you, he took his fingers out and, before you had time to whine about it, he forced you down on the cold floor, mirror to your side.

He pushed your head down, straddling your back. You grunted, forced to keep looking at the mirror, eyes slowly welling up with tears.

"Look at yourself, can you believe it? You nearly milked my fingers. You thought you could hide it from us? Was that all you ever wanted, to be used? We knew it, dear."

The Interrogator held your head down roughly as his other hand reached down to push his pants lower, until his cock was out. He forced himself inside you, without warning or objections from you. You accepted it. You knew he would do worse if you didn't.

"Whore."

His gentleness was gone, and so was his aggressiveness. Now he spoke with simple disgust and ignorance towards you, holding you down and forcing you to watch yourself as he pounded into you, using you for his own pleasure. There was no exchange of words, no passion, and not even any remarks. All you saw was the man's hips moving, rapid thrusts that only served to pleasure him while you were held down and used.

But he was right.

You were a whore, were you not?

Why did you like it?

The sight of it, the man using you, the expressions of disgust on his face, why did it arouse you?

What was wrong with you?

You were to him nothing but an inmate, and yet, you were horny.

The feeling of your own orgasm began to approach again, this time forming that knot faster within you, and despite your whines and cries for him to go harder, he did not listen. The Interrogator continued fucking you the way he liked it, and when you climaxed, he did not bother to stop or to guide you through it, just continuing until his own orgasm neared. He then pulled out, crawling on his knees to your face, and releasing his load on your cheeks, forcing you to see yourself like that.

A whore.

Nothing more than a whore who loved every moment of it.

He stood up, zipping his trousers and leaving you there. He left your dress rode up, your eyes were red, and your cheeks splashed with tears, cunt still spasming weakly from the aftermath of your pleasure, and your face splattered with his thick load that was dripping from your cheek to your lips and onto the concrete ground. You were dishevelled. You lie splayed on the floor, seeing yourself in that state.

You were cold.

You were confused.

Why were you there? What did he want? How did he know more about you than yourself?

Have you always been this way? So fucked up, so depraved?

Dex had gone white.

Then he had walked very calmly into the bathroom with one hand over his mouth and vomited until his ribs hurt.

Because yes, he loved you too.

He loved you so badly it felt like his body had mistaken affection for a terminal illness. He loved you until being away from you made his skin crawl. He loved you so much it made him cruel to himself. He loved you so much he wanted to crawl out of his own skin because wanting to keep you felt like a crime. He had wanted to be loved his whole miserable life, and then when you came along and loved him, he wouldn’t fucking trust it.

Because there was no way you loved him back.

Not really.

Not if you were whole.

Not if he had not done something to you first.

Because the first time you met, he had broken into your apartment. After all, your window had the perfect sightline into the building across the street.

Because you had caught him in your living room with a mug in your hand and sleep shorts riding high on your thighs, and he had looked at you like you were a small obstacle.

“What the fuck—”

His hand covered your mouth before you could get any louder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely, because he was one of the good guys now. “I just gotta do this one thing.”

You bit his palm.

He hissed, then caught your wrist and handcuffed you to the exposed water pipe under your kitchen sink.

He flexed his bitten hand once. “I said sorry.”

You glared up at him.

That day, you should have screamed yourself hoarse.

Instead, you had talked for six straight hours. 

You. Fucking. Yapped. 

Like a pomeranian on cocaine.

You had insulted his boots, his posture, his insane audacity. You demanded coffee. You asked if the gun was compensating for something (you later found out it was definitely not). You asked if he always tied women up before breakfast or if you were getting special treatment. You even threatened to bite him again if he came too close, then immediately asked if he was single.

Dex had sat by your window with a rifle scope pressed to his eye. He was pretty sure he fell in love somewhere between the twelfth complaint that your ass was sore and the twenty-first threat to sue him.

So now, eight months later, with you under him, legs wrapped around his waist and your body taking him so well he could barely breathe, all he could think was…

He had done this.

He had broken something in you.

Still, he moaned your name. You were perfect beneath him, pleasing him so well that his own voice kept dying in his throat every time he tried to speak. He could barely form the guilt into words because you kept squeezing around him like your body wanted him closer than close, like every thrust dragged a sound out of you that went straight through his cogmium spine and lit him up from the inside.

“You don’t love me,” he suddenly rasped, because of course he had to bring it up again while he was inside you.

You laughed, but it broke into a moan halfway through when he moved again, and the stretch of him made your whole body seize. “Dex…”

He choked on the spit buildup in his mouth because he was drooling at this point, his hands fisting in the sheets beside your head. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice ruined. “Don’t—don’t say my name like that.”

You tried to answer, but he was too much, too deep, fucking you into the mattress hard enough to make the bed frame knock harshly against the wall like every thrust was an argument he was losing.

“You’re so… hmph,” His forehead dropped against yours. His voice cracked. “God, you’re so fucking tight. I can’t think when you— when you feel like this.”

You could barely hear what he was saying, you just dragged him down by the neck and kissed the scar on his cheek. You were practically making out with it, because hyperfocusing on it helped bring you back to earth. “Dex… fuck!”

His whole body jerked at the sound.

“Don’t,” he rasped, but he didn’t stop.

His hips kept driving into yours, deep and rough, punching the breath out of you until your hands pawing at his skin. “Don’t say it like that.”

You tried to laugh again, but it came out as a shaky gasp when he pushed deeper. “Like what?”

“Like you, hmm.” His head dropped now, his mouth dragging wet and open against your throat. “Like you love me.”

Your nails dug into his back, giving his back scar company. “I do.”

Dex’s brows furrowed like you had hit him.

His pace faltered for half a second. Then the panic caught up to him and he thrusted harder, like he could outrun the words by burying himself deeper inside you. “N-no.”

“Yes.”

“No,” he said again, and it came out so small it was nearly swallowed by the filthy sound of his body moving against yours. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what this is.”

“I know exactly what this is.”

“You don’t.” His hand grasped the sheets. “You can’t. You can’t love me.”

You were struggling to keep your eyes open. He was stretching you so much every thought came apart before it finished forming, pleasure dragging through you hot and heavy, making your thighs shake around his hips.

Still, you forced yourself to look at him. “I do love you.”

Dex looked like he might be sick again.

Every time.

Every fucking time you said it, even if it was a hundred times a day, his heart broke a little. Like his body wanted the words and his mind rejected them. Like being loved by you was too impossible to fit inside him without tearing a wormhole open.

“You hear y-yourself?” he demanded, breathless, furious, hips still snapping into yours. “You hear how insane that sounds?”

You moaned, head tipping back against the ridiculously expensive pillows he had bought you because his last one ‘made your neck a little stiff’ once.

He groaned at the feel of you tightening around him. “Fuck… don’t—don’t do that.”

“I… ahh, can’t help it,” you managed, voice shaking. “I fucking love you.”

“No, you don’t.” He sounded almost angry now, but all of it was pointed inward, all of it soaked in guilt. “I cuffed you to a pipe. I— Fuck— scared you. I held you hostage and now you’re here, telling me you love me while I’m—” His teeth clenched, his body shuddering over yours. “While I’m doing this to you.”

“You’re not doing anything to me,” you forced out, gripping his arm hard enough to make him hiss. “I asked for this.”

His eyes burned. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“It does, actually.”

“You’re sick.”

“So are you.”

He laughed once, but there was no humor behind it. He then buried his face in your neck as his pace got messier. “I think I gave you Stockholm syndrome.”

“You didn’t,” you insisted. It was barely a sound, it was a miracle he heard you at all.

“You’re not listening.”

“You’re not thinking.”

“I am thinking.” His voice cracked on the last word because you tightened around him again and his forehead dropped to yours, “Shit, you drive me insane.”

“Good.”

“No.” He kissed you hard. “No, not good. That’s what I mean. You make me like this. You make me want too much.”

“You already want too much.”

His hips stuttered, and you saw the guilt pass over his face at once.

Then he drove into you harder. You cried out, and his eyes went dark.

“There,” he said, voice ragged. “That. You should hate me for this.”

“No, Dex.” Your hands slid up, catching his chin, forcing his face close to yours while he kept fucking you breathless. “You didn’t give me Stockholm syndrome. I. Love. You.”

He shuddered. His mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Then a broken moan as his body betrayed him again.

“You don’t,” he whispered.

“I do.”

“You can’t.”

“I can.”

“You’re perfect.”

“I’m not.”

“You are to me.” His voice sounded raw, almost boyish in its disbelief. “And if you love me, then I did something to you. I had to. I had to have broken something, because there’s no– hnggf— no other way.”

Your chest tightened.

He was still moving, still taking you apart with a rhythm so desperate it bordered on punishing, but his eyes were wet. His eyes filled with self-hatred. He looked like a man starving at a feast and hating himself for opening his mouth.

“Fine,” you gasped. “Have it your way.”

Dex went still for exactly one second. Not fully, and definitely not enough to pull out. Then his body reacted before his mind did and he thrust harder.

It was as if the sentence had scared him so badly he had to pin you beneath him with his weight, his mouth, his hands, his hips. Like if he stopped moving, the words would become real enough to take you away. “W-what?”

“Maybe— hm, maybe you did g-give me Stockholm Syndrome,” you said, voice shaking, half from pleasure, half from fury. “Now what?”

His breathing turned ragged.

“So what, huh?” Your nails dragged up his neck into his hair, combing his scalp “You gonna tell me to go?”

Dex’s face soured. “No.”

“You gonna leave me?”

“No.” The thought of it made him sick. You could see it. You could feel it. His whole body tensed, his grip tightening, his hips losing rhythm for a moment before coming back rougher, deeper, more desperate. 

Leaving you was the one noble thing he kept threatening himself with, and the second you suggested it, it destroyed him.

“No,” he said again, like he hated you for making him admit it. Like he hated himself more. “Don’t f-fucking ask me that.”

“But that’s what you’re… you’re saying.” You were so close now you could barely speak, words breaking apart every time he drove into you. “If you really think you ruined me, then stop.”

Dex’s eyes locked on yours.

Your mouth trembled into a cruel little smile. “If you really think, you— shit, you broke me, t-then stop fucking me.”

His breath hitched.

He didn't stop. 

You felt it in the way his body went even harder, even more frantic, like the command had gone straight into the darkest, neediest part of him and went feral.

“I-if you think you’re bad f’me, then get off me,” you whispered, mean and gentle all the same, by his ear, close enough to lick the lobe. “Then don’t touch me. Don’t kiss me. Don’t come in me, because we b-both know you’re— hmphh— planning to.”

Dex groaned, tortured, burying his face against your throat.

“No,” he rasped.

“No?”

“No.”

“Thought so.”

He kissed you then, hard enough to steal the rest of the taunt from your mouth.

It was perfect after that, fucking perfect and awful. Your bodies slick with sweat, his hands gripping your hips like he was trying not to bruise you and failing at restraint in every other way. He fucked you like he was confessing and denying the confession in the same breath, like every thrust said mine and every sound said I’m sorry.

“You should run,” he rasped.

“You’d follow.”

His eyes burned.

You smiled up at him, breathless and shaking. “And I’d let you c-catch me. I’m fucking into it.”

Dex looked ruined.

His rhythm stuttered, and for a second you thought that was it, that he was going to fall apart right there, but he grabbed your hips and flipped you with quick motion that left you dizzy.

Then you were on top of him.

Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips, your hands braced on his chest, and Dex looked up at you like you were killing him. His face was flushed, eyes wet, mouth parted as you sank back down onto him.

“Say it,” he said, voice destroyed.

You moved over him, thighs shaking, pleasure making you unsteady. “Say what?”

His eyes opened, furious and starving. “Say– fuck, baby— that you know you could leave and I’d let you leave.”

Your chest tightened. “Dex.”

“Say it.” His grip tightened, not forcing, just holding on. “Say you know the door isn’t locked. Say you know I’d let you go.”

You stared down at him. At the man who had wanted love so badly it made him monstrous with fear. At the man who still believed wanting you was worse than first degree murder. At the man underneath you, shaking, begging for proof that this was not captivity while his body betrayed how badly he needed you to stay.

You leaned down until your mouth brushed his.

“I know I can leave,” you whispered. “I-I know you’d let me.”

His breath collapsed.

Then you kissed the corner of his mouth without ruining your rhythm. “But I’m not.”

Dex broke under you.

His hands slid up your back, dragging you down against his chest as he thrust up into you, needy and completely undone. You could barely keep up, barely keep speaking, your forehead pressed to his as you rode him. 

“I love you,” you said again. and this time, he knew you meant it.

That was what did it for him. Not the heat. Not the filth. Not the way you tightened around him or the way he was losing himself inside you, though that helped.

That.

The idea that you had chosen him with all your mind intact.

Your breath hitched first, then your whole body seized, pleasure dragging you under so good that your words turned into a ruined little sound against his mouth. Dex’s eyes widened, his hands clamping around your waist as you went through it.

“There,” he rasped. “There she is.”

You came too hard to answer him properly, nails digging into his chest as he kept you there. “There she is,” he said again, almost broken. “That’s my girl.”

And then Dex broke completely.

He buried his face in your neck as he came after you, groaning your name like an apology, like a confession, like it was the only prayer he knew. His body trembled beneath yours, his arms locked around you while he spilled inside you, holding on as if letting go too soon might make the whole thing disappear.

Afterward, Dex held you like an apology.

His mouth fluttered gentle kisses over your temple, your cheek, your throat, frantic in little broken bursts. He kept whispering sorry so many times the word stopped sounding like language and started sounding like breathing.

You were half-asleep against his chest, your fingers tucked loosely against his ribs.

He kissed your forehead again. “Sorry.”

You breathed out, half asleep. “For what?”

Dex went quiet.

He didn’t know, not really. He was sorry for the pipe, for wanting you too much, for needing you in a way that still scared him. He was sorry for looking at your love and thought it must have been damage.

His arms tightened around you.

You opened your eyes just enough to look at him. His face was ruined, like he was still trying to decide whether holding you counted as selfish.

You giggled softly.

“Dex,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded, fingers lazy in his hair. “If I’m broken, then I was broken when you found me.”

His breath stopped.

You smiled like that was supposed to comfort him.

Instead, it crawled into him and settled under his ribs, sweet and infected. It made his heart thump hard against his ribs. It made the guilt twist, mutate, turn into a warm and fuzzy feeling. Because there you were, looking at him like he wasn’t the man that had ruined you, but the man that had finally made sense. Like whatever was wrong with you had looked at whatever was wrong with him and fuckin’ purred.

Dex stared at you, eyebrows relaxing.

You touched his face, thumb dragging gently over his cheek scar, and he leaned into it before he could stop himself. 

Pathetic. So utterly gone for you. 

“I love you,” he said.

It came out hoarse. 

You shrugged like you knew all along. 

“I love you,” he said again. His hand tightened at your waist. “I love you.”

And for the first time, Dex wondered if Stockholm syndrome could happen the other way around, to the captor instead.

There was probably a fancy word for it. Some clinical term made by people with normal hearts. Something he could look up, self-diagnose, dissect, pretend to understand.

But Dex didn’t care.

If that was what had happened to him, then fine.

He didn’t want it cured.

—end. 

Once you were in your twenties, you made peace with the fact that it wouldn’t happen for you. The relationship thing wasn’t in your cards, you just weren’t built for it. It created a sad acceptance within you, but one that was needed to not go into a mental spiral.

“-ey, were you listening?” The words drifted to the forefront of your mind, dragging you away from your trail of thoughts.

You paused in folding the shirts on display before you, turning to your coworker that was looking at you expectantly.

“Uh yeah, the closing right?” You struggled to remember what Jess had walked over to you for, but you were sure it was because she needed something. Nobody really spoke to you when they didn’t need something.

“Yeah, you can do it right? I can’t do it and Marcus needs someone to cover.” Her green eyes stared at you pleadingly.

It was a request, but it didn’t feel like one. Especially since you were the only ones still working in the clothing store this late.

“Ah, I don’t-" You thought about what was waiting for you back at your apartment. A relaxing shower, the usual quick dinner, and a puzzle of choice. Not the most exhilarating routine, but you enjoyed it. You really didn’t want to close alone.

Just do it, say no. It’s not fair for you to do everything yourself and it’s not like she’ll appreciate it.

You almost did. The refusal was on the tip of your tongue when you had a flash in your head, the disappointment on her face, the awkwardness of the next shift. How she would talk about you to your other coworkers.

“Okay, I can cover.” You blurted, adverting your eyes to continue folding.

She gave you a quick grin, already turning towards the break rooms before replying, “Great! You’re a lifesaver. I’ll definitely pay you back.”

She wouldn’t, just like she didn’t for the four other times you covered her shift. 

“You’re welcome.” It’s muttered with a sigh into empty air, Jess was long gone. You thought about all the unfinished work you had to do alone, already regretting your decision.

You went into autopilot for the next few hours, slipping into the mindless task of organizing displays and adjusting price tags. The small upside was that the clothes in your store kind of sucked, so you didn’t have any customers to tend to.

“You set?”

The words made you jump. You looked up in surprise to find Marcus, who had meandered out of his office without your notice. Being a middle aged man on the heftier side, you didn’t know how he could move so quietly.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The drawer, are you ready for me to take it? I’m gonna close a little early, don’t think it’ll be picking up anytime soon.” He motioned a thick hand towards the empty room to accentuate his point.

You nodded jerkily, shuffling out the way as he unlocked the cash drawer. Another beat and a ring of keys were being tossed your way.

“We’ll, I’m gonna count this out then I’m off, you know what to do.”

Marcus was already shuffling down the hallway before you could form a response.

He wasn’t wrong, you did know what to do. Once he was gone you got back into the automatic motions of clean, lock, organize, until the shop is fully shut down.

There was no stress, no talking or loud music, it was almost fun in a way. Fun if you forgot how you were forced into working at least.

You clicked the last light off with a sigh, shrugging your purse up your shoulder where it threatened to fall off. Going out the back door sent a wave of trepidation within you, but unfortunately it was required. The alarm was already set on the front doors and you didn’t have the keys to those.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. New York had only gotten more dangerous in recent years, with the corruption in politics and anti-vigilante outrage.

Once you were outside, you had to be careful to avoid any trouble. No one could be trusted, not even the police who were put there to protect citizens like yourself. You imagine if you got mugged on your way to the train, the officers on the corner wouldn’t even flinch.

Definitely not an anxiety inducing thought. Not at all.

You swung open the door, locking it quickly behind you. Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you started to make way to the front of the building.

The alley stunk of pee and other things you really didn’t want to identify. The only light around was motion sensor activated and perched on the doorway. Said light was already fading the further you stepped away, the alley delving into darkness.

You quickened your steps.

There was a slight relief in making it back onto the main street. At least there you had streetlights and the buzz of the city around you.

The sidewalk was mainly empty, and you could count on one hand the amount of cars that passed by. Most people out at this time were like you, getting off work, or getting to an early shift with a bleary look in their eyes.

You kept your head tucked down, avoiding eye contact with anyone around you. All you had to do was make it to the train, from there it was a straight shot to your apartment. Easy, simple. You could do this.

You reached the subway entrance, practically flying down the steps. The trains were relatively reliable in this part of town, so you shouldn’t have to wait too lon-

Your thought process was interrupted by a series of grunts, followed by a shout. Ducking behind a pillar, your eyes grew into saucers as you scanned for the cause of the noise.

It wasn’t a hard search, in the middle of the station was a group of men standing over something-no, someone. There was a man there, curled into himself on the cracked tile of the subway. You could barely make out his face past the blood streaming from his nose.

“Please! I don’t have it, I- just give me one more week I’m begging!” His words could barely be understood past a thick Brooklyn accent and the gurgle of blood in his throat.

One of the men snapped his fingers, and another kicked the whimpering man in the stomach, the impact making a sickening crunching noise.

You covered your mouth in an attempt to not scream, mind racing with options. Calling 911 was firmly out of the question, but running back up the stairs seemed promising. You just didn’t know if you’d be quick or quiet enough that they didn’t notice you.

Then there was the train. A quick glance at the schedule showed a less than three minute wait. If you timed it right…

“Please, I’ll do anything please-“

He was cut off by the man before who gave the attack order. “You should’ve thought about that before trying to steal from Moretti, fuckin’ rat. You should be grateful it’s just you and not your fucking family too, that’s how nice boss is.”

It was clear the man speaking was in charge, at least of the small group there. He was faced away from you, but a wayward glance from any of the men could put you in danger.

You stifled a gasp, sucking a sharp intake of air. In focusing on the group, you had forgotten to breathe.

Your heartbeat was a staccato in your ears, the blood flow dimming the sound around you.

They were going to kill that man, and there was nothing to do but watch. They were going to kill him, then they were going to kill you. Oh god, they were going to kill you if they found you.

You felt the telltale beginning of a panic attack start up, your heart rate escalating even further. This was not the time to freeze up. You pinched the skin of your hand between two fingers, the pain sobering you.

This was not the time to freeze.

The man was saying something else, the tone threatening. He was speaking in a much lower tone than before, and you couldn’t make out the words.

In a blink, he dove forward, hand jutting towards the man below him in quick successions.

It wasn’t until the growing pool of red that you realized he had stabbed him. There was a sick gurgling noise that reverberated around the subway that took the strength out of your legs.

Your purse slipped off your shoulder, clinking to the ground.

The sound alerted one of the guys closest to you. A frown quickly overtook his face as he looked you up and down.

“Hey! What’re you doing over there?”

This is how you’ll die, in a dirty subway all alone. Your family probably won’t even find out what happened.

Light flowed onto the platform from the incoming train. The screech of wheels flipped a switch in your brain.

No, you scrambled to your feet, not like this. You were not going to let it end like this.

You could hear a series from shouts and pounding footsteps behind you as you ran down the platform. Nearly tripping over a bench, you righted yourself as the train finally screeched to a stop.

The doors opened, but you kept running, an internal timer ticking in your head.

A little bit more… five, four, three-

You shoved your self to the side, slipping into a train car right as the doors closed. The others tried to follow, but they were too far behind.

You stared, wide eyed as they pounded on the window in anger. You could hear muffled threats behind the metal, but your eyes focused on the man from before.

He wasn’t yelling, or beating on the door. He only stared at your chest with a scowl. More specifically, the logo on your work shirt and your printed name tag beneath it.

Shit.

Dex was unbelievably, inconceivably, bored.

This meeting was already taking longer than he usually tolerated, and if he didn’t have good work with them before he would’ve left.

But no, this gang boss in particular was quite an egotistical bastard, and liked to pay a very nice penny on all his hits. It probably made him feel important to wave an excessive amount of money around and have people disappear.

Quite frankly, Dex couldn’t give a shit about what he felt. Money or not, his patience was running thin. Another five minutes waiting in this damp warehouse and he might just leave, or start throwing things.

He hadn’t decided which.

“Taking his sweet time huh?” He wasn’t really speaking to anyone in particular, just musing aloud, but one of the nearby goons replied anyway.

“Sorry, he had something else to wrap up. He should be here any second.”

Dex only clicked his teeth in response, busying his hands with a dagger absentmindedly. The other man’s eyes widened slightly at the display, tracking the dagger is it was thrown in the air.

Behind his mask, Dex’s lips flicked into a smirk. He wondered what the man would do if he started using the wall behind his head as a dart board, that would be interesting.

The seconds ticked by, and he was about to start some impromptu target practice when the man of the hour walked in.

“Bullseye, my friend! So kind of you to join us.”

Moretti was a small man, much smaller than one would expect the boss of a crime empire to be. There was nothing overtly menacing about him other than the beady gleam of his eyes. Of course, no one vocalized their surprise at that, because they’d end up at the bottom of the Hudson.

He reminded Dex of a small pet with a snappy temper. Like a rabid chihuahua nipping at people’s heels.

“I would think with all that money you’d own a clock.” The man’s words had ignited a flare of irritation within him. He was always annoyed by fake niceties, especially after he had waited thirty-five minutes.

Moretti’s thick eyebrows scrunched in faux concern, “My apologies, I had something else to finish up, I would never mean to keep you waiting-“

Dex cut in before he could finish the bullshit speech, “Who, and where?”

He was here for a job, not to have a tea party. All he needed was the marks information and the payment, then he’d be on his way.

Despite being cut off, the smaller man didn’t show any sign of anger. He knew better than to start unnecessary fights. “A small problem, you shouldn’t have much issue. It is time sensitive however, if she talks it would cause a great deal of issues for me.”

A woman then. Unlikely she’ll put up a fight. Disappointing.

“She saw some things she shouldn’t have. Here,” he stepped forward, a folded paper in his outstretched hand. “they got the job and her name, you should be able to take it from there yes?”

He snatched the paper, scanning over the information quickly before turning on his heel. “Fifteen thousand, same as before.” His voice carried behind him as he walked to the exit of the warehouse, hands in constant movement.

Moretti clapped his hands as if he were signing off on the deal. “Agreed, you’ll receive the wire tomorrow.”

“She’ll be dead by the end of the day.” Faster than anyone could track, he flicked the paper behind him, the point of a paper airplane imbedding into the forehead of the wide-eyed grunt from before.

The man let out a startled shout as blood trickled over his nose.

Dex ignored the commotion, grinning as he walked into the crisp night air.

Time to find a little tattle-tale.

Maybe you did have powers.

It wasn’t super strength, or advanced intelligence. It wasn’t even the power to turn invisible.

No, it had to be the ability to get in the worst situations imaginable. Super bad luck. No one’s life could be this laughably bleak, it had to be a higher power.

After that night at the subway, you couldn’t even sleep, much less leave your house. The day after the incident was your off day, so it didn’t affect much. You did however have to call off two days after that, feigning sickness.

You don’t know if your boss bought it, but considering you have never really taken a sick day before, you felt it was due.

But you couldn’t stay inside forever, you had to go back to work eventually. Getting fired would definitely do you no favors.

There was something else.

In the last few days you’d had a feeling, like spiders crawling over your skin. It was the sinking feeling of being preyed upon. Watched.

You knew they were there. You didn’t know how you knew, but you did.

There was no evidence, no threatening letters or anything out of place. Anyone listening to you would think you were insane, but you knew it wasn’t just your hysteria. You could feel it.

The only thing you were confused about was their inaction. Why hadn’t they killed you already? Not that you were complaining of course, but it just didn’t make sense.

Were they waiting for you to try to call the police? Were they not fully sure it was you at the station?

It was the cycle you went through. For days just driving yourself mad with questions and counting down the time. You hadn’t come up with a plan yet, but time was running out.

You had to go out into the world eventually.

The time went quicker than you expected. You had called off your fourth day when Marcus firmly hinted that your job might be in danger if you didn’t come in for your next shift.

You agreed, one last day of hiding and then you would come in.

Your hands trembled as you clicked the combination to your locker in the break room. Taking a deep breath, you took one last furtive glance at your belongings before turning to clock in.

“Didn’t know you hated customers that bad Oranges.” A mocking voice chimed behind you.

You tried to ignore him altogether, but he picked up his pace to walk by your side. “Don’t worry, I won’t snitch.” Matthew shot a conspiratorial glance your way, winking.

It took all your resolve to not roll your eyes. As if today wasn’t already horrible, you had to work with your least favorite person.

Matthew always found a way to antagonize you somehow. It wouldn’t have been that bad, if it weren’t non-stop. He always singled you out about something, with a fake friendly tone as if you were both in on the joke.

It started with the first week you started working. You were eating your lunch quietly, and as you started to unpeel the included orange a stream of juice shot at your face.

You could only sit there in mortification as Matthew cackled in your face. He insisted on calling you Oranges after that.

“What are we so worried about?” He continued, like you weren’t ignoring him. “If you need to relax I think they have a stress ball in the back rooms. I know you have issues with that stuff.” He could barely get out the words without laughing.

More silence from you.

“Alright then. Don’t blame me if you freak out, see ya Oranges.”

You let out a relieved sigh at his retreating frame, grabbing the clothing rack near you and resigning yourself to eight hours of torture.

Your neck let out a series of pops as you stretched it in your doorway. The house keys in your hand were tossed in the dish by the door and your jacket was shrugged off your shoulders into a pile on the ground.

“You should take better care of your things.”

The words stopped you in your tracks. You’d been so focused on the aches in your body and getting to the shower, you failed to notice the large figure in your living room until they spoke.

There was a man shrouded in shadow sitting on your lounge chair. In his hands was one of your puzzle boxes, and he seemed to be reading over it like it was the most important thing in the room.

“Please don’t.” You could barely recognize the way your voice squeaked out, strained with fear.

He looked up for the first time, eyes glinting behind a blue ski mask. “Don’t what?” His voice was deep but scratchy as it travelled across the room, as if he’d worn it out by yelling.

You could also hear a hint of amusement in his tone. He was enjoying toying with you.

“Don’t mess up my puzzles, or my apartment please. If you can, make it quick.” Your reply was more stable than before, having overcome the initial shock of his appearance.

In truth, you’d come to the conclusion you’d probably die no matter what days ago. At first, you were scared out of your mind, but like every other bad hand in your life, you accepted it. You just didn’t want whoever found you to have to deal with a mess.

His head tilted as if considering your answer, one finger twirling the box like one would do a basketball. “Not gonna beg for your life? Plead for another chance?” There was still the mocking tone, but now it carried confusion as well. He genuinely couldn’t understand why you were so calm.

Taking careful steps over to the couch, you could make out more details of him in the light of your living room lamp. He looked like a textbook assassin, wearing all black, save for the blue mask covering his face. The dark fabric of his ensemble held more compartments you could count, and the rest was stretched over a sturdy frame.

He was leaning back in your recliner chair leisurely, legs spread to take up even more space.

You let out a deep sigh as you flounced down on the couch across from him. “No, not really. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but it’s not much to plead for.”

He stopped spinning the box and looked around, as if taking in the apartment for the first time. Your lack of personal photos, the books and puzzles lining the walls. Every item spoke of a very monotonous lifestyle. “This is pretty depressing, yes.”

Of course, what were you expecting? Hopefully he doesn’t make it too difficult for anyone to clean your blood out the place.

You nodded in acceptance and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable. After about a minute of waiting, you opened them to find him staring at you.

The piercing gaze kept you still until he spoke again, “What’re you doing?”

‘Waiting for you to kill me’ just sounded silly, so you said nothing, adverting your gaze.

After a few more moments of quiet, you cleared your throat, “If you don’t mind, how long have you been in here?”

It was a morbid curiosity that drove the question. The idea of him waiting in your living room just to kill you, twiddling his thumbs was enough to make a sardonic chuckle rise in your throat.

You pushed down the urge. The man seemed fairly calm so far, but laughing at him definitely would do nothing in your favor.

He reached up a gloved hand, scratching at his jaw. “About a half hour.”

You blinked, “Oh, okay.”

Quite frankly, you were running out of things to say. How does one even strike up a conversation with their killer? You shouldn’t have even felt the need to make the man comfortable, but you did for some reason.

In a flash he was leaning over you, one hand on the back of the couch to speak directly in your face. “What’s your problem? Hm? You didn’t even do anything wrong and you won’t fight for your life? How is that fair?”

His other hand gripped your chin firmly, you could feel the warmth of the of his hand seeping through the fabric. With his face so close, you could see every detail of his brown eyes scrunched in anger.

You could also see more of the little items strapped around his waist and in the compartments of his pants. Knives. More knives than anyone (murderer or not) should need, in your opinion.

“I’m sorry?” Now you were a bit peeved. Who was he to lecture you about valuing your life when he came in here to kill you?

Unless… he wasn’t here to kill you, but do something much worse. A new flash of fear goes through you. You were prepared for a quick death, you were not prepared for torture, or the other ways a man could hurt a woman.

He must’ve seen the change in your face, because the hand on your chin swiftly dropped to his side.

He moved slightly out of your space, mumbling to himself. You could barely catch the words ‘balance’ and ‘worth it’ in the rambling.

“Okay,” he dipped away, back to the chair. “okay.”

You blinked at him again, “Okay?”

“Yes.” His tone, despite being amused again, invited no further questioning. He had reached a decision within himself, you just had no idea what that decision was.

With that, he settled back into your chair with all the ease in the world.

“You should go to sleep now. Been a long day.” Like before, his tone was closed off. What might’ve been misinterpreted as a request was definitely a demand.

You slowly rose to your feet, half convinced it was a trick and he’d shoot you at any moment, but nothing stopped you from gathering your bag and going into the bedroom.

Even as you shut and locked the door, there was no action, just a glinting gaze following you in the darkness.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. The last thing you recall was the unnerving conversation with the intruder before jerking awake the next morning.

A quick check showed that none of your clothes had been moved and there were no injuries on you. Despite your hair looking like a birds nest, you looked exactly did after work the day prior.

You were alive. Another day knowing someone was out to get you, and another day of being able to do nothing about it.

You groaned, trying to settle your hair with one hand as you rolled out the bed. Washing up in the bathroom was quick business. After feeling clean again in new clothes you moved to unlock the bedroom door.

Wait. He wouldn’t still be here, would he?

You highly doubt the intruder would stay for coffee in he morning, but the whole thing had been so strange you couldn’t rule anything out.

Slowly, you pressed an ear to the door, straining to hear anything on the other side.

Nothing.

You un-clicked the lock, still moving at a snails pace. Once there was a half inch sliver open, you took a peek into the living room. Empty, no homicidal men with a hundred knives in sight.

You let out a breath of relief, walking into the room. One last search throughout your place proved that there was truly no one there.

Even so, there was an unsettling feeling you couldn’t shake. You ignored it, moving to start up your coffee maker.

It wasn’t until you were halfway through your breakfast that you realized the issue. Your place was spotless, much cleaner than you’d usually keep it.

You didn't consider yourself a slob, but there was always little things here and there left behind. A few dishes in the sink, a bit of dust. The room was now so clean it looked clinical.

Every can or box of pasta in your cabinet was neatly organized and turned to the front. Swinging open the door to your fridge, you found that all your old food you’d been ignoring was thrown away. Each shelf was sparkling clean and just as orderly as the cabinets.

All your puzzle boxes were in straight, dust free columns next to books sorted by size.

What the hell is happening?

It’s just because you’ve been bored. Nothing else.

Dex had been rationalizing his actions since that first day. He had yet to come up with a solid reason for letting you live, and it sent a distressing feeling up his spine.

He did not do things for no reason.

That was a quick way to spiral, to sink into nothing. No, everything in his life had a reason and purpose. So what were you?

It started the day after the meeting with Moretti, he was poised just across from your window. There was a bolt-action rifle in his hands, and he was perfectly poised to take the shot as promised.

As he watched, you walked around your bedroom in circles. He could see your mouth moving at certain points, but no sign of you talking on the phone. It was clear you were in distress, but made no attempts to get help.

He already had access to your phone line. Throughout the night into the next day, you didn’t try calling the police, not even once.

It seems New York is catching on, those scrubs in uniforms can’t help you. If you want justice, you have to take it yourself.

He continued to watch you with a detached expression, not taking the time to consider why he hadn’t finished the job yet.

He watched as you left to take a shower, coming back a bit later in loose pajamas. He watched as you put a show on your tv, your distracted expression half aware.

You eventually found the television insufficient at calming you, and started digging through the haphazard boxes of puzzles on your shelves.

His fingers practically itched at seeing it, old habits compelling him to march in there and line everything up neatly.

He shook it off, eyes trailing to where you sat on the floor beginning the edges of a very large landscape puzzle.

You were losing yourself in it, the frown in your eyebrows lessening the more progress you made through the picture. Eventually, you had calmed enough that there was almost a smile tilting your mouth.

His eyes stayed there for a moment, wondering what a full smile from you would look like. He definitely hadn’t seen one today, and no search online showed any pictures of you exhibiting anything other than mild discomfort or apathy.

He could almost imagine it, the plush of your lips tilting up, then slowly growing. How your eyes would crinkle, glinting up at him.

At him?

At him?

The fuck was he doing?

He had a job to do, a job he was paid quite handsomely over, and he was sitting here on his ass playing make believe.

He whipped the rifle in position, capturing your face in the scope. He didn’t really need it, your shot was clear enough, especially with his abilities.

Even though it was simple, the clearest shot in the world, his fingers never pressed the trigger. He sat there, as the sky darkened into reds and melted into a dark navy, never taking a single shot.

He couldn’t even pretend that the sick worm inside of him wasn’t hungry for more. He didn’t try to act like he wasn’t coming back the next day.

He thought that would be enough. One more day of observation would be enough to satiate him. Just one more.

Dex felt like the sad sons of bitches at the liquor store on the corner. Just one more bit, I can quit any time I want to.

But he did need just one more bit, and he could quit any time he needed to. This was nothing like Jul-

He broke that train of thought with a snarl. Tonight. Tonight he would end this game and get it over with. She got off work at ten, and when she did he’d be waiting there. After that, it be simple, one shot to the head and she wouldn’t be his problem anymore.

Moretti didn’t exactly ask for proof of delivery, nobody was stupid enough to question Dex after he worked a job. If he said he did it, then he did it.

Except he didn’t do it. Moretti hadn’t asked, and he didn’t tell. But the man wasn’t an idiot, he’d find out eventually.

Even more reason to get rid of you as soon as possible.

He had the plan solidly in his mind. Wait until you walked in with your guard down, lodge a knife in your throat before you could blink.

This night, you took a bit longer than usual. Dex was dully aware that this didn’t bother him. He wasn’t upset by waiting, there was a tingling anticipation within him.

Eventually, you walked through the door, shutting it behind you with a click. You didn’t notice him at first, stretching out your neck and the muscles in your back.

You dropped your coat to the ground, stepping over it without a second glance. You were still shifting your head from side to side, trying to alleviate some tension.

He would be able to do it almost immediately. With his hands on your neck he could target the exact points of your muscle pain. His index finger flinched at the thought.

His eyes flickered to the flash of skin on the side of your neck, words coming out of his mouth before he could recall the plan he came in with.

He was barely even aware of what he said, just your response. He watched with rapt attention as your eyes widened, taking him in.

As your eyes scanned his frame, he could feel his hips shift forward slightly.

A myriad of expressions flickered through your face, fear, surprise, anger. He took them all in with delight. The buzz of anticipation from before rose to a crescendo, he couldn’t wait to see what you’d do.

Would you beg? Offer to pay him for your life?

Despite coming in your apartment with a clear directive, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d do if you asked him to spare your life.

Not important, focus.

You didn’t do anything he expected. Instead of a blubbering mess, you were composed, if not a little annoyed.

If he didn’t already know it before, it was clear you valued your small possessions. You seemed to care about the puzzles more than your own life.

It made him angry.

Who were you to throw him off? Why were you doing this to him? This is not how this was supposed to go.

He got within a hairsbreadth of your face, trying to intimidate you. Break the facade. It didn’t work, you only seemed more annoyed by the attempt.

Until you weren’t. Something about his stance towering over you seemed to ignite a thought process. He wasn’t a mind reader, but he could tell the cause of your discomfort pretty easily.

He let you go quickly, as if he were burned. He would not hurt you, not like that.

Dex weighed his options. Killing you would make things a lot simpler, both with Moretti and the urges in his mind. This is what he knew best, the only real thing he’s good for. You would be no problem to take care of.

Only issue? The more he thought about putting a bullet in your head, the more he was sure that was the last thing he wanted to do.

This wasn’t even his typical area. The snitches he usually tracked down had blood on their hands, a dark past they were scrambling to escape.

You weren’t necessarily a good person, you didn’t volunteer at food drives or regularly give to charity, but nothing warranted your death. There was no scale for him to equal.

You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He’d reached his decision. Fuck Moretti, he’d deal with that weasel bitch later. For now, he’d have to get you shuffled off to bed.

There was something he was itching to do since he got there.

He didn’t show up that day.

Your off day was spent with anxious anticipation, like he would randomly jump out of your cabinets and scare you shitless.

Despite your worry (hope), Knives never showed. You took a page out of Matthew’s book and gave him a nickname, if only to avoid calling him ‘the man’ in your head.

The more you thought about it, the more perplexed you were.

A masked killer came into your home, had a fairly civil conversation with you, then did your chores?

No matter how much you thought about it, none of that made sense. You should have been dead days ago. If they decided not to kill you, they should at least know by now you weren’t going to snitch.

You didn’t even consider calling the police.

You groaned, head tilting back against your apartment elevator. Your day at work had been relatively uneventful.

Nobody really spoke to you much, sans Matthew who always had something to say. This time about your dark circles and whether or not you had a mental breakdown. And he wondered why his girlfriend left him.

You cracked open bleary eyes to look at yourself in the metal walls and winced. Maybe they had a point, you wouldn’t talk to yourself either looking like this.

There was prominent darkness under your eyes, framing the haunted look within them. Your face was pinched in a permanent frown, and you lifted up a hand to relax the expression.

The elevator doors opened with a ding, and you started the trek over to your door. You raised a hand to unlock it, pausing half way.

Putting your keys back in your pocket, you tried the handle of your door. It opened easily.

Your heartbeat quickened but you didn’t halt your movement, continuing inside the apartment. Everything was just like you left it earlier, dim lights and the tv on as background noise.

You took slow steps to the center of the room, spinning in a circle. He wasn’t there.

The living room and kitchen were both empty, and you didn’t know whether to be happy about that or not.

Why would he just leave your door unlocked when he wasn’t even here? There were robbers in the area, what if someone happened to try your door?

You ran a hand through your hair, barking a laugh. You had forgotten for a moment who he was. He was not a friend or visitor that would care whether or not you were robbed.

But why would he clean your house then?

You weren’t sure if you’d ever find the answer to that last question.

Still on edge, you tip-toed towards your couch, where you unceremoniously dumped your bag and coat. Stretching out your shoulders, you walked towards the bedroom.

You were expecting a boiling shower with warm pajamas to slip into before crashing. You were not expecting a six-foot something man to be leaning over your bedside drawer, rifling through its contents.

“Hey!” You said, equally in surprise and indignation. “That’s private. Put that down.”

Brown eyes flicked up to you from where he’d been reading your notebook. It wasn’t a diary per se, but it held some personal thoughts you’d rather stayed private.

Knives leisurely sat the book on your bed, putting up his hands in faux surrender. “Were you looking for me?”

His voice was just as gravelly as the first night, snaking over your ears. It was much lighter however, he sounded almost… happy?

You cleared your throat, fighting back a shiver. “What?” Did he see you searching your apartment like a goof? Probably.

You could see his lips curl into a smirk beneath the mask, capturing your attention for a moment.

You wondered what he would look like without it.

You could see more of him in the daylight, like the light eyelashes framing his eyes and the similar tone of his eyebrows. The mask was filled out with a sharp frame, and you could see the cut of prominent cheekbones under the fabric.

“Nothing. What’s that about?” He nodded towards your notebook he had been reading.

He was still holding his hands up, for what you had no idea. Maybe he thought it was funny to act like you were the one in power here.

“It’s a notebook, you write in them.” You didn’t care to go over your innermost thoughts with a stranger, briskly avoiding the subject.

His eyes flashed in an emotion you couldn’t place, hands finally coming down to rest at his sides. “How was work?” He asked placidly.

What?

The hell?

Your eyes burned with tears that had yet to fall, sucking in a sharp breath to compose yourself. “Haven’t you had enough? I have been waiting for the day you finally-“ you waved your hands around animatedly. “And then you just-“

He only stared on with the same solid expression.

You took another breath, “Are you going to kill me or not?”

“No.”

You swore you could feel your heartbeat hiccup, “No?”

Before you could pull it back, the words were out of your mouth. “Why not?”

You regretted the question immediately, watching as his eyes darkened.

There was a stretch of silence, and you were wondering how to do damage control when he spoke again, “Because I don’t want to. You…”

His gaze rakes up and down your frame. “You aren’t my North Star, no, something else. I want to find out what you are.”

Your words were little more than a whisper. “What I am?”

He sauntered towards you, slow as if walking towards a spooked animal. Or like he was hunting one. He only stopped once he was directly in front of you, toe to toe.

“Yes, I’m going to watch you and learn you. Why I feel this urge to-“ he cuts off abruptly, eyes widened in surprise.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

It seems like he wasn’t even prepared for what the answer was.

You stared at him, heartbeat still thundering in your ears. It was silly to believe a masked intruder from his words, but you did.

Nothing about that seemed like a lie. Despite what he’d initially found you for, he didn’t look like he wanted you dead. So, you believed him.

Your only worry was what he would do with you.

“O-Okay.” Was all you said before grabbing your clothes out the dresser and locking yourself in the bathroom.

You could only hope you turned fast enough that he didn’t see the redness in your face.

He was gone from the bedroom when you got out the shower. Everything was put back in its place, there was no sign of him. It made you wonder how many times he looked through your things without you knowing.

It should’ve made you unnerved… it didn’t.

He said he wanted to learn you. That you weren’t a north star. What did that mean? Why were you kind of excited about finding out?

You sniffed the air, there was a smell drifting from your kitchen filled with spices and butter. Like it were activated, your stomach suddenly released a large growl.

It seemed no matter how shocked you could get, there were still more surprises, Knives was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. You could see your oven was on as well, the light showing loaves of garlic bread on a sheet inside.

“You should go start a puzzle, it’ll be another five minutes.” He spoke without turning around, still continuing to stir the pot on the stove.

There’s a breaking point in a persons life where they stop asking questions. You were at that point.

So you pushed aside the wonder of why he was cooking, or where he even got the ingredients from, and sat down in your lounge chair.

You froze. It smelled like him. Gunpowder and metal, with a tinge of spearmint, the chairs leather still held a hint of him. You wondered how many times you could breathe it in without him noticing.

He was still focused on the food…

No. Stop. Get yourself together. You can’t just turn into a weirdo at the first attractive man you meet. Who’s to say he’s even attractive? He could be hideous under that mask.

You glanced over at him, eyeing the broadness of his shoulders and the muscle shifting under cloth.

You didn’t notice before, but he had taken off his gloves. His hands were big but deft, he probably would’ve made a good piano player in another life.

The evidence of this life was there as well. White scars marred his hands and trailed up his forearm to disappear under his shirt sleeve. You had no doubt they continued to the rest of his body too.

You tried to remind yourself of what those hands could do, why they were dangerous. Unfortunately your brain didn’t think it was that important at the moment, because the only thing you could remember is how they felt on your face.

You shook off the thoughts, blindly grabbing the closest puzzle box to you, it was a city landscape.

The pieces tumbled onto your living room table, sound echoing throughout the apartment. The only other sound past your moving pieces was the crackle of fire in the kitchen.

You needed some background noise.

You clicked on the tv, the low droning of the weather report filling the empty space. The screen had half your attention, but that was enough for your ears to perk when you heard the next segment of the news.

“And here we have the aftermath of another brawl from the vigilante known as Daredevil, he was in this very warehouse last night when the reports of gunfire started-“

The newscaster was one you’d seen before, usually for the more serious cases around the city. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she continued her warning.

“-advising all citizens to report any vigilante activity to the NYPD or AVTF whenever you become aware. If you do encounter Daredevil, do not engage-“

The tv went out in a wink, making you flinch. Like a bullet, a flying quarter had hit the power button dead center on your remote. Didn’t need many guesses to know where it came from.

The man in question was sauntering over with a steaming plate, glaring at the tv like it had personally offended him.

“You could’ve just asked me to turn it off.” You mutter, loud enough for him to hear you.

He didn’t answer, setting the plate in front of you with a clink. “Eat.”

You looked from him to the plate of food, then back again. It looked wonderful, a creamy heap of pasta with sautéed vegetables and garlic bread. It was all neatly arranged on your only kitchenware you hadn’t chipped.

You only wondered why the hell he had cooked it.

He seemed to misread your trepidation, leaning down to tug up a corner of his mask and shovel in a bit of the pasta. “Not poisoned. Not my style.” He said after a thick swallow.

The flash of lips, regardless how quick, distracted you. You stared on as a pink tongue flicked out to swipe at his mouth before he tugged the mask back down. It took you another few seconds to get it together.

“I know. You prefer to give people a million paper cuts.”

To your surprise, knives barked out a laugh, “That’s one way of putting it, sure.”

You turned to the food and started eating in an attempt to bypass the awkwardness. It was hard to suppress a groan when the first bit hit your mouth, the food was as good as it looked. If not better.

Do all hitmen take culinary classes or was it just his hobby?

You thought he would find something else to do, maybe vanish into thin air like he’d never been there at all, but the man chose to sit right across from you on the couch.

Dark eyes fixated on you as you ate in complete focus. He didn’t seem to want more conversation, just be a spectator. His only movement was circling a small knife around in his hand, but the movement didn’t seem threatening, more absentminded than anything else.

You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you were finishing the meal in record time, only clearing your throat to speak once you’d cleared the last bite, “It was great, thank you.”

He was grabbing the plate from you before you could even offer to clean up, making his way back to the kitchen and placing it inside your dishwasher with the other used pots and pans.

“Really, you don’t have to-“ you started, but he was already finished and walking back over to you.

“I know. I don’t have to do anything at all, advantages of self employment.” It was clear by his tone and the crinkle of his eyes that he was smirking. He took his time walking back to the couch, this time spreading his arms across the back in the appearance of complete comfortability.

What he said made you curious, “You don’t work for the man at the train?”

He tilted his head as if considering the answer. “I don’t work for anyone,” a new tinge of bitterness coated his tone, “but if you’re referring to the bozo who took a hit out on you, yes. I was the one given the assignment.”

“Ah, I figured.” The response came out more nonchalant than intended, but he truly didn’t tell you anything you hadn’t already suspected.

“You’re not bothered by that?”

You shrugged, “Nah, I trust you.” You meant for it to be fully sarcastic, and almost succeeded, but there was a bit of honesty that shone through. Against all better judgement and sound mind, you did trust him.

He stared at you, only providing a small scoff and muttering under his breath as response.

With the newfound silence, you decided to follow his earlier request and complete the puzzle that was started. You almost invited him to do it with you, but your mouth closed with a snap after looking over at him.

He seemed to be lost in thought about something, dark blonde eyebrows furrowed as he stared somewhere out your window.

Your eyes went back to the puzzle, the only sounds being the soft scrape of the pieces and faint breathing. You grimaced while reaching for some of the further pieces, the movement had aggravated the neck pain you usually had after a long shift.

Rolling your neck in a circle only slightly helped, there was still a crick in the muscle that most likely wouldn’t go away until after a lengthy soak in epsom salt.

Your distracted mind was only half aware of the other figure rising from the couch and making his way over to you.

“Sit back.”

You looked behind you in surprise, wondering how he’d gotten right behind your chair without you knowing. “Why?” You weren’t really concerned about the request, just curious what he intended.

“I can’t keep watching you do that without doing something. Sit back.” He tapped the headrest for emphasis.

Okay, bossy.

You rolled your eyes but did as he asked, sliding back to fully rest in the chair. It was a moment of nothing until you felt warmth against your shoulder blades.

You let out a full body flinch at the contact, but his hands didn’t falter, continuing a path from your shoulders into the sides of your neck. Strong thumbs dug into the muscles and nerves causing you pain, and you couldn’t keep a satisfied sigh from seeping out.

You practically melted into his hands as they traveled over every aching part of your back. Every time he dispelled a knot it knocked a quiet sound out of you.

It was firm but precise, every drag of his warm calloused hands left a tingling sensation in their wake. You couldn’t help but think about what else his hands could do…

The idea created a burning within you. The smell and feel of him so close was dangerous, and you were already wanting more of it. Needing more of it. You were absently aware of his breathing kicking up, almost delving into a pant in your ears.

He eventually slowed down, rubbing his fingers in circular motions on the top of your spine before retreating completely. He didn’t retreat too far, barely taking a step back as he stood behind your chair.

You didn’t look at him, focusing on calming your breathing and not appearing like the mess you were on the inside. You didn’t need a mirror to know your the flushed expression you wore.

You opened your mouth, then closed it, not trusting yourself to beg for his hands to touch you again.

He spoke before you could work up the nerve of a response, “I have to go.”

“Wait-” But it was too late, he was already closing the front door when you turned around.

Knives arrived more frequently after that night.

He didn’t stay as long, or touch you again, (much to your disappointment) but he would usually pop in without rhyme or reason with gifts and a bit of conversation.

You never asked him for anything, but he somehow always knew what you needed.

A new detergent when the old one just ran out, some more butter in the fridge, your favorite ice cream when you were craving it.

As far as you remembered, you never told him what your favorite flavor was, nor did you ever have one in the freezer since meeting him. He still knew.

Someone knowing so much about you should’ve probably unnerved you, but it only gave you a sense of serenity. You didn’t have to worry about explaining yourself to him, there was no pressure on your end. He just watched, and learned.

Except in one area. He seemed to be oblivious to your attraction to him, not flirting with you even once. There were his snarky remarks and knowing smirks sure, but that seemed to be less hitting on you and just more of who he was.

Unless, he does know you’re into him and just doesn’t feel the same so he’s ignoring it.

You brushed the thought off, sighing as you unlocked the door to your apartment. It was really no use wondering about it, even with all the time spent with Knives, you barely had a clue what was going on in his head.

Besides, after the day you’d had it was hard to think about anything else.

To say it was a bad shift would be an understatement. You’d overslept that morning, rushing through your morning routine but still arriving twenty-five minutes late to clock in.

It was a rare busy day in the store, and you could barely push past people to get to your register.

“About time.” Matthew shot you a dirty look between filing away the bills in his hand.

Your job was severely understaffed, and today was no different, which meant that in your absence Matthew had to handle the hordes of people on his own.

You gave him an apologetic nod, waving the next person in line over to you. Soon enough, the lines dwindled into nothing as the rush passed.

You wiped your sweaty hands on your pants leg, signing out of the POS to go work on other things. A stack of boxes caught your eye, and you moved closer to start unpacking the items inside.

“Go do the inventory. He wants it in the front on the orange display.” Snapped Matthew behind you. He was pointing at the very boxes you were already walking towards.

You didn’t bother correcting him in saying you were already going to do that, instead giving a curt nod.

“What, you can’t speak today? Didn’t take your meds?” He raised a brow, grinning at you.

Breathe, don’t let him get to you.

“I’m just going to do my job.”

His grin only widened at your answer. “Heh, okay. You do that.”

You ignored him, quickly pulling a dolly from the back transport the boxes to the front of the store.

You wiped a hand over your brow, starting to sweat with the effort. It would be a lot easier with two people, but like hell you were going to ask that asshole.

Matthew wasn’t really nice to anyone, except maybe the new hires he wanted to flirt with, but you still never understood why he seemed to hate you so much.

Because you’re always the odd man out, the one no one really likes, the one-

“Shut up.” You spat out the words, making sure you were quiet enough for no one else to hear. Matthew didn’t need more ammunition to call you crazy.

You directed your attention to the store display and away from your bleak thoughts. You couldn’t help what others thought of you, the only thing you could do at the moment was finish the stupid display and move onto your other work.

You vacantly slapped the folded clothes onto the shelves, mind drifting elsewhere.

I bet knives never had to work in retail.

You’d be very surprised if he ever had a real job before. Trying to imagine his scowling face behind a cash register made a chuckle bubble within you.

He’d probably stab someone on his first day.

Shit, he can stab Matthew for all I care.

You half scolded yourself at the thought, realizing how fucked up it sounded to wish that someone stab your coworker. You weren’t as upset by the thought as you could’ve been.

There was a sharp creaking noise, and before you could react, the metal shelf you had been stacking on crashed down on your arm.

“Shit-” You jumped back to avoid falling with it, but the damage had been done. The edge of the shelf dug a cut down your forearm that was already spurting blood over you and the merchandise.

“Oh no, shit, shit, shit-” You couldn’t think straight, only standing there in a panic as you gripped your bloody arm.

“What the fuck did you do now?” If you thought Matthew was mad at you before, he was pissed now. “I asked you to do one simple thing and you can’t even do that? Who’s gonna clean this shit up?”

He’d left a customer at the desk to see what the sound was, but he didn’t seem to care about their existence as he yelled at you.

“Fuckin disability hire, can’t even stock a shelf. I don’t know why you’re standing there, you should be-”

You didn’t wait for him to finish, bumping into him as you rushed towards the back room with tears in your eyes.

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry in front of him, he’s not worth it.

You ignored his calls for you to come back, slamming your work locker open and grabbing your things. You didn’t even bother clocking out, only stopping by the lunch corner to grab paper towels and wipe down your arm.

The harsh wind from outside only aggravated your eyes more, but you steeled yourself against the cold.

You got plenty weird looks on the train ride home, but nobody said anything to you. It was probably the mix of blood staining your hands and scowl that discouraged conversation.

A ten minute ride followed by a brisk walk brought you back to where you were, standing at your apartment door with an aching cut.

You shouldered the door open with your uninjured side, immediately dropping your things to the ground once you were inside.

The cut hurt like a bitch and was still freely bleeding, but you shouldn’t need stitches or anything dramatic. The med kit from under your sink in the bathroom should more than suffice.

You turned the corner towards the bathroom, but stopped short at the figure standing there.

The visitor was more expected than not these days, but you didn’t think he’d be here this early since he usually met you after your shift.

“What did I say about taking care of your things?” He half turned from the window where you assumed he’d watched you come in.

You’d usually muster up something equally as playful in response, but this time, you were not in the mood.

He seemed to sense the shift, whipping his head over to you. It didn’t take long for his eyes to rake over you, gaze landing on your right arm.

“Who did that?” His demeanor changed completely after seeing the injury, voice turning steely.

It only took a few strides for him to reach you, hand snapping out to grasp your forearm. His eyes were blazing with anger behind his mask and he looked two seconds away from disemboweling someone.

Even though you knew his anger wasn’t with you; it still took a moment to stutter out a response, “No one, I-i did it myself. Well, not did it, it wasn’t on purpose. An accident at work.”

Your clarification didn’t seem to calm him much.

He stepped to your side, scooping an arm under your legs to pull you to his chest, his other arm supporting your back. He walked towards your bathroom with purpose.

You let out a squawk of surprise at being airborne, “Hey, I can still walk. It’s just a cut, you don’t have to carry me.”

“Blood loss causes dizziness, and it looks like you’ve already lost too much.” Someone would’ve thought you were bleeding out by how aggravated he sounded.

You didn’t want to mention that the main reason you were dizzy was his close proximity, not the injury. You were closer to him than you ever were before, and you couldn’t stop yourself from taking in a deep whiff. Blood, metal, mint.

He knocked your bathroom door open with enough strength to make it rattle, marching over to your closed toilet where he set you down gently but firmly.

As always, he knew where you put everything, so you didn’t have to direct him as he pulled out your small med kit.

It was just the buzz of the fluorescent lights for noise as he rummaged through the kit, occasionally pulling out select items he’d need.

You watched as hazel eyes narrowed in concentration, stomach doing a flip at how focused he was on helping you. How caring.

There was a mix of disinfectant and many bandages on the counter (more than you’d probably need), and he looked over them quickly before washing his hands and snapping on latex gloves.

“It’s going to hurt, you can hold onto me if you need to.” Was the only warning you got before he was gripping your arm with one hand and wiping down the cut with the other.

The antibacterial liquid was cold and stinging, you let out a sharp hiss at the stab of pain. As the blood was cleaned away, you could see that the cut was a bit deeper than you thought.

“I-ah, you don’t think I’ll need stitches, right?” You were a bit scared to ask, his frown had only deepened once he started working on you.

“No. It’s not to that point, but you’ll need to keep it wrapped tightly for a while so the skin can join back together.”

And he was right, after cleaning the wound thoroughly, he stuck some hefty bandages over the opening and wrapped it all in a tight cover of gauze.

He tucked the end of the fabric inside to secure it, and tugged off his gloves to clear away the mess of dirty wipes and wrappers on the counter.

You didn’t bother thanking him, knowing by now that he wouldn’t accept it.

You looked down at his work, neat as usual. You startled as a pill bottle was being shaken in front of you, eyes focusing to read the label.

“It doesn’t really hurt that much.”

He shook it again, insisting, “It will later, take one.”

You knew there was no chance of changing his mind, and it didn’t seem like the worst idea, so you grabbed the container and swallowed down one of the pills.

Satisfied, Knives leaned back against the wall opposite you, muscular arms folded over his chest.

Despite his quietness, you could still sense the underlying anger rolling off him. Knowing the answer, you asked anyway, “Are you upset?”

“Explain what happened.”

You hesitated for a moment, then started the retelling of what happened that day. You kept your composure for the most part, voice only hitching when you repeated what your coworker had said about you.

Knives stood stock still through it all, watching with that calm dangerous air that he had.

By the time you were done, you felt the telltale signs of tears, but you pushed it down again. You didn’t want it to bother you, but it did. After a life of dealing with rejection, it still stung.

A warm hand lifted up your chin, thumb swiping away tears you weren’t aware had fallen. “You don’t deserve that, none of it. It won’t happen again.” There wasn’t an ounce of question in his tone, he was sure of it.

You let out a weak laugh, sniffling. “I could only hope, he’ll probably be worse after today though. Especially since I left early.”

He hummed, “I’ve always disliked the name Mathew, all of them are annoying.” He sounded like he usually did again, slightly amused as if he were in on a joke that you weren’t.

You laughed again, stronger this time. “I can’t say I’ve had experience with that many Matthew’s to agree with you.”

He ran his thumb over your cheek one more time before backing away. “Trust me, they are. You should take tomorrow off.”

There he goes again, giving demands veiled as suggestions.

“I would love to, but unfortunately some of us common folk need jobs, and if I call out again I’ll probably be u employed. I’m sure you’ve never worked one, so it’s hard to understand.” Your tone was playfully mocking, but it was the truth. There was no way your manager was going to be okay with that, plus, you needed to make up for the money lost by leaving early.

“I have.” He adverted his eyes to your left, “worked a job that is.”

You perked up, it was rare that the man offered information past what model his knives were, and you didn’t want to lose the opportunity to learn more about him.

“Oh really? As what?” You kept your tone light, to not seem like you were prying.

“An officer.”

“Like, a police officer?”

“No. Not exactly.”

You blinked in confusion.

He shifted in his stance, like the conversation was suddenly making him uncomfortable. “Agent, would be the better term. I-” He paused, finding the right words. “I locked away the monsters of the world, and protected the people I needed to.”

You cocked a brow, “So, you were a spy?”

He huffed, giving you a look. “No. How the hell did you get spy out of that?”

“You are amazingly vague at every answer, I figured it would fit.” You shrugged, wincing when the movement aggravated the skin of your arm.

He zoned in on the expression, eyes narrowing again. “You should go to bed, especially if you’re insisting on going to work tomorrow.”

It was clear that was all the answers you’d get out of him, this night at least. You let out a huff of breath, using the counter to pull yourself into a standing position.

There was a wave of wooziness, and you fought to keep balance. Clearly the pill was doing its job.

An arm snaked around to your back, steadying you as you walked to your bedroom. As if there were an invisible barrier, he stopped at the threshold. In the dim lighting, you could only see the dark outline of him and the glint of metal strapped to his person.

To anyone else it would be menacing, terrifying even, to have the attention of the killer focused on them. You only craved more of it.

“There’s soup in your fridge if you want it. Change the wrapping in the morning, it shouldn’t cause any issues before then.”

You could only blame the strength of the pain pill for your lack of restraint, “Do you have to leave right now?”

A pause. “I do. I have something else to take care of.”

You tried not to take it as a dismissal, but it hurt nonetheless.

Something else. Not you.

“Right, okay.” The disappointment was obvious in your voice.

Steady steps made their way over to your bedside, “I don’t want to, but are some things I need to do. I’ll see you soon.”

You could barely make out the shape of him standing over you, drowsiness and the pain medicine muddling things together. “Aye, aye captian.”

A deep chuckle, and then a quiet response, “Dex.”

Dex. It suits him. You couldn’t tell if you’d said the name aloud or in your head, already giving way to unconsciousness.

The last thing you felt was a hand lightly trailing down your face before blackness.

Other than feeling like a sledgehammer hit you, your next day at work was uncharacteristically peaceful.

Even though Matthew was scheduled alongside you for the week, he never showed up for work that day.

Or the next day. Or the next one after that.

He didn’t call out, and based on the grumble from your manager, hadn’t quit either.

You never said anything, never even thought the words in your head, but you knew what happened.

If you were really honest with yourself, you knew what was going to happen when you heard the assurance in his voice that you wouldn’t have any more problems.

Kni-No-Dex, was a killer, regardless of how he treated you. You knew how he solved problems.

You were a little nervous at how little it bothered you. You had the same tingling feeling you got when he replaced one of the lightbulbs in your apartment without asking.

Cared for.

But there was another problem, Dex was nowhere to be seen either. He’d never shown up again after that night, and you were starting to get concerned.

Even though he didn’t show up every single day, missing several days in a row was out of character for him. You could only hope that he wasn’t dead or arrested somewhere.

It seemed silly to worry about him, especially with how competent he seemed. You didn’t steadily watch the news, but everyone in the city had heard of a man in a blue mask who could lodge a knife in your head faster than you could blink.

Bullseye.

He’d never told you it was him, but you weren’t an idiot, all the traits aligned. Not to mention his name, Dex, most likely short for Benjamin Pointdexter. The man who was sent to prison a while back for murder.

You didn’t care about any of that. Your only concern was that he was M.I.A. and it was out of character.

Maybe he just got bored, found someone else.

You ignored the slithering thought, knowing it’s not true.

Despite not knowing all of his life, you knew him, he was obsessive to a fault. His cleanliness, the order of his knives, and seeing you all fell into a cycling routine that he didn’t stray from.

He wouldn’t just dissapear.

Your leg shook nervously as you focused on the television. The news was covering a recent stock drop or something related. You were half listening for anything that could be related to him.

You were sure that an extremely wanted convict being detained would make front page news, so if anything happened, they’d talk about it here.

So far, it was nothing of substance, just the economy and a new court case with the slime-ball mayor.

You were shaking your leg so vigorously that you almost didn’t hear it at first. Your hand shot out, muting the tv before straining your ears.

There it was, a soft shuffling sound coming from your bedroom. You jumped up, heart fluttering in your chest as you rushed over there.

You only stopped short of your bedroom door to grab a nearby book, just in case it wasn’t Dex in your room and you needed a weapon.

Turns out, it was unnecessary, you saw him immediately upon entering, slumped against your open window.

“Dex-” His name was expelled in a relieved breath, but you only grew concerned again the more you looked at him.

Dark patches covered his mask and the fabric of his suit. His gloves were on, but you could see the clear glisten of blood coating them.

“Hey. Thought you’d be asleep. I can go soon, just gotta take a breather.”

You scoffed indignantly, quickly going over to him, “A breather? Jesus, what happened?”

“Not Jesus, just me.”

You glared at him. It was not the time for jokes, definitely not as he was dripping blood on your floor.

“You can explain later, here.” You supported him under his shoulder as you guided him to your bed.

“Gonna get it dirty.” He pushed back slightly as you tried to sit him down, but fell back anyway when you applied more force.

“It’s okay, I have other sheets. I’m worried about you right now.”

You could tell he was smirking based off the look in his eyes, further proven by the next statement. “Worried about me?”

You didn’t even bother hiding the emotion in your response, “Yes, I do. A lot.”

That made him quiet, glinting eyes searching your face for any hint of a joke or lie. He seemed to find none, but had no response for you. It was hard to tell his full expression behind the mask, and you found yourself sick of it.

Besides, it’s not like you didn’t know who he was.

Your fingers curled under the edge, lifting it gently, but a firm grip on your wrist stopped you.

“Ben, it’s okay.”

His eyes widened in slight surprise at your use of his first name, but it did the trick. The hand holding you fell away and you pulled the fabric fully off his face.

You sucked in a breath at the injuries before you. A trickle of blood coated his blond grey-flecked hair where it stuck to his forehead, and there was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone.

The lips you had admired not that long ago were sporting a cut, but even with all that, Dex didn’t appear to be in a lot of pain. His face showed an openness and tiredness that you’d never seen on him before.

Without thinking, you raised a hand to brush lightly over his mouth, relishing in the slight flutter of his eyelids as you did so.

You couldn’t stop, addicted to the reaction. Your hand trailed from his lips to the side of his face, and over his sharp jawbone. You mapped out everything that was hidden to you before, ignoring the smear of blood on your hand.

His piercing gaze stayed fixed on you as he pressed his head into your palm. His only other movement was twitching hands where they rested over his thighs. He stayed still, not trying to stop you or rush you, just accepting.

It wasn’t until your fingertips brushed over his throat that he shivered beneath you. The movement was nearly imperceptible, but he had definitely tilted his head back slightly to give you more access.

It made something swirl in your abdomen. How much he trusted you, how willing he was beneath your hands. How good he looked, injuries and all.

You told him as such, and his eyebrows knit together like he had been hit.

“Don’t say that, you don’t know what you’re starting.” His voice was weak, barely a whisper in the quiet of the room.

“I do.”

“No you don’t. You said you care about me, I’m not easy to care for.” The words weren’t said in self deprecation or a stab at sympathy, just factual. He truly believed that care and tenderness wasn’t made for him.

It sent a pang through your heart, for so many years you held a similar sentiment about yourself. You were difficult to understand-to accept, but he did, and you could do the same for him.

“I know.” You held his face in both palms, a hairsbreadth away from him, “Neither am I.”

Your lips meeting his seemed to ignite action within him, hands that were previously dormant snapping up to grab at your hips firmly.

You were pulled down to straddle his lap, already feeling a poking hardness in the fabric. It was your turn to shiver, giving an experimental grind forward as you continued to kiss him breathlessly.

That caused a deep groan to flood from his throat into your mouth. He quickly found purchase over your ass to guide you into repeating the movement.

While you grinded over the hard length in his pants, his tongue explored the expanse of your mouth, flicking over the ridges and smoothness inside. You could taste the uniqueness of him, but also the metallic tang of blood from his lip.

You only pulled away to breathe once the burning in your chest couldn’t be ignored. Chest heaving, you pulled back and watched as he did the same.

He couldn’t seem to see enough of you, eyes raking from your chest down your frame and back again. His lips were swollen and spit slicked, and you were sure you had a similar look of dishevelment.

His hands trailed up your spine and back down to where you sat on top of him. You could hear the swallow he took before speaking, “If I’m going to have you, it’s going to be all of you. If you go through with this, you’re not leaving me, you get that?” His voice was steady despite being out of breath, tone deadly serious.

You could read between the lines for the warning. There was no going back for Dex if you continued, no breakups, no do-overs.

Lucky for him you didn’t want any.

In lieu of response, you surged forward, attacking his mouth with your own as you drug yourself firmly over his crotch.

You gasped out a moan as the movement caught between your legs, right where you needed it most. But it wasn’t enough. You needed to be closer.

You shrugged off your top, throwing it to an unseen side of the room. Another shiver racked your body as lips made use of the newly exposed skin, nipping and sucking over your chest and sternum.

His fingers grabbed onto the latch of your bra, but you stopped him short. “No, get out of that suit first.”

He backed away from you with a half lidded gaze, trademark smirk flicking on his lips. “Yes ma’am.”

He seemed to enjoy watching you squirm as he unlatched all the zippers and buttons of his suit, moving much slower than necessary. The utility belt came off first, knives clinking as he threw them on your nightstand. The top part of his suit was soon to follow, dark fabric peeling away to reveal fair skin.

He wasn’t as injured as you’d assumed, just a dark blooming bruise on his ribs and left shoulder. Every other mark was old and weathered, the raised scars scattered across his torso spoke of years of pain.

You took him in unabashedly, eyes raking over pronounced pectorals and the defined abs that covered his stomach. Light hair dusted his chest and led in a trail past the waistband of his pants.

His smirk only widened as he watched you watching him. Patiently waiting, he sat there for your next move.

It was only fair that you lost the next bit of clothing, so you rose off him to shimmy out of your pants, leaving the underwear on.

His brow rose as he caught onto the little game you were playing. His pants came off quickly after, joining yours in a dark heap.

The only thing shielding the prominent bulge in his lap was dark grey briefs. They didn’t leave much to the imagination, clinging to the long rod of him and wrapping around solid thighs. You could see a dark patch in the fabric where he’d already started leaking, your core throbbing in response.

You settled on his lap again, smiling at the soft hiss he let out from the pressure. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, guiding him to your bra clasp as you trailed fingertips past the waistband of his briefs.

His fingers deftly unlatched the clasp, and the cover fell away right as you pulled his length free.

It slapped loudly against his lower stomach, smearing white across his skin and your hand.

His eyes weren’t focused on that though, only staring at your chest with intimidating focus. “God, the things I want’ta do to you.”

It was spoken under his breath so quietly, you were unsure if the words were meant for you to hear.

“So do them.”

He only laughed, leaning back on his elbows to watch you.

He knew what you wanted, he just wasn’t going to give it to you that easily. Your frustration only made him impossibly harder.

Despite his blasé act, you could see you were having an effect on him. Every rock of your hips made his cock twitch, a bead of white dribbling out the top. His neck and chest were covered in a flush, and every breath he took seemed labored. Shaky.

You decided to play his own game, fuck with him a little, “C’mon Dex, show me what you promised.”

You reached down, rubbing a thumb over the leaking slit between you. He let out a breathy moan, hips involuntarily bucking up into you.

You didn’t stop in your ministrations, leaning down to speak directly in his ear. “You said you wanted all of me, so take it. You have me.”

Your words caused another twitch in your hand. “You have me, I’m yours.”

The words were barely out your mouth when you were flipped onto your back, bouncing against the mattress. You let out a startled giggle at the movement, only sobering when you looked down.

The look Dex gave you made your heart stutter for a moment. The only way you could describe it was carnivorous. His eyes were dark and shadowed, and if you didn’t know him well enough to recognize the want in his expression, he looked almost pissed off.

It only made wetness pool in your core.

“You want this?” He left a trail of open mouthed kisses down your stomach.

It was a rhetorical question, but you nodded anyway.

“Where do you want me? Here?” He bit at your hipbone, soothing the flesh with a lick afterwards.

“Or here?” His breath ghosted across the damp patch of your panties, making you thrum in anticipation.

“Yes, right there.” Any more dilly dallying and you’d probably start begging. You had a feeling that’s exactly what he wanted.

“Hmm, interesting.” He ignored the area, trailing lips down your inner thighs. His hands gripped your knees, preventing you from closing yourself off to him.

He bit random spots all the way down your thigh, licking a stripe on the way up.

“Dex- c’mon.” You huffed. The feeling of his mouth on yours was amazing, but it wasn’t nearly enough and he knew it.

“Whose are you?” The words are spoken into your skin, in the crease of your hip.

“Yours.”

“And who do I belong to?” He grasped the waistband of your underwear between his teeth, dragging them down slowly.

“Me.”

You only saw the flash of a smile before his mouth was on you fully. You let out a shuddering moan as his lips latched onto your clit, sucking hard.

He juggled between your bundle of nerves and trailing his tongue down to your entrance, licking inside.

You could feel him groan against you as you grabbed a fistful of his hair, holding him steady.

Between your existing wetness and his mouth, you were soaking, juices dripping down to the bedsheets past his mouth.

His mouth traveled up again to focus on your nub while one of his hands snaked around to press two fingers against your entrance.

They slipped in easily, quickly building a rhythm trusting into you while his tongue lapped at you from the outside.

You couldn’t even make a sound as your peak quickly approached, your body just seized with the amount of pleasure rolling through you.

Your eyesight blanked out, and you took a few heaving breaths before you were able to find your voice again.

Even as your moans turned to over sensitive whimpers, he didn’t let up, only slowing down the movement of his hands and mouth. He seemed to be lost in the action, only focused on you and your enjoyment.

You had to yank his head back to get him to stop, and he did so with a bit of reluctance.

His hands trailed over you, running smoothing circles over your hips and legs.

Impatiently, you dug your heels into his back, nudging him upward towards you.

He followed happily, the same hungry expression on his face, except now there was a lack of tension. He seemed more relaxed, like he was the one who came and not you.

“I might not last too long. Don’t do this much, or at all really.” He analyzed your face after he’d said it, looking for any shift in your expression.

You were kind of shocked by the revelation, but weren’t put off by it at all. For a normal guy that looked like Dex, you’d assume they had a steady stream of people coming into their bed.

He wasn’t normal, and he definitely wasn’t the type to have one night stands. In fact, before tonight, you weren’t completely certain he was interested in sex at all.

You would’ve accepted him either way of course, but it was nice to know he shared the same want as you did.

“That’s fine, I just need you inside me.”

The words shocked a groan out of him, and he nuzzled his head into the juncture of your neck.

You could feel his hands wrap around your legs to reposition you accordingly.

He slid out of the last piece of fabric covering him and reached down to position his head at your entrance.

It slipped at first from the wetness, but after a few tries the tip caught onto you, slipping inside halfway.

The pressure punched the air out of you, mouth falling open in an ‘o’ shape. Even with his preparation it was a tight fit.

Dex let out a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan, dipping down to capture your mouth in his, siphoning heat into your mouth.

The taste of yourself on his tongue only heightened the experience, and you could barely catch your breath between that and his slow ruts forward.

Every movement pushed him further into you, and before you knew it he was sheathed inside you fully.

You both shuddered at the feeling, and you were sure you could feel every ridge and vein of him in your walls.

“Shit- you feel so good. I gotta pause for a sec.” He breathed against your mouth.

So you waited.

Until you didn’t.

His head tipped forward with a groan as you squeezed around him. One of his hands held your hip in a vice grip, sure to leave bruises later.

“Don’t do that.” His eyes flashed at you in warning.

You couldn’t even focus on a teasing response, you only wanted him to move.

Then he did, starting in shallow thrusts into you, building into longer drags where he pulled almost fully out before snapping into you again.

He grabbed your wrist, planting the palm firmly over his throat and guiding it to squeeze.

You followed the instruction even as his hand fell away, tightening around the corded muscles of his neck.

His eyes fluttered, hips stuttering before speeding up into a faster pace.

His breaths panted against your face as he pounded into you with quick succession. The angle shifted slightly, and he flashed a sharp grin at me hearing your higher pitch.

He pinpointed that spot, hitting it over and over again, only pausing to slip your ankles over his shoulders before continuing.

You couldn’t tell where you began and he ended, mind so blissed out. It was clear from your noises that you were reaching your peak again, and he slipped a hand down over your clit to accelerate it.

He didn’t rub, just pressed down his thumb firmly over you as you tightened around his shaft again.

The feeling of your fluttering walls made him follow right across the edge with you, letting out a shuddering moan as he pumped a few more times and released inside you.

All the strength seemed to sap from him once he came, body falling onto you heavily. You could still tell he was holding himself up a bit on his forearms in order to not crush you completely and you pulled him down solidly to increase the weight.

His rapid heart rate beat in unison with yours where you were pressed to his chest, the slick feeling of sweat and other fluids clinging to your bodies as he softened within you.

The time stretched on as you both sat there in breathless blissfulness, neither one eager to move positions.

His face hadn’t moved from where it sat nestled in your neck, warm breaths disturbing the strands of hair there. When he spoke, you felt it more than you heard it.

“You okay?” It was spoken with an air of unsureness that was unlike him. Based on what he’d said before, you had an idea of what his worries were.

“That was amazing.” And you weren’t lying, the entire experience had knocked a bit of your soul out your body and you were certain there’d be consequences of soreness the next day.

He made a humming noise, satisfied with the answer, and moved to lift off you.

A flare of panic lit up within you. Eventually, you’d have to go back to the real world, real responsibilities and concerns, but at the moment you didn’t want the stretch of peace to end. “Wait, not yet.”

He lowered himself back down immediately even though a frown creased his expression. “You need to get cleaned up, it might feel worse later.”

“Well,” you let out a soft chuckle, rubbing a hand along his scarred spine, “that’s for later me to worry about. Just a bit longer.”

He didn’t make much argument about it, settling his head back over your chest where he gave soft nips at your collarbone.

Despite relishing the peacefulness, there was something else nagging at your mind.

“Hey Dex?”

He hummed out a response, still mapping you out with his mouth.

“What happened?” You didn’t have to clarify, you knew he knew that you were referring to the event that caused him to show up in your room covered in blood.

A soft sigh, and he was leaning back to respond, “The one who put a hit on you, he found out that I hadn’t exactly,” he paused deliberating the words, “followed instructions. He sent a team to finish the job, and I made sure that didn’t happen.”

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” There was a burning in his eyes that showed the extent of violence he was capable of.

The idea of him choosing to not kill you even though he’d been ordered to do so, and fighting off anyone else who tried was… rousing to say the least.

His eyes tightened in a wince of overstimulation as you involuntarily tightened around him.

“It’s gonna be a bit longer for that.” He sounded like he detested that fact just as much as you did.

You grinned, “I’ll be counting down the minutes,” you were going to continue with something teasing, but the look on his face stalled you.

The light from your open window casted a bluish tint over his face, contouring the edges of features softly. He fixed you with a searching gaze, like you were the only thing worth looking at.

“I meant what I said before,” You started, “it’s no going back for me either. I’m with you.”

He traveled up to your face silently and your eyes fluttered closed in preparation. Instead of kissing you on the lips, his mouth pressed firmly over your forehead. The touch trailed down to press two consecutive pecks over your eyelids and finally melt against your mouth.

“I’m with you.”

You knew that no matter what was coming in your lives that you weren’t afraid, fully willing to delve into the future with the person that knew you best.

Div by: @pixopix

He only knew how to aim, how to follow through, how to kill. So he told himself that if he pointed all of that in the right direction, it would count. It had to count. 

Bad people existed. That much was obvious. And if bad people were gone, then… that had to count for something, right?

The Anti-Vigilante Task Force were easy enough to categorize as bad. They hunted vigilantes, tried to shut down the kind of people Dex had convinced himself were doing something close to good. And vigilantes were good. They had to be. 

So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone else’s throat, then that meant he was helping. It meant he was balancing something, somewhere, even if no one was there to see it. Even if no one thanked him. Even if the city didn’t change at all.

That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.

His rent didn’t care about intention. His bills didn’t pause because he was trying. The notice on his counter sat there, the very proof that the world moved even as he was laying down the foundations of whatever moral framework he was trying to build. Dex had been ignoring it for days, like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it. 

He was staring at it when his phone buzzed.

The sound was unsettling, mostly because Dex knew that people only messaged him for one of two reasons nowadays: to threaten him (best possible outcome, he could handle it) or to give him a job. When he looked at the notification, he knew it was going to be the latter. 

The text came from an unknown sender. It was encrypted, of course. Dex picked it up slowly, thumb hovering for just a second. He frowned. He really shouldn’t. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway. 

The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of… oh. 

2.5 million dollars.

Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as that figure settled into place. It was much more than rent or bills. This kind of money would give him… breathing room. It would fund his good deeds for years. It would help his progress, right?

His eyes moved down to the target profile: a Former Red Room Widow. 

Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives. 

Secondary objective: termination upon completion.

Dex’s knuckles shifted slightly as he kept reading, attention narrowing the deeper he went. This wasn't a surface-level hit, like the usual contracts pushed into his number. He usually got the odd job of eliminating a business man’s biggest competitor (he never took those anymore) or a mother giving most of her life savings to him to kill her abusive husband (he did those ones more often than not), but this wasn’t it. Whoever had put this together knew what they were doing. They layered intel, cross-referenced sightings, stitched fragments of reports into something coherent enough to act on.

And then there was the ledger. Not labeled that way, but Dex knew what he was looking at.

Target Activity Log (Condensed): Kiev — 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses. Istanbul — Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration. Lagos — Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high. Madripoor — Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified. Buenos Aires — Diplomatic attaché poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion. Moscow — Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated. 

Dex’s thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldn’t be to anyone else. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t someone losing control. On the contrary, this was someone who was terrifyingly in control.

This target was a dangerous killer, and Dex didn't arrive at the conclusion lightly.

He liked patterns, needed them. They made the world more predictable to the point where he could sort through without it splintering into noise. And this file was full of patterns.

He scrolled back up, then down again, slower this time, eyes catching on the details most people would skip over: the timings, the methods. 

The target made clean exits where possible and didn’t care much about collateral. Every action fed into the next like it had been mapped out long before the target ever stepped into the room.

Dex’s jaw tightened slightly as he read through the Kiev entry again. Twelve victims. It was not a firefight. It was twelve decisions. Twelve moments where the target could have stopped and didn’t. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway. 

He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.

You didn’t rack up a body count like that by accident. You didn’t walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and “high collateral” written off like a footnote, unless something in you had already accepted the outcome before it happened.

Dex leaned back slightly, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering but unmoving now.

People liked to pretend there was a line. A moment where someone chose to be good or bad and stuck to it. But that wasn’t how it worked. It was smaller than that. It was in the repetition. And this file read like repetition, over and over. It might happen in different cities and to different victims, but it always had the same result.

Dex couldn’t find signs of deviation or hesitation. There was no indication that the target ever stopped to question it.

His eyes flicked back to the ledger, this time reading the latest additions, entries that hadn’t had time to settle into history yet.

Recent Activity: Prague — Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses. DODC Supermax Prison — Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected. New York — Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.

Right. 

The target was still active. 

“Yeah,” Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.

That was what tipped it for him.

Because even now, even with everything he’d done, Dex felt the resistance. The part of him that tried, however poorly, to redirect what he was into a force for good.  The file didn’t show that.

It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasn’t in the same place he was. This target wasn’t trying to balance the scales like he was. 

And that made this person not a good person in a way he could act on.

His eyes looked to the image of the target, like he was trying to reconcile the almost fragile and delicate-looking features with everything he’d just read. It didn’t match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what they’d done. But the file didn’t lie. The patterns didn’t lie.

Dex exhaled slowly, and decided this person was bad.

Not because of one mission. Not because of one mistake. But because of all of it stacked together.

And at this point, in order to preserve what precious progress he had made, he’d rather kill a killer for rent than his landlord. That would be inconvenient.

His thumb moved, tapping the file open fully, letting the image expand across the screen.

And for the first time, Dex really looked at you.

—

Dex expected you to be harder to find.

Most people with a body count like yours didn’t settle. They didn’t usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didn’t leave behind anything that could be traced twice in the same way. He expected burner phones, rotating safehouses, and multiple fake ids that dissolved the second they were used.

But you hadn’t done that.

You were… easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly. 

It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasn’t an error in the data. Financial records were always messy, layered under shells and proxies, but not impossible. He followed the money the same way he followed anything else— patiently, methodically, letting the inconsistencies stand out instead of forcing them to make sense too quickly. One payment turned into a trail, then into repetition.

But still, he found nothing out of the ordinary. You were just a regular person living in New York, paying rent on time. Unlike him this month. 

He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasn’t temporary, wasn’t a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You weren’t passing through. You weren’t hiding. You were living here.

The rest of the records only reinforced it. He found your utility bills, with groceries spaced out in a way that suggested routine. He found nothing excessive, nothing careless. It was almost jarring, how normal it looked on paper, for someone with a history soaked in blood.

Next, Dex visited your building and expected that to be where the illusion broke, maybe an indication that this was all a front.

There wasn’t anything.

It was just a building. Unremarkable, forgettable in the way most of the city was. There were no visible security upgrades, no controlled access beyond the standard high rise. There was nothing that suggested someone with your file should be walking in and out of it every day.

He watched long enough to be sure. You came and went at predictable times, no visible countersurveillance, no adjustments to your movements that suggested you thought you were being watched. You carried your own groceries up the steps. You held the door open for someone once, an older man who thanked you without hesitation, like you were just another tenant, just another face he recognized in passing.

Dex didn’t like that it didn’t fit the rest of you. So he kept digging, because if there was going to be a crack, it would be in the routine and… you had one.

It took him three days to map it out in full, not because it was complicated, but because it wasn’t. You woke early. You jogged through Central Park along the same route almost every morning at the same pace, like it was muscle memory. You didn’t scan constantly, didn’t treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.

After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order. 

Dex watched all of it from a distance, writing it down in his little notebook. He told himself it was for this job, that he needed to remember things accurately if he was going to finish the job. 

By the fourth day, he knew watching wasn’t enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong. 

The problem was, he didn’t have a plan for that. He wasn’t a spy. He didn’t build relationships, didn’t ease his way into proximity. 

But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like you’d done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didn’t know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.

—

The next day, he “accidentally” ran into you on that jogging trail in Central Park.

He already knew the exact time your foot would hit the gravel. All he had to do was figure which way you were going: was it the route you’d take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one you’d take when you wanted a challenge?

He waited outside your apartment today and…. You were taking the hard route.

He followed, and his plan of taking you until you got to the cafè, where he would sit next to you, would’ve been perfect until… Dex timed it wrong.

He knew he did the second he adjusted his pace to match yours and felt the rhythm slip. He was too fast for a clean pass, too close for it to look incidental. 

This wasn’t what he was good at. There was no distance. Only proximity and the vague, uncomfortable awareness that if you were anything like the file said you were, you’d clock him immediately.

You didn’t. You just kept running.

He tried to correct it, cutting slightly across your path like he meant to pass you, like he belonged in your space. The movement was off by half a second, just enough to turn clumsy. His shoulder clipped yours, momentum carrying him forward a step too far. You caught before you could trip and looked at him like, what the hell, man?

“—shit, sorry,” Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. “I didn’t… are you okay?”

Up close, everything went a little sideways.

He’d seen your photo. But a still image didn’t account for the way you actually were when you looked at him. You were focused, yes, but there was no immediate suspicion or recalculation behind your eyes. He could tell you were doing a quick assessment and—

“You’re fine,” you huffed, brushing it off like it really had been nothing.

Dex blinked once, recalibrating, trying to drag himself back to the whole point of this endeavour: Intel. 

Simple, right? 

Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.

Right. Say something. Anything.

“Uh… there’s a coffee place just up ahead,” he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. “I can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.”

There was a lull of silence where even he registered what he’d just done.

That wasn’t part of any plan. That was stupid.

Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasn’t how he should’ve handled a target like you. He shouldn’t’ve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didn’t know what he was doing?

But you were still just looking at him.

And up close, all he could think about was how… disarming you were.

That was the word his brain landed on, unhelpfully. You made him lower their guard without realizing he was doing it. 

Dex swallowed, keeping his expression neutral, like this was intentional, like this was just another step in a plan he actually had control over.

This is for intel, he told himself, firmly. Just intel via proximity. That’s all this is.

You tilted your head slightly, considering him in a way that made him feel, for a split second, like he was the one being assessed.

“Coffee?” you repeated. 

“Yeah,” he said, a little more steady now. “Least I can do.”

“For what?” you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex could’ve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. “bumping into me? Is this a line?”

“I just…” he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ve seen you around.”

I’ve seen you around??? He mentally slapped himself. What kind of fucking stupid explanation is that? What does that have to do with anything?

Surprisingly, though, all you did was tilt your head and said, “Okay.”

Oh?

Dex forced himself to nod once, like he’d expected it, like this hadn’t just gone completely off-script.

“Okay,” he echoed, turning slightly to fall into step beside you as you started moving again.

He kept his focus forward, matching your pace, already running through what he needed to ask, what he could realistically get without pushing too hard, how to steer the conversation where he needed it to go.

And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, something felt off. Dex ignored it, because this was a job. You were a target.

And this was just the easiest way to get what he needed. Nothing more.

—

The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.

On the way there, you exchanged your names— he said he was “Tony,” and you, surprisingly, had given him your real name. You were easy to talk to, and you talked about the weather, the park, the surprisingly little snow last winter.

When you got to the café, Dex was relieved to see that it wasn’t too crowded, just a couple of people on laptops, a murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine every so often. Fewer variables, Fewer eyes.

You ordered first: iced latte, like you’d done it a hundred times. He followed with an Americano, mostly because he panicked and it sounded normal enough.

Now he sat across from you, fingers loosely wrapped around the glass cup, watching the condensation bead along the outside of your glass as you stirred your drink with your straw. You looked… relaxed.

You took a sip, then glanced at him over the rim, and there was mischief in your expression. A second later, you let out a giggle, tapping the straw lightly against the lid.

“So,” you said, dragging the word out just a little. “Why does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?”

Dex choked.

It wasn’t subtle. The coffee went down the wrong way, and he had to turn his head slightly, coughing into his fist. For a split second, he thought he might actually spit it out all over you, which—thank fuck—the café being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.

His eyes snapped back to you.

“…You knew?” he asked.

You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question you’d heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. “Of course,” you said. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”

There was no accusation in it. You said it as if it was a fact.

Dex just stared at you. His brain tried to catch up, running through possibilities, angles, trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. Had you clocked him earlier? On the run? Before that? Had he missed an obvious tell?

You didn’t look alarmed. You didn’t look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked… curious.

“Oh,” he said, because that was all that came out at first.

Great. Perfect. Real smooth.

He forced himself to take another sip of his coffee, buying a second to gather his thoughts, to shove everything back into place where it belonged.

She’s a target. This is a job.

“Yeah,” he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadn’t just blindsided him. “I mean—yeah. I just…” His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. “I’m a fan of your work.”

You didn’t react immediately. You watched him over your drink, eyes narrowing slightly.

Dex held your eyes, forcing himself not to overcorrect, to let it breathe. Let it land.

“Right,” you said finally. You didn’t sound entirely convinced, but you let it go.

The silence stretched, but not too uncomfortably. It was just charged. You knew there was no chance of going back to a civilian conversation as you leaned back slightly, exhaling.

“Alright. No, we’re not doing this version,” you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. “Can we start over?”

Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. “I… yeah.”

You nodded once, resetting playfully. 

“Hi. You already know my name, so I’m skipping that part,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. “I’m a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.”

You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.

Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. “Hi,” he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.

You waited.

“Hi,” he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I’m Dex. Not—” he made a vague, frustrated gesture, “not Tony, I don’t…”

Your lips twitched. “I got that.”

“Right. Yeah.” He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. “I’m… a good guy.”

The second it left his mouth, he knew how weird it sounded. You blinked at him. Then, to his surprise, you chuckled, and it was not unkind.

“Hi, Dex Not Tony,” you said, teasing him. “That’s a strong introduction.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. “It’s… yeah,” he muttered. “Workshopping it.”

That earned him a small huff of laughter, and just like that, the tension changed. It was not gone completely, but it loosened enough to breathe around.

“Mm,” you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. “Maybe workshop faster.”

That earned you the smallest exhale that might’ve been a laugh.

“So,” you went on, glancing at his drink. “Americano?” 

He looked down at it like he’d forgotten it existed. “Mmm.”

“Do you actually like that,” you took a sip of your own drink, “or did you panic-order?”

Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. “Panic-order.”

You grinned. “Thought so.”

“Yours?” he asked, nodding toward your cup.

“Iced latte. Always.”

He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. “Predictable,” he said.

“Consistent,” you corrected.

“Same thing.”

“Not even a little.” Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didn’t match anything he’d read.

The conversation after that was not awkward, even as it came in uneven starts. You both drifted out half-finished sentences, small corrections, circling around what you weren’t saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm. 

You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The café. You made an offhand comment about the coffee being great here but the pastries were better two blocks over, and Dex filed that away without meaning to. He asked a question that sounded almost normal, and you answered it like it was. 

For some reason, he could not bring himself to ask about intel. Still, neither of you got up as time stretched right before your eyes. 

“Okay,” you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. “For the record, this is the weirdest coffee I’ve had in a while.”

“Same,” he said.

“And I’ve had coffee in worse places.”

“Same.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. “You’re just copying me now.”

There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it. 

You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didn’t actually want to say what came next. “I should probably…” you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “…go.”

Dex nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

You stood, grabbing your jacket, then hesitated just slightly. You looked at him, like you were weighing your options, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. “Give me your number.”

Dex tilted his head. “…What?”

You held it out, unfazed. “In case you decide to bump into me again,” you said. “Might as well schedule it next time.”

He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not to… 

Then he took the phone.

“Right,” he nodded. “Yeah.”

He put it in and handed it back. After all, he had convinced himself that it was just so he could get the intel he was supposed to do today.

“See you around, Dex Not Tony.” 

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “See you.”

You turned, heading for the door. The bell chimed again as you left.

Dex stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space you’d just occupied, the echo of your laugh still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind.

Something about that had gone very, very wrong. Or very right

—

That night, Dex had trouble sleeping.

The apartment was too quiet, the city noise bleeding faintly through the windows, the weight of the day sitting wrong in his chest. He laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in fragments: your voice, your eyes, the way none of it lined up with the file. Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep at all. 

He sat up, reached for the notebook on his nightstand, and flipped it open. The logs he had on you were already there: Times, routes, and observations.

He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering. Then he added a new line, pressing just slightly harder than necessary: 

Likes iced lattes

—

Two days later, Dex’s phone buzzed.

He didn’t get messages he wanted to open. He didn’t need another contract— he got his hands full as is. So for a second, he just stared at it from across the room, letting it vibrate once. Unknown number.

His jaw tightened before he picked it up and unlocked it.

There was a photo of a newspaper, slightly crumpled, held down by what looked like your hand. The headline was clear enough:

THREE ANTI-VIGANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY

Below it, you had texted: 

is this you?

Dex stared at the screen, figuring out exactly who it was. He read it again, trying to wrap his mind around this. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

You knew. Or you suspected. Or you were testing him. All three were problems.

Dex exhaled slowly through his nose and typed.

Dex: no. Why would you think that?

He was lying, but then again, he was the one who’s supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away. 

He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.

You: just thought I’d ask

Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough? 

Dex: You just ask people that? “hey did you kill three people”?

There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.

You: not usually, but you don’t usually “accidentally” run into me either so

Dex’s grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.

Right. You weren’t letting that go. Dex: I said I’ve seen you around.

He only had to wait a few seconds 

You: sure

He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the café. Not hostile, but curious. Dex leaned back against the wall, phone still in his hand, mind already thinking about what you knew, what you were pretending not to know.

You sent another message before he could respond.

You: also for the record, if it was you, I know you’d say no anyway

Dex managed a smile.

Dex: Probably.

You texted back just as quickly

You: so I’m choosing to believe you 🙂 You: congrats

He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was… strange.

You weren’t pushing. You weren’t backing off either. You were just… there, talking to him like this was normal.

Dex stared at the screen for a moment longer, then typed again. 

Dex: Why’d you actually text me?

The typing bubble came and went once. Then, it stayed.

You: because I wanted to You: ??? You: do I need a better reason than that

Dex frowned slightly. That answer didn’t fit neatly anywhere that his brain could  categorize, 

Dex: People usually have reasons.

This time your reply took longer. Long enough that Dex caught himself rereading the earlier messages, analyzing tone, punctuation, timing, looking for something he might’ve missed.

You: okay, fine You: I was bored You: and you’re interesting You: better?

Dex froze.

Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?

Dex: You don’t seem like you get bored.

He could almost picture you rolling your eyes 

You: wow. you are a fan

He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place. 

You were a target, he had to remind himself. Nothing more. He needed intel to pay rent, and he could only get that after he eliminated you, so… 

Dex: if you’re bored, we could go on another date

He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasn’t part of the job. This wasn’t… date wasn’t the word he should’ve used. 

The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds. 

You: is that what that was the first time? a date??

Dex blinked.

“…No,” he muttered under his breath, already typing.

No. It was—

He stopped. What was it?

Dex: maybe?

That was all he could send. Oh, he was never playing spy after this job was done. Not ever again.

You: right You: with a guy who “sees me around”  You: very normal

Dex pressed his lips together.

Dex: Do you want to go or not?

During the wait, Dex felt something unfamiliar settle in his stomach. It was something he could only describe as butterflies. 

You: yeah sure 

His grip on the phone loosened slightly.

You: same place? or are you gonna “accidentally” run into me again?

Dex huffed.

Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about? 

Oh so now he was paying attention to your recommendations?

You: okay. Friday?

The only thing he had on his calendar was killing task force, and that could wait, so… 

Dex: Friday works.

He tapped on his phone screen, anxiously waiting for confirmation.

You: cool You: try not to kill anyone before then. It ruins the vibe

Dex stared at that one for a second.

Dex: No promises.

There was no reply after that.

That night, in his notebook, he wrote another thing about you:

Initiates contact.

—

The second date felt different before it even started.

You were standing at the counter of the bakery when he saw you, pointing at something in the display case, smiling at the cashier like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Hey, Dex.” 

You ended up at a small table by the window, a couple of plates between you. A flaky and golden croissant, a banana-flavoured donut-like dessert dusted in powdered sugar (his choice), a molten-in-the-middle pain au chocolate, and one with custard that looked like it might fall apart if you breathed too hard near it.

Adorably, he knew you had picked too many things. Dex didn’t comment on it, but he noticed then, how you pointed without overthinking, how you changed your mind halfway through, how you added one more at the last second “just in case.”

It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have. 

The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.

“Try that one,” you said, already reaching for another.

Dex picked it up without arguing. It was… good, but he didn’t say that out loud.

You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.

“It’s fine,” he said.

You snorted. “Liar.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t pretend it’s just fine,” you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.

“I’m not pretending.”

“You are.”

He hesitated, then let you win this one. “It is good,” he admitted begrudgingly.

“There it is.”

The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didn’t catch as often. You didn’t circle each other as much. You just… talked.

You even went on for a good fifteen minutes about watching a squirrel in the park yesterday. You said something about how it would grab something, run halfway up the tree, stop, look around like it forgot what it was doing, then go back down and start over. You went on saying, it did this, like, five times, I think it lost the nut at some point but just committed to the bit.

Dex was surprised a former Red Room operative would even concern herself with things as trivial as a little rodent. He was even more surprised that he let you go on and on about it. It was as if he liked listening to you, no matter what you said. 

You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dex’s eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.

You didn’t notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being “committed to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,” and—

Dex raised his hand before he could stop it.  “Hold on,” he said, almost a whisper.

You paused. “what…”

His thumb brushied lightly at the corner of your mouth, wiping the custard away, before licking the liquid off on his own tongue. The contact was brief and altogether too gentle for a man like him. For a second, neither of you moved.

His hand dropped back to the table. “You had…” he gestured vaguely. “Custard.”

“Oh.” You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Dex looked down at his hands. That felt… Unfamiliar.

He didn’t know when the last time he’d done something like that was. He didn’t know when the last time he’d wanted to.

There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didn’t even have a name for it.

And while he wasn’t sure he liked that, he definitely didn’t hate it.

You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldn’t stand another second of silence. 

“Ummm speaking of hobbies?” you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. “You… don’t strike me as a hobbies person.”

“I had some,” he said, easing back into the chair. Thank fuck you could carry the conversation for the both of them, because his brain had just fully stalled. 

“Past tense is concerning.” You leaned forward just a little. “What, like, knitting?”

“No.”

“Scrapbooking?”

“No.”

“Be honest,” you taunted, “I can see it.”

He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. “Baseball.”

You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.

“Yeah, I can see that,” you said, then added casually, “I used to do ballet.”

Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. “Oh,” he managed to say.

You shrugged. “Standard Red Room stuff.”

Dex’s posture shifted slightly, attention narrowing. 

Oh, this was it. This was what he came for. This was the thread he needed. This was the confirmation that you had been trained in HQ, right? If you had survived it, then there were doors inside you that led back to places he couldn’t access any other way. 

These were not guesses, not patterns he had to infer from distance, but direct proximity to the Red Room itself, to its methods, its remnants, its current reach. He just needed to keep you talking, keep you close, long enough to pull it apart piece by piece. So he asked, “What does that mean?”

You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. “Mm—nope.”

“What?”

“Not here,” you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. “I’m not getting into that here.”

Dex watched you as held his hazel eyes. Then, just as quickly, you leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against your hand, expression shifting back from dark to a lighter tone. “Come by my place on Saturday,” you said, like it had just occurred to you. “We’ll call it our third date.”

Dex blinked. “What?”

You shrugged, completely unfazed. “If you’re really curious,” you added, a small tilt to your head. “There’s… fewer people.”

He stared at you, his eyes empty and calculating at the saw time, fingers anxiously tapping the underside of the table. This was… this was not in the plan. This was not one of his controlled outcomes. This was not…

“Okay,” he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.

“Okay,” you echoed.

And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too late… 

This doesn’t feel like a job.

—

Dex had expected a decoy. A secondary location, maybe a shell apartment. He was expecting something stripped down and impersonal, designed to be burned the second it was compromised.

Not this. Not the exact place he had already mapped out in his notebook.

So yeah, you had given him your real address.

For just a second, he wondered if this was the play. If you knew how much he knew. If this was some test he hadn’t caught onto yet.

The building was exactly what he expected. It was a high-end high rise. The doorman glanced at him once, then nodded like he’d already been cleared.

“You’re expected,” he said simply.

Dex didn’t respond, already moving past him. The elevator took him straight up.

By the time he reached your door, he had an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was this… a trap? 

He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.

“Hi,” you said.

Dex opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted his train of thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, right at the scar.

Dex froze. By the time you pulled back, his brain still hadn’t caught up.

You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. “Come in.”

He couldn’t find words to say, because apparently, his brain was on pause now.

Still, Dex stayed half a step behind you as you pushed the door open, his eyes already scanning past your shoulder and realised…

The place was… expensive.

Not in a loud, gaudy way. You had no gold fixtures or ridiculous statement pieces. It was intentional. It had floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall with a view that swallowed half the city. It had two bedrooms, if he researched it right.

“How…” he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it. 

You didn’t seem to notice. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasn’t worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be quick.”

And just like that, you disappeared.

Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything. 

You lived here. And not as a cover, not temporarily. There were no signs of rotation, no packed bags, no readiness to leave at a moment’s notice.

“That’s stupid,” he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didn’t think anyone could touch you.

Dex stood still for a second, listening to the water running. He heard the slightly delayed pipes and realised you weren’t rushing. Good.

His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didn’t try to look for what was there, but what didn’t belong. Because people like you didn’t leave things out.

Which meant if anything existed, it would be hidden. His gaze slowed down and shifted… There. A section of the wall paneling near the shelving was barely misaligned. It was not enough for anyone else to clock, but Dex didn’t miss patterns like that.

He stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly over the seam. There must be a pressure point. Eventually the panel gave just enough of a click to confirm it. Dex didn’t hesitate before easing it open.

Inside was a compact hidden compartment.

The first thing he saw was a keycard, worn at the edges. The insignia was barely visible, but he didn’t need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.

Red Room had a historical overlap with Hydra. Old, but not irrelevant.

It surely was a small enough thing that you wouldn’t miss it, right?

He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasn’t exactly a full archive, but it was enough.

He flipped through them, scanning fast. Inside were names of Red Room operatives. The dead ones were labeled. He assumed the ones who didn’t have a red Xs on their files were still active. 

You had annotated them too, with locations, partial intel, and movement patterns.

This was the kind of access people killed for.

His thumb moved, grabbing his phone. He flipped through quickly, taking a picture of each page, each note, each annotation. He made sure, of course, that it was legible.

This was high-level access, closer than anything he’d gotten from a distance. This… This was the job.

Then he heard the sound of water shutting off.

Shit. Dex froze. Then, he moved. He closed the folder immediately, sliding it back in.

Everything went back exactly as it was, the panel sealed until the seam disappeared into the wall again like it had never existed. By the time you stepped back into the room, he was already on the couch.

“Sorry,” you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. “That took longer than I thought.”

Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didn’t line up. The. it was gone.

“You’re fine,” he said evenly.

You nodded, like that settled it, and stepped closer. You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, as if this was normal. As if he wasn’t here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didn’t even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand. 

You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, “…So,” you said, more direct. “What do you want to know?”

—

It can’t be this easy right? Dex thought. 

Turns out, it was. 

Which was weird, because people like you didn’t just… hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup he’d ever walked into, or you really didn’t think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him. 

His fingers flexed slightly against his knee as he watched you pour two glasses of red. You handed one to him, and Dex took it quickly. “Thanks,” he said, smaller than usual.

He didn’t even usually drink anymore. He turned the stem slightly between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the light. For a brief second, his mind did what it always did: it ran through possibilities. 

It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldn’t…  Well.

He huffed quietly to himself. What the hell.

Dex took a sip. It burned a little on the way down. Not unusual, just normal wine. 

The first sign that it wasn’t poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didn’t react; you didn’t watch him like you were waiting for something to happen. You just leaned back into the couch and tucked your leg under yourself.

It was cute, Dex thought. You looked like a bird, nesting. He liked it.

Then, he took a deep breath and started asking questions. At first, it was light, like where did you grow up? Where were you trained?

You answered, and you sounded detached for the first couple of sentences. It was as if you were testing the limits and throwing pieces out to see what stuck.

But when the alcohol kicked in and your cheeks turned rosy pink, you spoke more candidly. About the Red Room. About being taken. About being trained.

Even Dex, who was starting to feel more bubbly, didn’t interrupt.

At first, he listened like he always did. He filtered, sorted, and pulled out what mattered. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Because you started giving less intel and more… context.

“You don’t really realize it when you’re in it,” you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. “It just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You don’t question it because there’s nothing else to compare it to.”

Dex’s grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.

“They don’t just train you. They… build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.” You gave him a small laugh.“Honestly? It’s basically a cult. You have no idea what it’s like to be manipulated like that.”

Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You glanced at him then, and your eyes shifted. You were not shocked at all, but you recognised it as well as you would recognise kin. “Oh,” you looked down. “Right.”

Dex poured himself another glass without thinking. You kept talking, but slower now. It was less like you were explaining, more like you were… unloading. Like you didn’t have anywhere else to put it.

That’s when it clicked: This must not be a trap or a strategy, he concluded, because the reason you were telling him all of this on a third date was… because, like him, you had no one else.

You might have neighbors, maybe even actual friends. But surely, you had no one else who could possibly understand you the way he did, because who else could you possibly know in this line of work? 

That was why you decided that he was the safest place to put it.

Dex stared at the rim of his glass for a second too long. That was stupid of you. And dangerous. And—

“…And you?” you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. “C’mon.”

He blinked, pulled back into the moment.

“If we’re trauma dumping,” you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, “we might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.” You took another sip, then shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly look like either of us go to therapy.”

Dex huffed. “Yeah,” he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.

He shouldn’t, though, right? He shouldn’t tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but… The booze was getting to him. 

And, besides, what harm could trauma dumping to you be? The job ends one way: with you dead after he got all the intel. So did it really matter what you knew about him?

Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling a little. 

And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything. 

The words came out flat at first. But the more he drank, the less he cared about what he gave away and what he did not. 

You didn’t interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking. 

At some point, the wine started to blur the edges for you, too. Your shoulders leaned closer. Your knee stayed pressed against his. Your laughter came easier as he cynically explained being in prison, and because you felt bad when you did, you gasped and covered your mouth. 

Dex didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled, the corner of his mouth warping the pronounced scar on his cheek. At one point, you tilted your head slightly, watching him with an understanding that hadn’t been there before.

“God,” you said, almost to yourself. “We’re so fucked up.”

Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself. 

“Yeah.” He took another sip, “You more than me,” he added, almost immediately.

Your head snapped toward him immediately. “Excuse me?”

A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Y’know,” he said, “Child soldier and all.”

You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Really?” you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’m more fucked up?”

He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.

You pointed at him with your glass. “Your boss broke your spine and you lived.”

Dex managed to roll his eyes. 

“You got thrown off a roof and you lived,” you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. “Sounds like you’re pretty far from normal.”

Dex huffed again. “Didn’t say I was normal.”

“Mm,” you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again. 

The space between you closed without either of you noticing when it happened. Your knee pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of you moved away.

The wine kept going. Half a glass. Then another.Words came easier after that, less filtered, less controlled.

You interrupted each other more. You laughed more. You even talked over the ends of sentences like it didn’t matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.

Dex didn’t realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didn’t realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didn’t even realize when he stopped thinking about the job entirely. He just knew, at this point, that you were close. Really close.

And you looked… Pretty.

That was a stupid word. It was too simple. It didn’t cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart.  

But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didn’t even remember what) and it made you look… harmless. 

Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didn’t pull away from it. For a second, you looked at him, too.

Dex swallowed the last of the wine, mostly because it was the only distraction that could possibly take up all the space you had started to occupy in his mind.

The room had dimmed at the edges in that deceptive way alcohol always did. The lights seemed warmer. 

Dex didn’t usually get to this point. He knew that with uncomfortable clarity. He also knew he should stop.

You were sitting too close, closer than before, closer than necessary, your shoulder pressed lightly into his as if neither of you had noticed the distance shrinking over time.

Your voice had gone gentler, words starting to come in slower waves instead of quick exchanges. There was less explanation, more confession disguised as conversation. And he was doing the same, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.

Parts of him he usually kept locked down were just… loosening, one by one, without permission.

You laughed at something he said, he didn’t even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have. 

“You’re smiling,” you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.

“I’m not,” he said automatically.

You hummed, unconvinced. “You are.”

He should’ve corrected you. Instead, his eyes drifted without meaning to, down to your mouth when you spoke again. The way your words drooped at the edges when you were tired, or tipsy, or both. For the love of god, he could not get over you the way you kept licking your lip absentmindedly, like you weren’t even aware of it.

It made something in his brain go pop.

You noticed. “…What?” you asked, pouting adorably.

Dex didn’t answer right away. Because, really, there was no tactical reason for him to be looking at you like this. There was no intel angle. No extraction logic. No job framework he could hide behind.

It was just you. And him. And the space between you that didn’t feel like space anymore.

He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadn’t planned on doing it. It wasn’t even a decision he consciously made, really. 

It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit. 

For a while, you didn’t move away. 

Your breath caught in your throat, but you stayed there, watching him come closer instead of stopping it. Your eyes flicked down once, like you were considering it too.

Dex stopped just short of you. He wanted, no needed— to know you wanted it, too. 

Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction—

That would be it. The line would be crossed.

You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You weren’t pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.

Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.

You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. “…Dex,” you murmured, and his name sounded different like that. His eyes flicked to yours again.

Too close. This was way too close.

Your eyes dropped again to his mouth again, and stayed there. For a second, he could clearly see that fraction of hesitation where neither of you could pretend anymore that you weren’t thinking the same thing.

Dex leaned in that final inch… but you didn’t meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.

“Mm,” you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.

“No,” you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. “It’s only our third date.”

Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadn’t fully processed the words.

You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.

“Besides,” you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, “I want you to kiss me when you’re sober.”

Oh.

He leaned back this time, letting out a deep breath. There was only one way he could describe how he felt, and that was disappointment. 

Oh, well. What else can he do?

“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Okay.”

Still, he didn’t move far, and neither did you.

And of course, his thoughts, intrusive as they always are, decided to ruin the only tender moment he had in years.  

You have enough. Kill her. 

Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employer’s request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted. 

What are you waiting for? Kill her. 

It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now. 

He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at you— from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didn’t even need a gun. 

Kill her.

And no, you wouldn’t even see it coming. His fingers flexed slightly against his leg.

Kill her.

But then he made the mistake of looking at you. And from there on out, all he could think was… 

I want another date.

No. He shouldn’t want that, right?

Kill her.

He didn’t want that either. 

But… he needed the money, and you had a body count higher than the Empire State Building. Killing you would make sense right? It would help balance the scales, right?

Right? 

Would it still make sense, even after you laid your heart and soul to him? Would it still make sense, even after he realised you were brought up as an enslaved child soldier? 

Kill her. 

No, he told himself, Not yet.

I want just one more date. 

And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet. 

—

Dex didn’t go to rest when he got home.

The second the door shut behind him, he frowned, burying his head in his hands before pulling himself together. He had called forth the part of him that knew what to do, what this was, what it had to be.

He pulled the notebook out before he’d even taken his jacket off.

He sat down, pen moving across paper. It started the way it always did: Structured and efficient. Intel, in detail.

He wrote of the interior of your apartment; top floor, two-bedroom, open sightlines, minimal obstruction points. Entry points limited. Windows large but not easily accessible from exterior. Security: building-controlled, doorman compliant, prior clearance confirmed.

He flipped the page. He wrote about the hidden compartment: wall panel, right side of shelving unit. Pressure point activation. Contents: Hydra-era keycard, confirmed overlap with Red Room operations. Documents: active survivor list, partial intel, movement logs. Photographic evidence captured.

Another page. This was where he started writing about your routine vulnerabilities, your Behavioral patterns. Trust threshold: high. Counter-surveillance: minimal to non-existent. Open, disarming, prone to disclosure under informal conditions.

His handwriting stayed tight. 

2.5 million dollars would only come after you were dead. That would fund his makeshift crusade for years to come. It was important work he was doing, balancing the scales. 

Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.

Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displays—

His pen slowed to a stop. It hovered there, a warmth blooming in his chest. Dex frowned slightly, staring at the page like it had changed on him.

Then, almost absentmindedly, he wrote… she kissed me on the cheek, right on the scar.

The pen froze again.

That wasn’t— He exhaled, teeth clenching. —this wasn’t important. 

But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.

Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift toward—

His handwriting had changed. Not messy, just less rigid.

… her past. She smells like vanilla. not perfume. Most likely clean laundry and sugar from baking.

Dex blinked. He looked at the lines then at the rest of the page.

What the fuck.

He flipped to the next page like that would fix it.

Red wine is her favourite.

His grip on the pen tightened slightly.

He should stop. This wasn’t relevant. None of the last couple sentences was relevant. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the notebook in his lap.

He had everything he needed. He didn’t need to write anything else.

Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft? 

Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath it…

She laughed when she said “we’re so fucked up.”

He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.

—

The restaurant for the fourth date was nicer than most places he even bothered to go to nowadays. But if this was going to be your last meal, he might as well make it memorable.

It had soft blue lights, a low hum of voices, the whoosh of knives behind the counter. Dex noticed all of it the second he stepped in, cataloguing angles and exits, the reflective panel behind the chef that gave him a partial view of the room without turning his head.

You need to kill her today.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and followed the host to the table.

When you sat down across from him, smiling like you hadn’t just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.

“Hi,” you said with a smile

Kiss her.

He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. “Hi.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”

“I haven’t.”

“You definitely have.”

“Maybe five minutes.” That was a lie. He had been there for more than ten, cataloging what he could possibly use to finish the job.

You smiled, pleased. “Knew it.”

She’s faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.

Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. “You’re late.”

“I’m two minutes late,” you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. “And I brought personality, so it cancels out.”

He huffed, hiding a smile. “That’s not how that works.”

“It is.” You insisted, tapping the menu. “Also, you picked sushi? I didn’t think you were a sushi person.”

“I’m not.” He immediately said. 

You blinked. “Then why…”

“Seemed efficient.” What he meant was; it’s a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. It’s efficient for him, who had an array of ceramic and silverware to kill you with.

You stared at him for a second, then broke into a grin. “You picked it based on efficiency.”

“Yes.”

“That is the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.

He didn’t do either.

“You’re still here,” he pointed out instead.

“Yeah,” you said easily, settling back in your seat. “Because I actually like you.”

Liar. Kill her.

Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, “You know anything about the ports here?” Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass. 

The question should’ve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. “Not much,” he admitted after a second. “Fisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.” 

You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably should’ve just because you kept looking at him like that.

After a while, though, he managed to change the topic. Work was getting a little old. He found himself wanting to talk about you. “You always order too much.”

You lit up like he’d just handed you a piece of chocolate. “Oh, we’re judging now?”

“I’m observing.”

“Rude,” you said, already scanning the menu. “Also, it’s not too much, it’s strategic.”

“Strategic how?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious.

You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. “You ever go hungry enough that your brain just… rewires? Like you don’t trust ‘enough’ anymore?”

Dex had never felt that way before. He wondered if you were indulgent because you had gone through missions with little food. Would you have gotten days without it, a week maybe? Your Buenos Aires mission was six days, your Lagos mission was seven days. Was it those missions?

How did you even survive? 

She’s a widow. She’s a weapon. She’s a person.

“…Yeah,” he said anyway.

Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. “Yeah,” you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. “So I’ll over-order. It’s fine. We deserve it.”

We’re so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.

“Okay, this one,” you said, pointing. “We’re getting this.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It has too much…. whatever that is.”

“That is eel,” you squinted.

“Exactly,” he shrugged.

“It’s just eel,” you pointed out. “You’ve eaten weirder things.”

He paused. “That’s not the point.”

You grinned. “I have enough of an appetite for the both of us.”

Kill her. Kiss her.

“…Fine,” he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.

You beamed. 

By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didn’t hold back when you ate, and you never did. You leaned forward, talking between bites, pointed things out like it mattered that he experienced them properly.

“Try this,” you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.

Dex looked at it, then at you. You didn’t even realize what he was going to do to you.

Kiss her. Kill her.

He leaned forward and took the bite. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting.

“It’s good,” he admitted.

“I know,” you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.

He shook his head slightly.

She’s dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.

You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. “We used to have this thing—training-wise—where they’d reward you with food if you hit certain targets.”

Dex’s attention shifted immediately.

There it is. Focus.

“Targets?” he repeated.

You winced slightly. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud.”

He didn’t respond.

You laughed, a little self-aware. “I mean—it was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like ‘hit this, get that.’ Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.”

You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadn’t just said that.

She’s a monster. She’s a victim. She’s both. Kill her.

“Do you ever miss that?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. “The food or the brainwashing?”

“Either.”

You smiled faintly. “Sometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.”

That…. He understood.

Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

You didn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. “Hey,” you said, lighter now. “At least now we get sushi instead of, like… boiled cabbage or whatever.”

His lips formed the ghost of a smile. “I didn’t get cabbage.”

“Oh, sorry,” you deadpanned. “Did your government program have better catering?”

“No.”

You grinned. “Then you get it.”

He did. He really, really did.

You started talking about stupid things again—bad takeout, a guy you saw trying to fight a pigeon, the way you animated everything just enough to make it feel real.

Dex found himself watching your mouth when you talked.

Kiss her. Kill her. She’s faking it. She actually likes me.

He picked up his chopsticks again, turning them slightly between his fingers. These would be a good weapon to finish you off. He had calculated the angle, trajectory, and distance. He could do it from across the table. It would be clean, straight through the throat.

You wouldn’t even—

You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.

“Earth to Dex?”

He blinked, refocusing on the world around him. 

You were looking at him like you’d caught his mind somewhere far away.

“What?” he said.

“You spaced out,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That was intense. Should I be concerned?”

Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.

“No,” he said, coughing a little

You leaned forward slightly, studying him. “You do that a lot. Go somewhere else.”

He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. “I’m here,” he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to.

Your eyes softened. After that, you kept talking, and he kept listening, but the thoughts didn’t stop.

Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed for corrupt governments. She’s taken down entire networks. She could kill you. Kill her. Kiss her.

He watched the way your fingers curled around your glass, the way you leaned closer when you got excited about a topic, the way your voice softened when you cared. 

He imagined reaching across the table, but this time not to put a piece of cutlery through your windpipe.

Instead, he imagined reaching out with his hand, touching your wrist. He imagined pulling you closer, kissing you.

—

When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard. 

His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. “I’ve got it,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant, like the words had to push past thorns  lodged in his throat. You started to protest, but he cut in, “I want to.” 

That part slipped out, honest in a way he didn’t like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldn’t exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motion—insert, wait, sign—because that was simple, and that was something he understood. 

Kill her.

He could do it after this. He would. After all, that was the plan. But when he glanced up, you were watching him. and it threw everything off balance in a way that made his chest feel too full.

His thoughts only sped up after that. 

Kill her. She needs to go. She’s a monster. She’s a widow. She’s a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. She’s faking it. She’s dangerous.

He signed the receipt, but his grip was wrong. It was too tight, the paper crinkling under his thumb. When he set the pen down, his eyes betrayed him. They dropped to your mouth without permission. 

It wasn't strategic. It wasn’t calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same.  

He imagined leaning forward instead of walking away, closing the distance instead of planning your doom, your lips against his instead of blood on his hands.

Focus.

His breath caught, and he looked away like that would fix it, like he could force himself back into the job he was supposed to do. 

He needed to do it. Now. Outside. 

He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket. 

But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.

Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. She’s a bad person. She’s dangerous. She’s so fucking pretty. She actually likes you. Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.

He stood too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and reached for his jacket like movement might help ground him. It didn’t. You stood too, close enough that your arm brushed his.

He could still do it but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking to your lips like he was starving for something he didn’t deserve.

The realization hit all at once: he didn’t want to kill you before he kissed you. 

He needed that first. Just once. 

“I’ll walk you home,” he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said “Okay,” it didn’t make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldn’t want before he did what he came here to do.

Kiss her. Then kill her.

—

The street outside your building felt eerily quiet, like the world had thinned down to just the two of you and the glow of the lobby lights behind glass. The doorman had the day off, you mentioned. There were no footsteps. No interruptions. 

Good. No witnesses.

Dex barely registered the thought this time. It flickered and passed, swallowed immediately by the thundering anxiety brewing in his mind.

Kill her.

“Hey,” you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.

He gulped. “Hey.”

His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.

“I think,” you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, “you earned it.”

Dex didn’t get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met his…and everything in him just gave way.

His hand dropped from his pocket instantly, the weapon forgotten as his fingers caught your waist instead, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d disappear. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didn’t belong to him.

Kiss her like you mean it.  

When you pulled back slightly, just to breathe, just to smile that pleased smile that made your whole face light up, he followed. He actually chased your lips, closing the distance again before you could get far, like he couldn’t stand the idea of it ending already. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again. It was slower this time but no less hungry, like he was trying to memorize it.

You tasted… fuck! Sweet.

His brain latched onto it immediately, irrational and completely useless: Strawberries and cream. Probably lip gloss, but it didn’t matter to Dex. 

Kiss her like you fucking mean it. 

He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldn’t stop it, not when you leaned into him like that, not when your fingers curled into his jacket like you wanted him just as much.

Kill her.

The thought slammed back in hard enough to almost make him flinch. His hand paused at your side. He knew the metal chopstick was still in his pocket.

Do it now.

He could, theoretically.  You were right there. You were more than close enough. More importantly, you were trusting enough.

One movement, and you would be dead. He would cradle your lifeless body in your arms and the last thing you would ever do was… kiss him. 

“I’ll see you soon?” you asked hazily when you finally pulled back, your voice carrying the echo of the kiss.

Dex froze.

You were smiling at him. You were not suspicious or guarded. You were just…  hopeful. And all he could think about was the way you’d kissed him. The way you’d let him.

Kill her.

His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficiently…

No. Not like that. I can’t kill her like that.

It was too slow, too messy. You’d bleed. You’d feel it. You’d die a slow, painful death…

She didn’t deserve that.

That was it. That was his excuse this time.

You deserved to die a quick, painless death. Maybe a shot in the back of the head when you weren’t looking. Just… bang! 

His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadn’t caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.

“I—yeah,” he said, voice, rougher around the edges. “You will.”

You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadn’t just made a decision that should’ve gone the other way.

Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize you again. He thought about your mouth, your eyes. the way you were still a little flushed… Then he stepped back, because if he didn’t—

Kiss her.

He almost did.

Instead, he let you go. And when he got home, all he wrote in the notebook was:

She tastes like strawberries and cream. 

—

The park on a Sunday felt too bright for what Dex had come to do.

Sunlight filtered through the trees in shifting patterns, the grass warm and uneven beneath the blanket he had brought.

It was your idea, “a picnic!” said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didn’t involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.

He’d decided before he even got there, that today, he was going to kill you.

It ends today. Kill her.

Then you showed up. And the world tilted for him.

You were wearing a sundress that moved with you when you walked. It wasn’t tactical, it wasn’t anything like the person he’d read about in that file. You looked… beautiful.

Kill her.

He swallowed it down. “You look…” he started, then stopped, like the word wouldn’t come out right.

You tilted your head, smiling. “What?”

His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. “Nice,” he settled on.

It was insufficient. He knew it.

You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadn’t just undone him.

Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a weapon.

He swallowed, hard, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something before he stood there staring like an idiot. He dropped down onto the blanket he’d set up, hands already busy unpacking what he’d brought.

You noticed immediately. “You brought strawberries and cream?” You asked in disbelief. 

Dex shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t thought about it too much. “You like sweet things.”

You went quiet for a second. “I…” you started, “I do.”

He didn’t look at you. If he did, he’d…

Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.

You sat across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and that was so normal it made his chest ache.

For a while it was just conversation, the kind that didn’t feel like work. You started with small things, normal things. Then, maybe out of morbid curiosity, you asked him about Fisk, almost casually, like it was something you were only half-remembering. Dex hesitated before answering, more out of instinct than suspicion.

Red Hook came up next, and that made him pause longer, because it wasn’t the kind of thing people usually asked about in passing. Still, he gave you what he had, watching you the whole time for a reaction that never really came. You just nodded along like it made sense to be talking about it like this, and that made him talk more than he should have.

But how could he focus on any of that when his mind…

Shoot her in the head.

“I’ve never done this before,” you said after a moment, glancing around. “A picnic, I mean.”

That caught Dex off guard. “What?”

You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Not like this, anyway.” You picked at the edge of the blanket. “We used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.”

You said it so lightly. Like it wasn’t something that should gut him. “In the basement of the facility I was raised in,” you went on. “Some of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.” You smiled, but it was fragile. “We’d share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was… nice.”

Dex stared at you.

Kill her. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed people. She’s—

“You deserved better,” he said.

You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. “Yeah,” you said, after a second of consideration. “I think so too.”

Make it quick, coward.

He grabbed a strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, dipped it into the cream, and held it out toward you. It was an imitation of what you had done with sushi the other night. 

You chuckled, then leaned forward, taking it gently, your lips brushing his fingers just slightly.

Kiss her.

He watched you bite into it, watched the way your mouth curved, the way your eyes closed like you were enjoying it. Cream caught at the edge of your lips, but you didn’t notice. And that was it.

Kiss her. Indulge.

He leaned in because he couldn’t help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.

You didn’t.

Your lips met his, and it was not rushed, not desperate like before. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your face slightly, deepening it just enough to feel you respond, just enough to feel you lean into him.

You don’t deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with. 

His chest tightened painfully as he pulled back, breathing uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.

You smiled at him, a little dazed, and he knew. He couldn’t do it here. Not like this.

He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped.

You tilted your head. “What?”

He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. “I don’t want to stay here,” he said.

You were now confused and a little unsure. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. “No. It’s not that.”

Kill her. Do it right.

He let out a deep breath. “Come back to mine,” he said.

Fucking coward. What are you waiting for?  She’s a terrible person. She’s killed more people than you. 

Your brows lifted slightly. “Your place?”

He nodded once.

If he did it there, it would be quiet. He would still make it quick and painless. And afterwards… he could mourn you in peace. He could hold your body as he cried into your neck. And maybe, some part of you would stay with him forever. 

“Yeah,” he said, voice smaller now. “I just… want more time with you.”

That part wasn’t a lie.

You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. “Okay,” you said.

And just like that, you followed him home.

—

The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadn’t done a hundred times before without thinking. 

But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.

Kill her.

It wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a command, pressing in from all sides until it felt like it might split him open from the inside.

Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s lying. She’s done this before. You know what she is.

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he kept walking, forcing his steps to stay even. You were beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few strides, like you hadn’t noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.

Kill her. Do it before she does it first.

The words didn’t fade after they came anymore. They repeated, layered and stacked on top of each other until they stopped sounding like language and started sounding like pressure.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

But then, another voice cut through.

Kiss her.

It didn’t argue. It pulled.

Kiss her again. Don’t let this end. She chose you. She’s still here.

His breath hitched slightly, chest tightening as the two sides collided, over and over, faster now, louder now, until there was no space between them.

Kill her. Kiss her. KILL HER. KISS HER.

It built and built, escalating into unbearable noise. They clawed and scraped and demanded all at once. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly like they were reaching for an answer, like his body was trying to decide for him.

One pull of the trigger. That’s all it would take, that’s—

Then, he felt your hand slip into his.

And for the first time in a long time, his brain was… quiet. 

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like you hadn’t even considered that you shouldn’t.

Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didn’t quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.

The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressure…they just ceased. As if you had reached inside his head and flipped a switch.

Dex stood there for half a second too long. His mind, which had been a constant storm of instruction and contradiction, felt… clear.

His fingers closed around yours slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid the moment would shatter.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even hesitate. You just… walked with him. 

And the quiet stayed. Step after step, it stayed.

By the time you reached his building, a fact had already settled into place inside his chest. He didn’t have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.

He just knew he wasn’t going to kill you anymore.

Not tonight. Not later. Not at all.

Good person be damned. Bad person be damned. Rent be fucking damned. Whatever fragile system he’d built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.

He wasn’t looking for redemption, and he wasn’t chasing some shallow kind of bliss that killing you might give him. That had never really been the point, no matter how many times he told himself it was. He just wanted you.

And it was a primal, wild want. 

He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything he’d missed, everything he’d never been given.

Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didn’t unlock it right away. Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers were still threaded with his. Then he looked at you. And there was nothing in his head telling him what to do anymore.

His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, almost absent motion, before he finally unlocked the door. “Come in.”

—

His apartment was nothing like yours. In was just one open space, a bed pushed too close to the wall, a kitchen that barely separated itself from the rest of the room. No personality, no indulgence other than you. 

You didn’t say anything, though. No teasing comment, no subtle comparison, just that same acceptance you always gave him, like this was enough. Like he was enough.

Dex barely gave you time to take it in. The second the door shut behind you, he lost any semblance of restraint. 

His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didn’t belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didn’t know how to ask for.

You gasped against him, your hands coming up to his chest, then his shoulders, leveling him and undoing him all at once. 

He walked you backward without breaking contact. One step, then another, until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell onto it with. He followed instantly, like space between you was unbearable.

His hands were everywhere, your neck, your sides, your thigh, like he needed to confirm you were real, that you were still here, that you hadn’t disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking. 

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

“Dex?” you whispered, concern threading through everything. “What’s wrong? ”

“Nothing,” he insisted, almost defensive. “Nothing.”

But his eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to force it down, trying to push it away before you could see it. After all, he didn’t know how to explain it.

How would he even begin to explain that you made his head quiet? That just being near you feels like something he’s never had before? That he doesn’t know what this is, but it’s too much and not enough at the same time?

“I’m fine,” he added, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.

You said his name again, gentler this time. 

And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.

“I wanna taste you,” he said honestly, almost reverently. 

You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. “You’ve kissed me before.”

But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. One hand gripped on your ass as the other hooked on the waistband of your panties, tugging it down desperately.

“No,” he said, voice deeper now. “I want to taste you.”

Oh.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pull away. You let him move closer, let him guide you, let him fall on his knees like he was praying to a goddess in the altar of an ancient temple. You let him take that space between your legs as he wondered how much sweeter you could get. 

Here, he could at least pretend that he hadn’t been thinking about killing you not that long ago.

Dex sank lower, slower now, like he was trying to learn you, not take from you. His hands steadied himself against your thighs, his forehead dipping for just a second like he needed to breathe you in. He felt… wrecked.

His breath hitched softly as he leaned closer, the space between your heat and him shrinking until there was almost nothing left and then—

click.

It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off. 

Every instinct he had lit up at once, snapping back into place so violently it almost hurt. His body froze, breath catching.

He lifted his head slowly. And there you were, with a gun pointed at his head.

It was small, and easy to hide, the red room insignia etched to the side. You probably pulled from that little purse you always carried like it was just an accessory.

Of course.

Dex didn’t reach for anything. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even try to put space between you. He just… looked at you.

And instead of anger, his chest folded in on itself. What he felt was closer to heartbreak than it was rage. Because for one stupid, moment he had naively believed you felt safe with him.

“…Oh,” he said softly.

The gun wasn’t the most horrifying part. It was the fact that even now, even with the metallic click of the safety still ringing in his ears, even with death staring him directly in the face, Dex could not stop looking at you.

You were sprawled beneath him on his bed, dress dragged up your thighs by his own hands, your breathing still uneven from the way he had kissed you seconds earlier. Your lips were swollen and puffy. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. One of your sandal straps hung loose around your ankle where he’d nearly pulled you apart getting you onto the mattress. And somehow… he still wanted you so badly it physically hurt.

How could he be this fucking stupid?

He should’ve known. Especially with questions about Red Hook. The ports. Fisk. That was why you kept asking.

Every little question over food and coffee and pastries. Every casual mention between laughter. Every moment he thought you were trying to know him better—

No. You were working. Just like him.

Your employer wanted information, and you had been sent to pull it out of him piece by piece while he sat there completely fucking mesmerized by you.

And now you had what they needed. Or maybe they realised he didn’t know enough to be valuable. That was worse, because it meant that he was just another loose end.

His stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Not because you’d played him, because some pathetic, starving part of him had genuinely believed this had stopped being a job somewhere along the way. That maybe the way you kissed him outside your building had been real. That maybe when you held his hand and silenced every screaming voice in his head, it had meant something to you too.

Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

It you had looked cold, detached, amused, even cruel, this would have been easier. He would have known where to put it. Would have known how to hate you properly. But you looked devastated.

Your hand trembled slightly around the weapon pointed at him, and your eyes kept betraying you, flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up again. You looked like you hated this.

“I…” You swallowed. “You’re not useful to OXE anymore.”

He had known something felt off. He just hadn’t cared enough to stop. He just wanted you more than he wanted to survive.

Dex let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like laughter. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core. 

You flinched immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”

His eyes flicked back to yours.

“Don’t act like this was just me manipulating you,” you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. “I know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Don’t you dare pretend like you weren’t planning to kill me too.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what could he even say? You were right.

The notebook was sitting in his apartment right now, pages and pages documenting your routines, your apartment, your vulnerabilities.

He had memorized the ways to kill you before he ever memorized the sound of your laugh.

And all this time, you had let him follow you, let him think he was in control in that “accidental run in” in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too. 

And somehow, the two of you still ended up tangled together on his bed, half-dressed and breathing hard from kissing each other like starving people.

Dex’s gaze dropped involuntarily to your thighs, to the skin exposed beneath the ruined hem of your dress. To the way your body was still open for him despite the gun in your hand.

Fuck.

His fingers tightened unconsciously where they still gripped the fabric pooled around your hips.

You looked vulnerable.

And the absolute worst fucking part was that he still wanted to bury himself between your legs so badly he could barely think straight. Even now. Even knowing this was the end.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

“You know what’s pathetic?” he asked quietly.

Your brows pulled together slightly.

Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. “I still want to taste you.”

Your breath caught audibly.

“There’s a gun pointed at my head,” he whispered in disbelief. “and all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.”

“Dex…” you breathed shakily.

But he shook his head immediately. “No, listen,” he said quickly. “I know what this is. I know what happens next.”

You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didn’t actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.

God, I’m so sick.

“I know you’re gonna kill me because it’s the job,” he continued. “Fine. I get it.” His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. “But Christ…” His voice cracked. “Just let me have this first.”

Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.

“I could die happy,” he admitted. “Just… let me taste you first, sweetheart.”

Your hand trembled. Not enough to miss, but just enough that Dex noticed.

The barrel of the gun was pressed against the center of his forehead now, cool metal against flushed skin, and still he didn’t move away from you. 

“Do it, then,” you whispered.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to force your hand not to shake while he knelt there between your thighs looking at you like this was the closest thing to worship he had ever known. Amazed that even like this, you were soaked for him.

“Fucking do it,” you said again, almost pleading now. “Before I…”

Before you what? Changed your mind? Cried? Dropped the gun?

Dex could see every possibility running through your brain all at once.

His hands slid down your thighs reverently.  “You’re shaking,” he murmured quietly.

“So are you.”

That almost made him smile.

The apartment felt impossibly small around the two of you. The warm yellow light above the kitchen sink made you look divine, coupled by the sound of your uneven breathing. The mattress dipped beneath your weight every time you shifted. Dex tilted his head slightly against the gun like he was accepting his fate. Accepting you.

That should have terrified him. Instead, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked above him— dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didn’t want him seeing.

He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadn’t admitted it. But this was something else entirely. This hurt.

Dex tilted his head just enough to press a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, and the sound you made nearly destroyed him. 

His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldn’t believe you were reacting to him this way.

Dex kissed higher, and your hand flew to his hair immediately, fingers tangling there hard enough to pull a rough sound from his throat in return. He moaned against you.

The vibration of it shot through you so suddenly your back arched off the mattress, breath breaking apart, embarrassingly needy.

Dex's eyes kept fluttering shut every time you touched his hair, every time your thighs trembled around him, every time another helpless sound escaped you. He looked less like a man in control and more like a vampire feeding on his first prey. It was overwhelming.

Every time you twitched or gasped or tried to pull away from how intense it felt, he noticed immediately. He adjusted immediately, making you feel good mattered more than breathing. Like your pleasure mattered more to him than the gun pressed to his skull.

And fuck, did his tongue feel so fucking good. You could barely think straight. The room blurred at the edges, your thoughts dissolving one by one. Every nerve in your body felt lit raw, burning hotter and hotter every time he moaned pathetically against you again like he couldn’t help himself.

Dex sounded addicted to you already. He was too consumed by you and the sounds you were making now. They were small broken noises you clearly hated letting out but couldn’t stop anymore. Too consumed by the way your body kept reacting stronger and stronger beneath him despite your obvious attempts to stay composed.

Your hands tightened helplessly in his hair as another wave hit you, harder this time, your thighs trembling violently around his shoulders. “Dex—” you gasped brokenly.

He looked up instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes were blown wide. His lips swollen from kissing your skin. Hair ruined beneath your fingers. 

Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast. 

Too much. It was too much.

Your body tightened all at once, every nerve pulling taut as pleasure crashed through you so hard it hurt. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, your entire body shaking as you finally came apart beneath him. Dex held onto you through all of it.

Your fingers slipped from his hair eventually, weak now, trembling as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision completely by the time the waves finally started easing enough for you to think again.

Dex pulled back immediately the second he realized you were crying harder.

“Hey,” he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didn’t know where to touch to make sure you were okay. “Hey— look at me.”

You were still trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you struggled to come down from the drug-like high of the orgasm he gave you, the barrel of your gun on his temple now.

His thumb brushed shakily beneath your eye, catching tears against the pad of his finger. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.

“Fuck—no,” you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. “Dex, fuck! How could you even say that?”

The concern on his face was so raw it physically ached to look at.

You were still shaking, your body trembling, your thighs dripping with spit and arousal like neither of you knew how to stop this anymore. 

You could trace every conversation backward now, see all the moments you carefully guided him toward the information you needed while he sat across from you like some fucking idiot who came to the conclusion you actually liked him. Except… 

You had fallen utterly in love with him.

Somewhere between the pastries and the wine and him writing down your coffee order in that stupid little notebook of his, the job had become real. Somewhere between him kissing you and him looking at you like your body wasn’t shameful or weaponized or ruined… you had stopped wanting this to end. 

And now here he was. Kneeling between your thighs with your gun to his head and your taste still on his mouth, looking at you like he’d die grateful if you asked him to.

It was as if, somewhere deep down, Benjamin Poindexter truly believed that if loving you ended in death, then maybe that was simply the closest thing he would ever get to being loved at all. That thought almost made you vomit from grief.

Your breathing broke unevenly as you stared down at him.

He still had one hand on your thigh, so fucking gentle.

“I don’t understand you,” you admitted shakily.

A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. “I don’t either.”

You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. “Fuck, Dex,” you choked out, “you were supposed to be a job.”

“So were you.”

You swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I should kill you,” you whispered suddenly. The sentence sounded wrong coming out now, like it was collapsing under its own weight before it even reached his ears.

Dex lowered his forehead slightly more firmly against the barrel of the gun, offering himself to you. He readjusted it, making sure that if you shot him now, it would be painless, like he was going to do to you. 

“Do it,” he whispered. “It’s what you were sent to do.” He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.

Your vision blurred hard. “I can’t,” you whispered.

He exhaled through his nose. “Yes, you can.”

“No!” You shouted out, panicked. “Don’t fucking… don’t even try to make this easier!”

When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldn’t move. Fuck, he really trusted you to end it quick, did he? Even with doom pressed cold against his skin.

Your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to ache. You tried to force yourself back into training, back into discipline, back into the little girl who would get extra pieces of scrap food if she finished her mission well enough. 

But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way he’d looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. “I’m gonna…” you whispered shakily, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t want to kill him. And that was the first truly selfish thing you had ever wanted.

You pulled the trigger anyway, and the gun went off.

The sound exploded through the apartment violently enough to shake the walls, but the bullet slammed into the floor behind him instead. You had missed a point blank shot intentionally. 

Your hand dropped. You stared at the damage of the splintering wood, breathing hard, horror rushing through your body all at once like ice water. “Oh my god,” you choked.

Dex thought he was dead.

For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasn’t, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you “Hey, look at me.”

You genuinely couldn’t. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. “I can’t fucking do this,” you sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t—”

Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.

“I’m a monster,” you whispered brokenly. “Dex, I’m a fucking monster.”

Dex said nothing. He only leaned forward slowly and kissed the tears from your cheeks one by one, like guilt itself had become holy.

And suddenly you understood something terrible about him: He does not love cautiously, nor rationally.

Every ounce of affection he gave came directly from the part of him that had been hurt the most. His soul had been beaten bloody and kept reaching anyway. The heart is a muscle, and his had torn itself apart trying to hold both of you afloat.

“You don’t get to say that like you’re different from me,” he whimpered against your skin.

Your breath hitched and that was when he kissed you like he was trying to pour every shattered piece of himself into your mouth before the world took it away again.

When his mouth parted against yours, you could still taste yourself on him. That made it more devastating. This ruined, trembling man was still carrying evidence of your pleasure on his tongue while he kissed you like you were worth saving.

Dex made a small sound against your mouth when you started crying harder, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, trying to hold you together physically because he didn’t know how else to do it.

His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. “We’re both monsters,” he whispered.

But it didn’t sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.

David emerges from the bathroom, the steam from his shower still clinging to his skin as he rubs a towel vigorously through his hair. His tired sigh echoes through the quiet of his home, a testament to the long hours he's spent poring over case files and chasing leads in his latest investigation.

But as he moves towards the bedroom, his senses snap to attention at the sound of movement coming from the front door. Instinct kicks in, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he drops the towel, his naked form forgotten in the urgency of the moment.

With purposeful strides, David makes his way to the nightstand, his hand closing around the familiar weight of his gun. The cool metal sends a shiver down his spine, grounding him in the reality of the situation as he prepares to confront whoever dares to intrude upon his sanctuary.

Heart pounding, David leaves the bedroom and strides into the hallway, his back pressing against the wall as he listens intently to the footsteps drawing nearer. The tension in the air is palpable, his senses on high alert as he braces himself for whatever may lie ahead.

As the intruder's movements lead them towards the kitchen, David inches forward cautiously, his gun held at the ready. With a steady hand, he rounds the corner, his voice firm as he commands, "Raise your hands up!"

But his words catch in his throat as he sees you standing there, your eyes wide with fear as you cling to a pot, your scream echoing through the room. The sight of you sends a shockwave of realization through him, his grip on the gun loosening as he takes in the situation.

"Fuck, what are you doing here?" David curses, his voice laced with a mixture of relief and frustration. His heart still racing, his eyes never leaving your trembling form as he tries to make sense of the chaos unfolding around him.

You, visibly shaken by the encounter, take a step back, your hands trembling as you try to process what just happened. "I-I came over to surprise you," you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper as you struggle to find your words. "I didn't expect you to be home."

David's expression softens as he realizes his mistake, a wave of guilt washing over him at the sight of your distress. With a heavy sigh, he lowers the gun, running a hand through his still damp hair as he looks at you, his detective instincts kicking in as he assesses the situation. He notices how you avoid looking at him, your gaze fixed on the floor as you fidget nervously.

"How did you get in here?" David asks, his voice gruff yet tinged with concern as he tries to piece together the puzzle before him. "And what's all this about a surprise?"

You swallow nervously, mustering up the courage to meet his gaze as you stammer out your explanation. "You... you gave me a spare key," you remind him, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I-I came to give you a little birthday surprise."

David's expression softens at your words, a flicker of realization crossing his features as he remembers the spare key he had given you. He watches as you open the jar in your hand, revealing the array of cupcakes nestled inside.

Ten cupcakes, each decorated with care, a testament to the thought and effort you had put into your surprise for him. David's heart swells with gratitude, touched by your gesture of kindness amidst the chaos of his world.

"I made cupcakes because I know you don't like to eat a lot of sweets," you explain, your voice barely above a whisper as you avoid his gaze. "I... I hoped to surprise you when you got home from work."

David nods, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he realizes the extent of your thoughtfulness. He had forgotten about his birthday in the midst of his hectic schedule, but you had remembered, going out of your way to make him feel special.

As he watches you standing there, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, David can't help but think how pretty you look in that moment, all vulnerable and sincere. "Why aren't you looking at me?" He questions, his tone gentle yet curious as he tries to understand your behavior. "Is something wrong?"

You stutter out a response, reminding him of his state of undress, and David finally notices his nudity. He curses under his breath, embarrassment flooding his features as he quickly covers himself with his hands.

"Shit, sorry," David apologizes, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he turns away, making a beeline for the bedroom. "I'll... I'll get dressed and be right back."

You nod silently, your cheeks still flushed as you avoid looking at him. As David disappears into the bedroom, you let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through you at the realization that you're safe and sound.

But even as you wait for David to return, you can't shake the image of him standing there, vulnerable and exposed, etched into your mind. It's a moment you know you'll never forget, a glimpse into the depths of his humanity amidst the chaos of his life as a detective.

As David disappears into the bedroom to get dressed, you find yourself blushing even more intensely as lewd images flash through your mind. The thought of David kissing you, caressing you, making love to you sends a thrill of excitement mixed with nervousness coursing through your veins. Despite being in a relationship for six months, the two of you hadn't taken that intimate step yet.

You've always been incredibly shy, especially when it comes to matters of intimacy. David, being older and seemingly more enigmatic, added to your hesitance. His baritone voice, tall frame, thin build, and hooked nose only added to his allure, but also intimidated you. In the early days of your relationship, he was moody and rarely opened up, leaving you wondering if he was even interested in you romantically.

David's lack of romantic gestures and his seemingly constant busyness further fueled your insecurities. You hungered for his touch, yearned for more intimacy, but couldn't muster the courage to initiate it yourself. It left you questioning if he was gay, too shy, or simply not as invested in the relationship as you were.

As David returns from the bedroom, now dressed in comfortable clothes, his brow furrows in confusion at the sight of you fussing with the cupcakes and lighting a candle. His deep voice breaks the silence, questioning your actions.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his tone a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

You glance up nervously, holding out the cupcake with the flickering candle. "I... I wanted to do something nice for you," you admit shyly, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

David hesitates, clearly taken aback by your gesture. He tries to protest, insisting that it's not necessary, that he's too old for birthday celebrations. Disappointment clouds your expression as you mumble that everything is fine, your disappointment palpable in the air.

Seeing the crestfallen look on your face, David sighs, realizing he's upset you. He pulls out a chair from the counter and sits down heavily, reaching for the cupcake you had offered him. Pretending to be in a bad mood, he grumbles under his breath.

"Fine, I'll play along," he mutters, his lips twitching in a half-hearted attempt at a frown.

You watch him with a mixture of surprise and amusement as he reluctantly takes the cupcake, his expression betraying a hint of vulnerability beneath his gruff exterior. With a small smile, you push the other cupcakes closer to him, silently urging him to join in the celebration.

David hesitates for a moment as he questions what kind of request he should make, his brow furrowing in thought. You can't help but smile at his uncertainty, finding his hesitation endearing.

"You could ask for anything," you say softly, a playful glint in your eyes. "But remember, if you tell, the wish won't come true."

David nods, considering your words carefully. After a moment of contemplation, he leans forward and blows out the candles with a decisive breath. You can't help but clap your hands in excitement, leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek. David's lips twitch into a smile at the gesture, his eyes sparkling with warmth.

As you pull away, curiosity getting the better of you, you ask, "So, what did you wish for?"

David chuckles softly, a hint of mischief in his gaze. "You know I can't tell you," he replies, his voice low and teasing. "You made the rule yourself."

You can't help but smile back at him, the playful banter easing the tension between you. With a nod, David reaches for his cupcake, removing the candle and tossing it aside before taking a bite. Despite his usual aversion to sweets, he seems to enjoy the cupcake, a satisfied hum escaping his lips.

Standing up from the table, David gestures towards the living room. "Come on," he says, his voice warm and inviting, "let's eat these cupcakes while we watch some TV."

You agree eagerly, gathering up the cupcakes and following David to the couch. As he searches for the TV remote, you take a seat, tucking your legs beneath you nervously.

Watching David move about the room, his tall frame towering over you, you can't help but feel a rush of affection for him. Despite his gruff exterior and intimidating demeanor, there's a kindness and warmth to him that draws you in, making you feel safe and cared for.

As David settles onto the couch beside you, you lean against him, reveling in the warmth of his presence. With a contented sigh, you reach for a cupcake, savoring the sweetness of the moment as you lose yourself in the comfort of his embrace.

He browses through the TV shows, his brows furrowed in concentration as he tries to find something interesting. You settle closer to his side, craving his touch as you always do, but beyond wrapping an arm around your shoulders, David does nothing, his eyes fixed on the TV screen, almost as if he's avoiding looking at you.

You try not to be disappointed, focusing on the TV, but the warmth of David's body beside you is a constant reminder of what you crave. Meanwhile, David tries to control himself, mentally cursing himself and trying not to appear like an old pervert when he desperately wants to touch you. Your closeness does things to him, and he can't help but imagine what it would be like to feel your soft skin against his.

He's acutely aware of your presence, the way you snuggle against his chest, the way your skirt shows off your beautiful legs. He imagines placing a hand on your thigh, slowly raising his fingers until they touch your... damn! Get a grip, Friedman!

With an excuse about getting a beer from the freezer, David gets up, leaving you momentarily alone on the couch. He asks if you want one, and you decline, feeling a pang of disappointment as he walks away.

In the kitchen, David takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head before grabbing a beer from the freezer. He returns deliberately, choosing to sit in the armchair across from you, leaving you alone on the couch. The distance between you feels like a chasm, and you can't help but wonder what went wrong.

David settles into the armchair, his eyes fixed on the TV screen as he watches the intense fight taking place. He swears lightly under his breath, clearly invested in the action unfolding before him. But his concentration is broken as you interrupt him, your voice hesitant as you ask if the two of you could talk.

He turns his attention to you, his gaze softening as he nods, encouraging you to continue. You hesitate for a moment, playing with the fabric of your skirt nervously, drawing David's wandering eyes to your legs again. He quickly averts his gaze, taking a sip of his drink to compose himself.

You finally summon the courage to broach a question that has been haunting your mind for a while. "David," you begin tentatively, your voice barely above a whisper, "are you... gay?"

David almost chokes on his beer at your question, his eyes widening in disbelief as he sets the bottle aside on the coffee table in front of the sofa. "What?" he questions, his voice laced with incredulity. "Where did that come from?"

Blushing furiously, you try to explain yourself, stammering over your words as you assure him that it's okay if he is, that you wouldn't judge him for it. But you need to know if he's using you for some kind of facade or something.

David frowns, shaking his head adamantly. "No, I'm not gay," he insists, his tone firm as he tries to understand the source of your sudden insecurity. "Where did you get all this?"

Your embarrassment intensifies, causing you to tighten the hem of your skirt even more, your fingers turning white as you avoid looking David in the eyes. The silence hangs heavy between you, the weight of your insecurity pressing down on your chest as you question if he thinks you're ugly, that's why he doesn't see you, why he doesn't touch you.

David notices your distress, his heart aching at the sight of your vulnerability. He gets up from his armchair and comes to sit next to you, taking your hands in his as he gently urges you to stop being so hard on yourself.

"Hey, hey," he murmurs softly, his baritone voice soothing as he holds your gaze, "you're beautiful, even stunning. Fuck, I wonder every day what you see in me."

You look at him then, your eyes searching his face for any sign of deception. But all you see is sincerity, a warmth in his eyes that melts away your doubts.

"Why don't you touch me then?" you whisper, your voice barely above a breath as you voice the question that has been plaguing your mind.

David's expression softens even further, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your cheek as he leans in closer. "Oh baby," he murmurs, his voice low and husky, "I was waiting for you to ask, waiting for your permission."

You can feel your heart racing in your chest, anticipation coursing through your veins as David's words wash over you. He continues, his voice a seductive whisper that sends shivers down your spine.

"I didn't want to seem like an old pervert to you," he admits, his thumb caressing your lower lip, "you have no idea how much I've had to control myself, how many nights I've spent thinking about you, imagining you in bed with me."

Your breath catches in your throat at his confession, desire pooling low in your belly as you realize the depth of his longing. David leans in closer, his lips hovering just inches from yours as he whispers the words you've been yearning to hear.

"You have no idea how many times I've fucked my own fist thinking about you," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire as he closes the gap between you, claiming your lips in a passionate kiss that leaves you breathless and wanting more.

As you kiss him back, the intensity of David's embrace catches you off guard. His lips move against yours with a fervor you've never experienced before, igniting a fire within you that you never knew existed. The realization that he had been holding back all this time, not rejecting you but simply waiting for your permission, floods you with relief.

Feeling one of his hands on your knee while the other tangles in your hair, you become acutely aware of the longing in his touch. It's as if he's still waiting, still yearning for your consent to explore the depths of your desire.

Breaking away from the kiss, you find yourself unable to contain the urgency burning within you any longer. "Please, David," you whisper, your voice filled with desperation, "touch me."

David's breath hitches at your plea, his eyes darkening with desire as he seeks confirmation. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice low and husky, a hint of disbelief mingling with raw desire.

You nod eagerly, your heart pounding in your chest as you give him the permission he's been waiting for. "Yes, David," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, "please, touch me.

With a fervent curse, David's demeanor shifts, his restraint melting away as he surrenders to the primal need coursing through his veins. "Fuck, yes!" he growls, his voice filled with a raw hunger that sends shivers down your spine.

In an instant, David transforms from a man who seemed reluctant to touch you into a dominant force of desire. He pulls your head back, exposing your neck to him as he trails hot kisses along your skin, his lips leaving a searing trail of sensation in their wake.

As one of his hands moves up your thigh, slipping under your skirt, you can't help but moan at the sensation of his touch. You lean back against the couch, surrendering yourself to the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body.

David's touch is electrifying, his fingers deftly exploring every inch of your skin with a reverence that leaves you breathless. As he straddles you, his weight pressing you into the cushions, he releases your hair and cups your breast through the fabric of your blouse and bra.

The sensation of his touch sends sparks of pleasure shooting through you, igniting a firestorm of desire that threatens to consume you both. With a primal need driving you forward, you arch into his touch, craving more of the intoxicating pleasure only he can provide.

David pulls away, his gaze locking with yours as he hovers above you on the couch. The air crackles with tension, desire smoldering in his dark eyes as he takes in the sight of you beneath him. It's a scene straight out of his wildest fantasies, and now, he realizes, he has the chance to make those dreams a reality.

A smirk tugs at the corners of David's lips as he revels in the power he holds over you. But despite the fire burning within him, he knows he must tread carefully, ensuring that every step he takes is with your explicit consent.

With a gentle yet firm hand, David reaches out, cupping the side of your face as he holds your gaze with his own. His touch is electric, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your body as you meet his intense gaze.

In that moment, David makes his intentions crystal clear, his voice low and husky as he articulates the primal desire burning within him. "I want to fuck you tonight," he murmurs, his words dripping with raw desire as he waits for your response.

You nod eagerly, your cheeks flushed with arousal as you cling to his t-shirt, your desire mirroring his own. But David wants more than just a nod, he wants to hear you say it, to give him the verbal confirmation he craves.

"Tell me you want it," he demands, his voice a seductive whisper as he presses closer, his breath mingling with yours. "Tell me you want me to fuck you."

Your response is immediate, a breathless affirmation that sends a thrill of excitement coursing through David's veins. Satisfied, he releases his hold on you, rising from the couch with a sense of purpose as he helps you to your feet.

With a silent understanding passing between you, David leads you to his bedroom, his hand warm and reassuring against the small of your back. The anticipation mounts with each step, desire simmering beneath the surface as you follow him into the intimate sanctuary of his bedroom.

As you enter David's bedroom, your heart races with anticipation, your cheeks flushed with desire as you follow him into the intimate space. David's presence fills the room, his tall frame towering over you as he turns to face you, his dark eyes smoldering with raw desire.

Without a word, David closes the distance between you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek as he leans in close. His touch sends a shiver down your spine, anticipation coiling tightly in the pit of your stomach as you meet his intense gaze.

"You look so beautiful," David murmurs, his voice low and husky, sending a thrill of excitement coursing through you. "I've been wanting this for so long."

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, desire pooling low in your belly as you lean into his touch, craving more of the intoxicating pleasure only he can provide. With a primal need driving you forward, you reach up, tangling your fingers in his hair as you pull him closer, craving the taste of his lips against your own.

David's lips meet yours in a searing kiss, passion igniting between you as you lose yourself in the intensity of the moment. His hands roam freely over your body, exploring every curve and contour with a reverence that leaves you breathless.

With practiced ease, David begins to undress you, his touch setting your skin ablaze with sensation as he strips away the layers between you. As the last barrier falls away, you stand before him, completely exposed and utterly vulnerable. But instead of feeling self-conscious, you feel empowered, desire burning brightly in your eyes as you meet David's gaze with unwavering determination.

Without a word, David takes your hand, leading you to the bed with a sense of purpose as he guides you down onto the soft mattress. The cool sheets provide a stark contrast to the heat coursing through your veins, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine as you wait for David to join you.

As David takes off his shirt, his gaze never leaves you, his eyes dark with desire as he watches you blush under his intense scrutiny. You feel a wave of shyness wash over you, unsure of what to do as you lay there, naked on his bed. But instead of feeling self-conscious, you feel a rush of excitement at the thought of being desired by him.

David has always been fascinated by your shyness, finding it endearing how easily you blush in his presence. With a soft smile, he asks if you've ever touched yourself thinking about him, his voice low and husky as he waits for your response.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to respond to his bold question. But under his unwavering gaze, you find yourself nodding shyly, your cheeks flushing even more intensely as you confess the truth.

David's lips quirk into a small smirk at your admission, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his features as he watches your reaction. Without a word, he kicks his sweatpants aside, leaving him only in his underwear as he sits down on a nearby chair, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Show me," David orders, his voice laced with authority as he watches you expectantly.

As you hesitate once again, unsure of how to proceed, David gently guides you, his voice soft and reassuring as he suggests that you could close your eyes if it's easier for you. With a nod, you obey, feeling a sense of relief wash over you as you shut out the world around you, focusing solely on the sound of David's voice.

"Good girl," David praises, his tone filled with approval as he watches you with unwavering attention. "Now, open your legs for me."

You hesitate again for a moment, the intensity of his command sending a thrill of excitement coursing through you. But with a deep breath, you obey, parting your legs slightly as you lay there, exposed and vulnerable under his watchful gaze.

"That's it," David murmurs, his voice low and husky as he takes in the sight before him. "Now, use your fingers, but go slowly. I want to appreciate every moment."

With a tentative nod, you reach down, your fingers trembling slightly as you trace delicate patterns over your skin. You try to imagine that you're alone in your bedroom, late at night, thinking about David, and the thought fills you with a sense of confidence.

As you begin to touch yourself, David's praise rings out, spurring you on as you become more confident in your movements. His words of encouragement fill you with a sense of empowerment, igniting a fire within you that drives you to explore your desires without reservation.

But as you open your eyes to steal a glance at him, you see David sitting naked on the chair, his erection in his hand as he watches you intently. The sight sends a thrill of excitement coursing through you, your heart pounding in your chest as you feel a surge of desire wash over you.

Your cheeks burning with embarrassment as you admit that you want his touch, not your own. The admission hangs heavy in the air between you, desire crackling between you as you meet David's intense gaze.

For a moment, David is stunned into silence, his eyes darkening with desire as he takes in the full weight of your confession. But then, without warning, he's on his feet, his movements swift and purposeful as he crosses the room to join you on the bed.

As you lay there, anticipation coursing through your veins, you expect David to come directly to you, his desire evident in every move. But instead, he surprises you by heading to the dresser next to the bed, his movements deliberate as he opens the drawer.

Your heart skips a beat as you catch a glimpse of the gun inside, a stark reminder of the dangerous world David inhabits as a detective. But he pays it no mind, his focus unwavering as he rummages through the contents of the drawer, searching for something specific.

With a sense of relief, you watch as David finds what he's looking for, a sealed box of condoms hidden amongst the clutter. He tears the wrapper with his teeth, his movements swift and purposeful as he rolls the condom onto himself.

Finally, David turns to you, his eyes dark with desire as he crosses the room to join you on the bed. He doesn't waste any time, laying down next to you and turning you towards him, his lips meeting yours in a searing kiss.

As you lose yourself in the heat of the moment, David rests his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. With a husky voice, he questions if you've ever been fucked from the side, his words sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

You shake your head in response, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you admit your inexperience. But David only smirks in response, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"Well, you're in for a treat," he murmurs, his voice low and husky as he trails kisses along your jawline. "I'll make sure you never forget it."

As David whispers his promise, a thrill of anticipation courses through you, your heart pounding in your chest as you eagerly await his instructions. With a gentle yet firm touch, he turns you onto your side, his chest pressing against your back as he pulls you close.

You feel a surge of excitement as David lifts one of your legs, positioning it just so as he settles in behind you. His arousal presses against your back, a tantalizing reminder of the pleasure to come as he guides himself to your entrance.

With a husky groan, David sinks into you, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. You gasp at the feeling of him filling you completely, his heat and hardness stretching you in all the right ways.

"Fuck," David curses under his breath, his voice thick with desire as he begins to move inside you. His thrusts are slow and deliberate, each one sending waves of ecstasy crashing over you as you cling to him, lost in the intensity of the moment.

As David fucks you from the side, you feel a sense of vulnerability and intimacy unlike anything you've ever experienced before. His chest presses against your back, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers filthy promises and encouragement.

"You feel so fucking good," David growls, his voice sending shivers of pleasure coursing through you. "So tight and wet for me, baby. I could fuck you like this all night."

You moan in response, unable to form coherent words as pleasure consumes you completely. Every thrust sends you spiraling closer to the edge, your body trembling with need as David takes you to new heights of ecstasy.

As David's thrusts grow more urgent, his baritone voice fills the room with a mixture of desire and command. "You like that, baby?" he growls, his breath hot against your ear as he nips at your skin. "You like feeling me deep inside you, stretching you open?"

You can only manage to nod in response, your body consumed by the overwhelming pleasure of his touch. David's hands roam freely over your skin, his touch setting you ablaze with sensation as he explores every inch of your body with a reverence that leaves you breathless.

"Tell me what you want," David demands, his voice low and husky as he urges you to vocalize your desires. "Tell me how you want it."

But your shyness gets the best of you, leaving you unable to voice your deepest desires. Sensing your hesitation, David's lips quirk into a small smirk as he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers dirty promises and encouragement.

"I'm going to make you come so hard," he murmurs, his voice dripping with desire as he trails kisses along your jawline. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't take it anymore, until you're begging me to stop."

His words send a thrill of excitement coursing through you, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume you both. With each thrust, David pushes you closer to the edge, his movements becoming more urgent as he drives you both towards the brink of ecstasy.

As your pleasure mounts, you feel a surge of confidence wash over you, emboldening you to vocalize your desires. "Harder," you moan, your voice barely above a whisper as you cling to him, lost in the intensity of the moment. "Fuck me harder, David. I want to feel you deep inside me."

David's smirk widens at your words, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his features as he picks up the pace, his thrusts growing more powerful with each passing moment. "You asked for it, baby," he growls, his voice thick with desire as he gives you exactly what you crave.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by your moans of pleasure as David takes you to new heights of ecstasy. With each thrust, you feel yourself teetering on the edge, the promise of release tantalizingly close as you surrender yourself to the overwhelming pleasure of the moment.

As your climax approaches, David's movements become more frantic, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he drives you both towards the brink of ecstasy. And then, with a primal roar, you shatter into a million pieces, pleasure washing over you in a tidal wave of ecstasy as you come undone in his arms.

But David isn't far behind, his own release crashing over him like a tidal wave as he spills himself inside the condom, his body trembling with the force of his release. He releases your leg, allowing it to fall back onto the bed as he lies on his back, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

Turning towards him, you snuggle into his chest, seeking solace in his warmth and comfort. David responds by pulling you close, wrapping an arm around you as you both catch your breath together in the aftermath of your passionate encounter.

In the silence that follows, David hides his eyes in the crook of his arm, trying to contain the smile that threatens to spread across his face. Despite his efforts, he can't suppress the feeling of contentment that washes over him, leaving him feeling light and carefree.

Eventually, David lifts his head to gaze down at you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of your thoughts. "Did you like it?" he questions softly, his voice tinged with uncertainty as he waits for your response.

But when there's no reply from you, David lifts his head further, only to discover that you've fallen asleep on his chest. A fond smile tugs at his lips as he leans down to press a gentle kiss to the top of your head, feeling a surge of affection for you as you sleep soundly in his arms.

Careful not to disturb you, David slowly extricates himself from your embrace, slipping out of bed with practiced ease. He removes the condom, tying it off before disposing of it in the bathroom, washing his hands with a sense of satisfaction.

As he looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, a small smile plays at the corners of his lips. Maybe, he thinks to himself, he should make more birthday wishes when he blows out a candle, if wishes are going to come true as quickly as this one did.

After disposing of the condom and washing up, David exits the bathroom with a small smile still lingering on his lips. He pads quietly into the living room, the glow of the TV casting a soft light across the room. With a flick of his wrist, he switches it off, plunging the space into darkness save for the dim glow of a nearby lamp.

Turning his attention to the coffee table, David spots a lone cupcake sitting there. He chuckles softly to himself, realizing that it must have been a leftover from the celebration earlier in the evening. Without hesitation, he reaches out and plucks it from the table, savoring the sweetness of the treat as he takes a bite.

As he chews thoughtfully, David's mind wanders back to the events of the evening, a sense of contentment washing over him. He can't help but feel grateful for the unexpected turn of events, for the passionate encounter he shared with you just moments ago.

With a soft sigh of satisfaction, David wishes himself a happy birthday under his breath, the words carrying a sense of warmth and fondness. "Happy Birthday, Friedman," he murmurs, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips as he finishes off the cupcake.

Setting the empty wrapper aside, David makes his way back to the bedroom, his heart swelling with affection as he watches you sleep soundly in his bed. With careful movements, he slips under the covers beside you, his tall frame enveloping you in a comforting embrace.

As he settles in beside you, David's thoughts drift to the future, to the possibilities that lay ahead for both of you. But for now, in this moment, all he wants is to savor the feeling of your warmth against his, to bask in the contentment that fills the air around you.

You had only just set foot in your home, late in the evening, as another exhausting day came to an end. As you pushed the door open, you were greeted by the agitating sound of a makeshift orchestra rehearsing a piece that seemed familiar, though it was muffled by the walls that separated the hallway from the living room; you couldn’t tell what piece it was this time. Having just arrived home, soaked through and freezing, the sound which would usually be comforting did nothing but remind you that peace and quiet were not something achievable in your life, not even an option ever since you got a peculiar musician housemate.

The flat was engulfed in a dark gloom that was pierced by a ray of light coming from around the corner, where the living room was. The light was matched by the sound of the instruments – all familiar to you by now. As you stepped forward, quietly, having already discarded your jacket and umbrella, you peeked around the corner. Right as you did, the music concluded with a striking rapidity that was certainly distinctive. You were about to draw back, go to your room to get changed and perhaps head to bed early, when you heard a voice, his voice.

“Let’s have another go! This time, put your hearts into it!” said a man, who you recognised from the start as being your peculiar guest.

You had no idea when he became the heart of the orchestra, seeing how he was one of the cellists, but here he was now, planning to start off another go at the piece. For a moment, you let your eyes wander over the strange, diverse figures in your home, and all you could do was let a soft sigh escape your lips before turning away. You could not tell them to leave, not when they seemed all so joyous to be there. Your gaze was gone from the figures for only a moment, your hand still resting on the wall, when you heard your name called by the same familiar voice.

“Home already?”

You peeked over towards the living room. This time, many pairs of eyes were turned to stare at you and among them that hazel pair that always brought with it the warmth of a summer’s day. His eyes were different, and somehow in the entire room, he stood out. The man set aside his cello with a delicate ease. Once his instrument was aside, he tilted his head, lips scrunching in a displeased manner, and his arms crossing as soon as they had been free.

“…You definitely have to secure those doors better. I heard nothing, did you guys?” The others mumbled a series of ‘no’ followed by the man’s hand wave in their direction.

“See? This is very dangerous. What if it were some stranger and found us rehearsing, oh, you really don’t think about us at all?” The figure pouted, tightening the self-embrace he had, the others nodding approvingly.

Then, just then, the scornful little look turned into a mischievous grin, “What on Earth’s name happened to you? You look like you just showered with your clothes on. You must dry yourself and quick, trust me, an eternity of sneezes is not an eternity you’d like.”

You rolled your eyes at him, his behaviour the same as always, his mischief something you had already grown accustomed to over the previous months.

“It’s raining out there…” You started, and he watched you with a curious look that resembled a golden retriever in that light. The sort of gaze which softened you; as a result, you shook your head and glanced over to the window, “I will get dry, alright. You’ve been going at it for long?” You asked, an arm stretched to point at the cello that currently lay aside.

The man turned to the instrument as if shocked to find it near him and reached out to hold it again, almost as if waiting for it to give him an answer. There was a pause that felt much too long to be comfortable. Then, with his eyes still fixed on the instrument, his curious look gained a nostalgic undertone to it.

“Not long enough,” he replied calmly.

You knew him better, and this was precisely why his reply did not narrow it down. You sensed there was more to it; in that look, you could discern he had been reminiscing again. On any other day, you wouldn’t press the matter, but you had been gone since the morning; you expected to know what happened so you’d know if any neighbours could have become suspicious of the noise.

Being the peculiar guest he was, there were instances when you would not see eye to eye in terms of how long it had been since he began his cello practice. At times, he’d go over the same piece ten, twenty times, other times he’d go for two… and sometimes when you were gone for longer, he’d play for the whole length of the day and into the night some more. That made you turn to one of his friends, brow raised expectantly.

The answer didn’t fail to follow. “Jamie’s been going at it since about the afternoon, Y/N. Not that long, we all took breaks and all.” A murmur of approval came from all of the men at once, and you crossed your arms.

“Will you stay and listen? We perfected this one…” The man himself, Jamie, intervened and continued to observe you. While your attention had been away from him, he had regained his happiness. The cellist smirked, then followed it with that smile full of mischief, “You can’t say no. Come sit, I know you can’t say no.” His eagerness was almost hypnotising, but after months of his company, you just liked to reciprocate his teasing.

You began to get closer, not rushing your pace, but feeling the carpet beneath your feet with each step until you reached the couch. “Oh, what happened to go dry yourself so you don’t get a nasty, eternal cold?” You mocked just as he had lifted his cello excitedly.

That remark toned down his excitement temporarily. Those were his words you used against him! Jamie’s eyes narrowed a little, and his lips scrunched in a small, sulky shape as he arranged the cello between his legs, resting it on his shoulder.

You caught it better now than ever; he had changed since the first time you met. That day when he came into your life, he was not as sparkly, not as full of mischief. These moments of nostalgia were lengthier and heavier before, but he had known how to put on an act for the most part. With months passing, that nostalgia had shifted into occasional moments when he’d lose himself in thought for a while, or he’d get quieter, but those were shorter and shorter lived. You could only be glad to see he was getting better. As annoying as he could be sometimes, it would be a lie to say he hadn’t grown on you over the past months.

He scoffed, but secretly he eyed you, just as you had observed him only a moment before.

“I am entitled not to answer that.” Luckily, that had caused you to smile, just as he intended. Jamie smiled in return, lifting his bow and signalling his friends that they could start, “I will make sure you get dry after you listen to us–”

His friends snickered as he said that, and one even muttered under his breath something about that being a terrible thing to tell a woman. Jamie had heard and snapped his head in that one’s direction, squinting grumpily.

Even like this, pretending to be upset, he appeared to you as a very warm presence, which contrasted the truth about him quite a bit. Everyone giggled, though, including you… Everyone, but Jamie, who let out a dramatic, exasperated sigh and ushered everyone to start playing.

You had not doubted for a second that their performance would be short of incredible, knowing they had plenty of time to rehearse, yet it was more than that. You had got comfortable on one side of the couch, head resting on your hand, elbow propped against the armrest, watching them play. That in itself felt very intimate, being allowed this close, to watch the bond between each of them and their instruments; you didn’t even notice you would hold your breath at times. From all, Jamie stood out to you the most. With your eyes lingering on his figure, you saw the way his fingers caressed the strings, his bow gliding across them with that impeccable precision; it slowly became a trance, and your mind drifted away.

How did you get yourself into this situation to begin with? How did Jamie come to be in your life?

You had only just bought an apartment from a sweet lady who referred to herself as Nina; she had moved out with her current husband after her ex-lover, a cellist, had passed away. Tragic story, a sore throat on his part had led to an insurmountable amount of sorrow in that woman. Once you learnt about it, you were glad she appeared happy now, although you did not want to imagine what she must have gone through.

You received a good deal for the place. At the time, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, other than perhaps the rush with which she was attempting to sell it to you when you showed interest in buying it; you motivated that with the fact that the place must have harboured the tragedy to it and Nina could not stay there without feeling the weight of what had happened. She was grateful you showed up. She seemingly had tried for nearly two decades to rid herself of it, but she said, ‘The right one is yet to come. ’ You thought that was somewhat strange, but assumed people were too picky over the location or interior. That did not lessen your excitement about having your own place.

The day you set foot in your new home was… rainy, just as today, a frighteningly rough storm that soaked you through. Most of the afternoon and part of the evening, you had spent attempting to dry yourself, ironically, when your eyes fell on an object that was almost haunting the corner of your eye. A cello case propped almost defiantly against the wall, facing you.

There was something eerie about it. You spent some time warming yourself up and watching the case, drawn to it like a moth to the flame. At first, the story did not come to you, but as you sat with your eyes on it, Nina’s words resonated in your mind, “Before he passed? He was a cellist. A very good one... the cello, well, he was the cello.”

Your breath had been stuck in your throat then, too, the case facing you, as if it was staring back. How long had it been abandoned there? Nearly two decades… That’s when Nina said her partner had passed.

You knew Nina had told you his name, but you could not remember it. The sight of the case was almost frightening, but not in a horrific way. It hurt in a personally tragic way. It must have belonged to him then… It took you nearly another hour until you earned the courage to get up from your spot on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket, to walk up to the cello.

It was still, completely still, just like a normal cello case should be. You blamed yourself at the time for being so foolishly intimidated by something so trivial; your hand reached out, but before your fingers could touch the case, something stopped you. Your own fear; it felt sacred; Nina had said the man was the cello… so maybe moving it was not right. Your hand drew back, and for a time, you did not dare to make a move other than sit on the floor watching the case.

You felt silly, and yet your rationality would not prevail, and you settled for merely watching it.

That day, you did not touch the case.

Another day passed the same way, and then another, and then another.

You grew used to the place.

You suspected now why people did not buy it before. The heating system was faulty, but it was summer after all, and you would not have to worry about that anytime soon. Then there was the fridge, an old one that you replaced right the following day after settling in. And, the worst of all, the rats. The first day you came there, the rats were audible, squeaking and running about, but that very evening, the noise ceased, and they had not come back since. You didn’t foolishly believe they all just vanished into thin air, but assumed they must have felt a new tenant and lowered their activity a tad, even though for unlikely rats.

It was about the third day after moving in, and you had finished most of the unpacking and cleaning by now. You would need to replace a few things, but the majority of the work was completed.

Yet there was one thing that you still had not touched, and that was the cello case. It had stayed there, right against the wall with its imposing presence; it was time.

You rose to your feet and this time approached it with more confidence, staring down at it, “You know,” you couldn’t believe you were speaking to yourself like that, out loud, “I don’t know many things about cellos, but I know you must have gathered dust. It’s not right, is it?” And so, you closed your eyes and reached forward.

You gasped, perhaps because the tension built in you made you feel something was coming, yet nothing happened; all there was to feel was the cold fibreglass texture under your fingers and the dust that immediately stained them. You pulled your hand away, looked at your fingers, then grunted at yourself, before picking up the case and lowering it onto the floor. There was gentleness in your action that not even you believed yourself capable of.

When the case was finally laid down, you felt that sensation of sacrality again. This time, you pushed it aside and, as silently as you could, opened the case to reveal the cello within.

You would be lying if you said you were not expecting something to jump at you from the case, maybe a rat, or perhaps find out something horrific like a pile of bones – the story Nina told you had apparently scared you to some extent. Now, with an ordinary cello in front of you and no horrific things striking, you laughed at yourself and lifted it up.

“Oh, you are heavier than I expected…”, you whispered to yourself, letting it rest against you while you traced your pinky over the surface. Strange, there was no dust. It means the case had done its job nicely. Nonetheless, you got a piece of fabric and began to stroke the surface, to make sure you rid it of all the potential dust; that sense of intimacy crept up your spine again, and this time it was so intense, it caused you to feel watched, yet as you turned around, you were met by nothing other than those familiar walls.

“My heart won’t let me sell you, or put you in the attic… or worse, throw you away.” You told the instrument as you continued to clean it, “Maybe I will just let you stay where you were? Clean you from time to time…” You laughed softly at the situation you were in, talking with an inanimate object. “You don’t seem to need cleaning, though, but… it does not feel fair to just leave you forgotten in that case.”

The feeling of being watched had become so pressing that you snapped your head around again. Just as before, there was nothing other than the eerie sensation that you were not alone. In that moment, a sense of nostalgia, of ennui, engulfed you, and you rested your head against the cello’s neck for a moment. You could not put it into words, but at that moment, your eyes filled with tears, “Before he passed? He was a cellist. A very good one... the cello, well, he was the cello.”

You had not even met the man, and yet you could feel that Nina was right, that the cello was bonded to its owner.

You wiped your eyes, and once you finished cleaning it and the case, you put everything back as it used to be and left it propped against the wall. Your eyes were fixed on it again, but after a few minutes, you left it there and tried to busy yourself with other thoughts.

It was then that the feeling of being watched had gradually disappeared.

The night came. You had just showered and slipped into bed, under the covers. You were drained from having been working alone on the arrangements in the flat when you were slowly falling into slumber. However, just as you were in that state between wakefulness and dream, you started to hear a faint… sound.

At first, it was so faint you thought it had to be a neighbour or some noise from outside. But it became clearer and clearer until, in that half-asleep state, you discerned a song… music. You did not recognise the piece then, but as you lay there hearing it grow more and more evident, a sort of dull ache nested itself in your heart, and you opened your eyes sharply.

Cello music.

It could not be. You rose to your feet only to realise the music had stopped.

Frustrated, you sat back down, ‘and now I’m imagining things,’ you told yourself, lying back down. You tried to sleep again, and once more, when you were nearly asleep, the music started, with even more passion… the pain behind the song so much rawer than before.

This time, you did not raise, only listened until sleep took over, and you fell into a deep slumber.

That repeated throughout many nights after that one.

Each time, the same song would be played, and you would fall asleep to it, and every morning, your first stop would be at the cello. It was intact, still frozen against the wall, still frozen in time.

Until one morning, you walked into a change.

The case was there, but it was not closed against the wall. Instead, it was on the floor, open, and the cello was on a chair. You were full-on frightened and had spent the whole day checking if you had been robbed, but nothing had gone missing; everything was exactly the same, besides… the cello. You had approached it then and noticed it for the first time, his bow. You did not know much about string instruments; you heard that bows had to be rosined, and this one clearly had gone about two decades without it. You checked the case for a rosin recipient, and when you found none, you stood there, arms crossed, glancing down at it.

And that’s how you bought rosin.

You had no experience whatsoever, and so you just got whatever had been recommended to you by the cashier at the store. That night, you stored the cello back in its case, but this time left the rosin container by the case.

“Either I’m losing my mind – either…” You didn’t continue that thought because this time that feeling you were being watched became so acute it was as if you could feel a whole person a few centimetres behind you.

When you turned, there was nothing.

That night had been different; you expected the music to begin again, but it didn’t. That almost scared you. Did you imagine all those previous nights? Were you genuinely losing your mind? Maybe it had been a neighbour all along. You got off the bed and made your way to the living room to check.

That was when you saw him.

That was also simultaneously nearly the moment you joined him [in afterlife] from the scare.

In your living room, on a chair, was a man looking straight in your direction.

You froze.

He stood up.

You were paralysed from fear, when suddenly...

“This is not the right one, come on, and I left plenty of hints!”

What.

“I even dragged that nearly withered plant of yours over to suggest I wanted a darker rosin! Do you know how hard it was to move that pot without waking you up? Oh, and you should thank me; if I weren’t watering the plant extra, it would be drier than the desert. And the rats, they don’t like me around one bit.”

What.

You watched him, unsure of what to do in that situation. There was a man you didn’t know in your living room with a cello. Nothing could prepare someone for a situation like this, so you watched him suspiciously.

“Will you not say something? I made an effort to be here, and now I’m being ignored!” The figure sulked, with his arms crossed. “And I made an effort to play every night with a bow that wasn’t rosined. I figured the place is new to you and you will have a hard time sleeping, so I got a genius idea.” He rambled, coming closer.

You only just then noticed how tall he was.

“I guessed, since you were so lovely to take care of my cello, I will take care of your sleep! Oh- no, scrap that, that makes me sound like a stalker.” He turned and looked to the side with a half-displeased look at what he said himself.

His cello?

“Excuse me, Mr., but you are a creep. You are in my house at night. Please leave.”

The man did not like that, his sulkiness exacerbating, “I was here first; if someone has to leave, you leave.” He sat down again, arms crossed grumpily. In this angle, he seemed inoffensive, if a bit childish in behaviour. In general, he did not make you feel threatened.

You could not really make a scene and scream.

What were his intentions? What if he became aggressive? Unlikely but a possibility.

“I’ve been here since the 90s; you just moved in.”

Oh, now you got it.

The man was impersonating the dead lover; it all clicked! Nina was a con artist who was selling the apartment repeatedly to people who then got scared off by the story of the dead cellist and sold it back to her, and a profit was made. You felt brilliant in that moment and crossed your arms as if you pulled the most Scooby Doo investigation on this scam couple.

The man suspected you were thinking of something. The way you smirked, though, made him feel you were not actually getting closer to the truth, “… something tells me we are not on the same page.”

“Of course not, oh, Mr. Ghost who will now haunt me out of the house…” You were brilliant. Genius.

“Jamie, first of all.” He started, tilting his head, “and what are you on about, second of all?”

“Oh, I know I know, ooooh I’m so frightened oh.” You dramatically played along with your own imagined scenario.

Jamie was staring at you like he was the one seeing a ghost. He was so stunned; he was not even sure what exactly it was you were thinking he was. It took you about 30 seconds of staring directly at Jamie, who was staring back at you with a disappointed look, to figure that maybe it was not the way you thought it was.

Proving that he was a ghost had been a lengthy trial; he willingly accepted. After a series of ‘walk through this wall’ and ‘make yourself invisible’ sort of commands, you eventually came to believe he was that dead lover. The most influential part of it was played by the forgotten framed old photo of Jamie in black and white, supposedly for his memorial, which you found.

That’s how he came into your life.

He was an added boon to the house when you bought it. Ever since, he has lingered.

He was a real pain in the ass for the first few weeks until you got used to the fact that he was bothering you to check your limits. After you figured that out, staying with him became rather fun. Boundaries were set, such as ‘don’t walk on me when I am in the bathroom, changing or sleeping’.

From being a sulky sod, he turned out to be entertaining, sometimes he’d play tricks, change the TV channels to annoy you or swap books around or turn picture frames upside down to see how long it took you to notice, and when you did, he’d grin and let you chase him around the living room for a little.

You never got annoyed; no matter how hard he tried to get you to be upset with him, it was always just compassion you showed him. He would do good things, too. A few times, you found the place cleaner. He just motivated it, saying he was bored and needed an occupation. You suspected he must have felt a bit guilty staying over without contributing.

One time, out of nowhere, he told you the name of the song he used to play while you were trying to fall asleep, The Swan, was the piece, and he promised he’d one day show you a full play at it.

As the weeks turned into months, you’d let him hang out with you while watching TV, and he’d always be grumpy about some poor staging of shows or the low quality of them.

You’d laugh; he’d secretly smile. That was Jamie; he was a complainer, but sometimes those criticisms had an additional role.

It was about that time he began to wait for you around the door and surprise-hug you when you came. The first time he did that, your heart nearly jumped out of your chest, and you’d accused him of trying to drag you to the afterlife. He sulked and just squeezed you, arguing that he was ‘terribly cold’. You had your doubts about that, but you let him do it since he was delighted about it.

Then more time passed.

He was bolder.

One day, you found him rehearsing with a group of strangers. You discovered that those were his ghost companions, who were very happy you had so kindly let them hang out at your place. You didn’t. Jamie again… This was a little more challenging to get used to, but after some time, you even knew the men’s names, ages and causes of death.

You really were lonely, hm?

That you and Jamie shared, and it was a silent agreement between you. You both knew about it but would never bring it up. It was in the way your eyes met at times, without words, just filling the silence with whatever silly stunt Jamie pulled or event that had happened to you during the day. Jamie was surprisingly a good listener when he wanted to, even if sometimes he acted too rashly.

“The Swan,” you caught yourself whispering as you raised your eyes from the ground, coming back from your small moment of reverie.

The music had come to an end.

“That’s what you played when I moved in, you promised back then you’ll show me a full performance. Thought you’d forgotten.” You smiled up at him, wiping your eyes.

In those moments when he played, all the months you’ve been living there had crossed your mind, like a movie tape. You began to clap for them and stood up from the couch. Jamie proudly jumped up with a grin on his face, and his friends joined him and bowed playfully to match Jamie’s dramatics.

Jamie caught your eyes, like he often would, and noticed in them a sort of pain he did not understand.

When he decided to surprise you with this piece, he expected something else, maybe your own complaints about how he used to ‘scare’ you while playing in the living room when you slept.

This longing that he sensed was foreign.

Not to him, he longed, many nights when he stayed to rehearse. It was this very longing that led him to put his heart into the cello, but why – he wondered – why could he see it in you now? To him, the reasoning was not hard to understand. He was longing for life and love, for everything he had lost when that sore throat tore him away from the world; he was longing to feel alive, and some nights it was such an acute desperation that his strings would be the only solace.

But why did he see it in you?

Jamie never revealed the truth to you about how he felt; he always joked that being a ghost was more fun and all, so why… why did his own agony reflect now in your eyes? He was still, observant, until one of his ghost buddies suggested they continue now with something a little livelier. A cover of a modern song, or something along those lines, and he absent-mindedly agreed to play along.

You stayed and listened to them for a while longer, despite being tired; it was always warming your heart to see him play.

It was foolish, so foolish.

There you were, watching Jamie, and at the same time trying to conceal what had been a secret of your own. You had grown fond of him long ago, and with the time that fondness – you did not want to admit – but it turned into love, one that you would never be able to voice.

Who would dare, when this man had been loyal even in death to Nina, despite being the one to push her into living – even if it was away from him. So, you listened, and watched, and your heart was breaking a little more with each string he played.

Soon, however, it had become too much for you to bear, and you stood up and excused yourself to go to bed. All of his friends complained jokingly about losing their best audience, but Jamie said nothing.

For once, he was the one to tease you least.

He studied your eyes, and without any protest, wished that you would have a good sleep in a tone you had never heard him use. He spoke lowly with a calm that surprised you and with a depth that tried to penetrate the riddle in your eyes. The way he glanced at you almost made you feel ashamed of your own feelings, and for once, you avoided his gaze and left, using the excuse of a bath to turn away from him.

His heart broke when you did that.

Had he done something? Was there something you had been hiding from him? What changed… And most importantly, why did it hurt him so terribly to see you pull away from him?

It reminded him of the pain he felt when he had to drive Nina away to make her live. He swallowed back the knot that had formed in his throat.

You were not gone, so why did it hurt this much?

His eyes remained on the direction you had left to, and he was so lost in his questions that his musician buddies had all put their instruments down quietly. It was not the first time they saw this in him, not the first time they saw him break despite swearing he would not love again since he passed. But this was Jamie, this was his curse… He had so much love to give, and having been torn away from life so early, he carried that capacity to love with him to the afterlife.

One of the ghosts came over and put their hand over Jamie’s shoulder. He did not say anything at first, just looked in the direction Jamie was looking, giving him time. “Will you tell her?”.

Jamie’s eyes filled with tears the second he heard his friend, and he moved his coat sleeve to wipe away his tears.

“…You ought to tell her. It’s doing neither of you good keeping it secret.”

Jamie let out a breath he didn’t even realise he had been holding. He looked at his friend, eyes in tears, but still somewhat composed, “…I can’t tell her. I can’t do this to her.” Then he had to sit down, burying his face in his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks, breaking.

His friends understood it perfectly. He did not want to guilt you into returning the sentiment; he did not want you to sacrifice your own chance at living, to split your life with him. He loved you too much to damn you this way, and so he broke into tears, shielded by his friends.

“What if she feels the same, Jamie? We all see the way you look at each other, what if – ”

“What if what? What if what? I will not do this to her. I know the pain I cause. I can’t do this to someone else. Not when I…”

“When you love them?”

There was silence, and his answer was just his quiet tears.

His friends stayed there with him for a while, rubbing his back and trying to make sure he was alright before they all had to leave, promising they’d return in the morning. He assured them he was okay. He really was not, but what could he do? He saw his friends off, one by one, then stayed there on the living room’s floor until there were no more sounds.

You must’ve been sleeping by now…

What did you want from your life?

He had tried to observe you before, to learn what it was that would make you happy. Nina had wanted children, something he could not provide.

But what about you?

He could understand why a woman would be reluctant to ramble about men around a man. You never told him anything; it was as if you were intentionally avoiding everything about the topic. He knew you had no lover, only because you were either gone with work or back home with him. Frankly, he joked a few times with you before that the only difference between you and him was that you had utilities to pay.

He remembered the laugh, but you also gave him a look… hopeful? But it was gone in seconds, and he could not tell at the time what it meant. But now, reminiscing on the floor in the dark, he was beginning to understand. Was it because of him that all of your free time was spent in his company?

Was he the reason for that longing he saw in your eyes tonight?

He got up without a sound and went to your bedroom, standing in front of the door.

“Rule no. 1, you don’t come into my bedroom uninvited.”

He stared at the door.

He did break that rule a couple of times if he were to be honest. Mostly, it was out of wanting to protect you. A few times, he came because he heard you had a nightmare, and he secretly soothed you back to sleep. Luckily, you didn’t seem to recall what happened when morning came.

There was also that one time, when he thought you had a nightmare, but you did not. You… were very much awake, and the noise he heard was… not a nightmare. Not even close. The second he realised what he was witnessing, he vanished so fast he beat the speed of light. His face had been bright red the whole night; luckily again, you hadn’t sensed him being in the room.

But now? Now, he had no reason other than wanting to see you.

He slowly pushed the door open, peeking inside. All the lights were turned off; other than a lamp you kept on to read, and that you almost always forgot to turn off.

He squinted and could see you were definitely asleep, so he got a little braver and took a few steps inside, slowly closing the door behind him. Jamie’s steps were calculated as he tried to move without making any creaking noise and alerting you, which frankly was not that hard, seeing how he was a ghost. When he reached your bed, he stood by it, arms crossed around his chest, head tilted to the side to watch you. There was really no reason for him to do this. He could not explain to himself why he felt that pressing urge to come, or why he was there… all he knew was that seeing you sleep so peacefully was putting him at ease.

He leaned closer instinctively, then closer, until his head was only a few inches away. To do so, he had to squat on the floor near the bed, elbows on it… and a smile slowly grew on his face seeing you this close when –

Your eyes opened.

His smile died instantly. “Uh-oh…”

The banshee scream you let out in that moment was sure to wake up the dead. Jamie fell on his butt on the floor; you jumped up so fast, your foot got caught up in the blanket, and you landed off the bed too with a thud that caused Jamie to bite the inside of his cheek to refrain from laughing when hearing it. For about ten seconds, there was silence, and he had just about enough time to prepare emotionally for the scolding he was going to get.

He knew it was coming. He scared you half to death and broke a rule.

But then another ten seconds passed… nothing?

Jamie got worried and looked over the bed to the other side, where you landed, now frightened, you had knocked your head or something. But you hadn’t. You were right there, staring at him, expecting an explanation first before you’d send him back to the grave a second time.

“… I was cold.” His eyes were all big and apologetic, “…I mean... It’s cold. It’s terribly cold! I was wondering if it’s a little less freezing in here. It would be a real shame if you froze yourself to death.” He tried to be as believable as possible. “AchoOo!” He sneezed. “Uh-oh, no, Y/N, look at this! Now I will be stuck with a cold for the rest of eternity. I told you to do something about that awful heating, this flat is terrible!”

Given the fact that you were groggy, and you never caught him misbehaving this way before, you nearly actually believed him. “… hm, you might be right, I wonder if I left a window open –”

You rose up to your feet and held your head that was still throbbing slightly from the fall. You walked to the window and indeed found it was not properly shut – lucky for him – and then you returned and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I was? I was, I mean obviously, I was, even the freezer is warmer than this!” Jamie quickly added to make his complaint more believable, arms wrapped around himself after he rose to his feet, too.

You did not question why his way of assessing the room temperature was unconventional, like that. He was in fact about to leave, humbled, when he heard you speak.

“Hey, Jamie.”

He froze and slowly turned to you.

“Uh… I have two blankets here. If you want to warm up.”  You sounded embarrassed, almost shy to suggest it, but Jamie was the one in absolute shock. “There’s one right now on the bed, but if you’re kind enough, there’s one over there,” you pointed to a chair where a second blanket was folded neatly. “Could you bring it over? You can also stay with me until you warm up.”

He did not need to be told twice.

He quickly fetched the blanket with the eagerness of a puppy who had a treat offered to him, and even went to the extent of tucking you in with a large grin; you just rolled your eyes and made room for him to join you.

Once he was under the blanket with you, he felt at ease again; this time, for once, he felt warm, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. You did not seem to mind him being there as much as he worried you would, and in fact, you fell asleep pretty quickly. Jamie, on the other hand, was awake, and once you fell asleep, he rolled onto his side to watch you.

He spent a long time just watching you, perfectly awake, when you began to stir. He reached out, placed his hand against your cheek and chirped, “Shh – you’re fine. You’re fine. It’s fine… you’re dreaming. It’s a dream, shh, I love you, go back to sleep.”

You did fall asleep again, but not too long passed until Jamie’s mischievous side kicked in.

He was not silly to miss a perfect chance like this to tease you; he had started getting bored, even though just the sight of you was enough to put him at peace; to him, peace was never an option. You were sleeping just fine when that agitating ghost started speaking again.

“Hey… hey – pssst!”

You groaned something nonsensical in your sleepy haze.

“Psst.”

Your eyes slowly opened, although just barely, squinting at him.

“It suits you… This dishevelled, groggy creature style, what is it called?” Jamie was grinning.

You rolled your eyes and rolled onto your side, away from him. But he scooted closer.

“You know I meant it as a compliment!”

“I have no doubt about it,” you said, unfazed and somewhat grumpy, he woke you up again.

You closed your eyes again, praying at least this time you would be able to sleep when you felt his arm slither around you. Before you could scold him, there came his voice. This time it wasn’t mischievous, just low, and sleepy, and warm…

“I can go; do you want me to go?”

You did not answer for a while, but then, with a deep sigh, your hand moved onto his, “Let me sleep this time, okay?”

For a while, Jamie listened and was grateful you let him have this moment alongside you.

He lay there, obediently, not making a noise, but there was something that was warming up in him. You had always been so kind to him, and he had accepted deep down that he had feelings for you, so now he yearned to have you. After all, when he was with you, he would forget he was even dead to begin with. You made him feel alive, and it was such a profound feeling that Jamie felt the need to squeeze you into him when he realised it. If only you’d feel the same, and had he been alive, he would be sure to tell you what he felt. He would do anything to be yours, but you had so much ahead to live for, you might want a family, children, a man who could be there to support you, but all Jamie could give you was his love, something any other man better than him – and alive – could.

While holding you, he felt you might not be asleep… You were breathing, but not the way you had when you were sleeping before; it was as if you were pretending to be asleep.

He was so caught up with reminiscing over the way you made him feel that his hand had mindlessly begun to slide across your body. No longer stationed just on your stomach, it began to roam over your side. It was not a lustful kind of movement or anything to cause you worry. His movement was slow, languid, almost lazy as his nails slowly grazed over the fabric of your pyjama top.

Jamie sighed deeply, his head pressing against the back of your shoulder, and in a moment of untamed yearning, his hand wrapped around you. He pulled you in so tightly, so urgently, his nose nuzzled into the side of your neck.

“I always thought…” he started, voice low, raspy… it came straight from his chest, and yet despite its depth, it was warm and sweet as honey. “Dying will make me forget what this feels like…” he was nearly breathless. “That it will make me stop wanting it.”

You heard everything, felt everything, but did not interrupt him. You chose to move your hand above his once again, to confirm you were listening.

“But I was so wrong. It isn’t kind… It’s so cruel. You never stop craving it. The love, the affection… the warmth… You never stop being human in that way.” He was so vulnerable, you could not believe you were hearing these words coming from the mouth of the man who had been the agitating ghost fellow that nagged you for months. “You stop being alive, and that’s when you lose the privilege. You keep loving… There are times when someone loves you back. It hurts just the same, watching, yearning and… having to stay away for their good. Because you love them… You love them so truly, so deeply, so madly, so passionately, and yet you know they have to keep on living, and you’d be selfish to linger.”

You listened, a knot forming in your own throat, and tears welling up in your eyes. How much pain had he been in for these decades? Had he loved Nina since?

“Sometimes you let go, and it gets easier. It took me a long time after Nina went with that funny fellow… the guy with that terrible haircut.” – There was the Jamie you knew – “The pain was unbearable at first, and then after years passed, I knew she was happy and the pain was replaced by pride. I loved her so much at the time that seeing her happy made me proud of her strength. I was not as strong as she was, and all these years… I just craved to come back into the world, to have more time, to love again.” His nails dug ever so gently into your skin, and his face nuzzled into the back of your neck.

“I still remember when you came, you know? I saw you were staring at my cello. God knows I wanted to scare you off so you won’t sell it or something. But I did not have to do that. You just watched it, and… well, I watched you. Then you did that nice thing, you cleaned it. I sat next to you then, and I did want to smack your hand away once when you were too close to the strings, you know…” he chuckled, and you squeezed his hand.

“I thought then maybe you wouldn’t be that bad to have around. I saw you got frightened by those rats the first night. I noticed you had a hard time falling asleep, so I wanted to repay your kindness. Plus, I could do with a bit of practice…” He laughed into your neck, the sound so deep it echoed into your own body. “You were so distracted back then, you did not even notice I was moving things about, woman! I moved an entire flowerpot, and you did not notice. Not to mention I even watered your plants for a few days before I let you see me.”

You started laughing too, nudging your elbow back and hitting him in the tummy. It was a playful hit.

He bit his lip excitedly and squeezed you to secure you and stop you from nagging him like that. “Don’t hit me, silly girl, it’s not nice! That’s how you repay my kindness?”

Then… after a silence that lasted a few moments, he placed a kiss on your neck. It was so unexpected, yet so sincere; so pure that you froze… And he froze too, nervous. After everything he had revealed, surely you must have understood what he was getting at, and the kiss… You had to know now.

For the first time, you spoke, “… why did you not tell me before?”

“I couldn’t have. And even now, I am frightened I made a selfish mistake…” His excitement was replaced by a nostalgic, pained voice. “But you deserved to know.”

You turned, so you were no longer spooning, but instead, your chest was pressed against his.

Although it was dark, the lamp provided enough light that you could see those hazel eyes you could have recognised from a thousand. You were not sure what to tell him. Or how? How could you inform him that he embodied everything you wanted from someone? His wit, his kindness, his humour, his smile… You could go on forever, and yet… how could you ever tell him that you needed nothing else other than him, just as he was.

So what if he was a ghost?

You could feel his touch, and that was all you would need. The idea of children never crossed your mind… and what else could there be that he was worried he could not give you? Money? You would always pick love over that… so then, what would there be to keep you apart from him?

You did not give him words, at least not the kind he would expect. You just gazed into his eyes, a soft smile now on your lips, “Are you still cold?” you asked, and that seemed to be the last thing Jamie expected to hear.

He stuttered, almost, looking at himself for a second. “Yes, terribly cold…”

Then, as if per queue, he understood what you meant. His face relaxed, then shifted into a grin, his forehead resting against yours. “Are you cold?”

“Terribly cold.” You replied, your hand reaching out for his cheek, thumb stroking the skin on his cheek, a little rough, stubbly almost.

You leaned in, and your lips met.

It was so soft, so gentle, that both you and Jamie smiled into it, and had to break it because you were both chuckling, but then his hand moved to the back of your head, fingers raking through your hair lovingly as he pulled you into a proper kiss this time, tilting his head to get a better angle and a little more depth. You did not know how long you kissed; when you did break it to catch your breath, both of you seemed to want to continue, so you did the most appropriate thing you could think of in that moment, and you pushed him back slightly and climbed on him.

Jamie let out a little groan in surprise, his resolve weakening as he felt your body pressed against his, and above him, of all places. His hands reached for your hips, gripping them tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh, eyes up to admire you, he did not take you for the kind to like to be on top... as for him, anyway, it was great, but like this was especially perfect since he could get to feel everything better.

“Well...  hello.” He gave you an almost innocent look, but you could tell he was playing it to make you tease him. He ran his tongue over his lips, then pushed himself up slightly on his elbows, shifting to adjust himself under you, “I quite like this, I can get used to this.”

You scoffed and, with your hands pressed against his chest, pushed him down and hovered over him, until your noses touched, your hands moved to support yourself above him, on the bed, either side of his head, while his hands held your hips. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Not at all, I was just caught up thinking...”

“Of what?”

“Of how to get the best sounds out of you... Like I do with my cello?” He smirked.

“... please don’t flirt again, that was terrible.” You laughed, and after sulking for a second, he joined you in laughing, using that distraction as an opportunity to let his hands wander to your butt and squeeze it.

You leaned down and captured his lips into another kiss whilst feeling his hands grope your butt, kneading it, which caused soft, satisfied grunts to escape his lips and be muffled into your kiss. As soon as he thought he had assessed your butt properly, he roamed again, up to your hips, then to your front, reaching up to cup the soft mounds that your breasts were, his thumbs gently teasing your hardened nipples.

You sensed he might want to make a remark about them being hard already, but he was too busy pulling away and leaning in.

Displeased by the fact that the fabric was in the way, he slipped his hands swiftly to the hem of your pyjama shirt and pulled it over your head. He pressed his face up between them, then swirled his tongue around the sensitive bud of your right breast, before sucking hard, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. His hand came up to squeeze and knead the soft flesh of your left breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers.

You only now noticed that even as a ghost, he had kept features from life; you could feel the slight roughness of his finger pads from playing the cello.

Jamie’s other hand slid down to your hip, gripping it tightly.

You had begun to grind into him almost reflexively, and sensing it, he too began to grind up against you. Even through layers of clothing, you could feel he was aroused. Made you question how ghost anatomy worked, but that was something to think about another time. For now, you continued to grind into him while his face was occupied with your breasts. He appeared to have a good time because when you tried to pull back slightly to readjust on top of him, he huffed and pressed his face further up into them, to make sure he was not losing them.

Jamie could feel your arousal too, not directly, but he sensed it from the way you rode him, that you must be ready to take it another step.

He released your nipple with a soft sound before switching to the other. He repeated the process, teasing the flesh whilst he released your hip for a moment and tried blindly to undo his belt.

Jamie could have stopped for one moment to do it properly; he was so determined not to lose a second of your breasts in his face, that he coordinated himself as well as he could, face on your left breast now, hand on the right one to not let it unattended, and his left hand down to his crotch between your bodies, trying to unbuckle it.

You felt what he was up to and lifted yourself slightly, giving him just enough time to quickly push his trousers down to his knees alongside his boxers.

“Do you need a second...?” you asked teasingly; he grunted into your chest, struggling yet eventually managing to rid himself of his trousers and boxers.

You tried to do the same, pushing your pyjama shorts down alongside your knickers, which caused Jamie to finally part with your breasts. You were naked fully now, so he had to stop and admire that, even if his sight was only as much as the dim light from the lamp permitted.

He, on the other hand, was only naked waist down, so you helped him shrug off his coat and shirt.

“If you plan on complaining you are cold...” you started, moving the clothes aside so you would not get tangled in them, while he leaned up and kissed your neck like a man starved, hands still very much on you. Jamie did not seem to hear that, because his hands had already moved down to your butt again, helping you move, guiding you into grinding harder against him, now your cunt moving against his cock. You were dripping.

Feeling that caused Jamie to throw his head back, letting out the softest whine, “Can I? Please... please, can I?”

You nearly chuckled, placing a peck on his lips while he bucked his hips up against you, begging to be inside you. “If you say those three words out loud, I may say yes.”

Jamie’s eyes looked up at you, all wide and innocent and pleading as he squeezed your butt in desperation. He knew what you meant, even in this needy state; and being as desperate as he was, he wasted no time in panting and chanting those words like a prayer, “I love you... I love you, please let me...” and you did.

He did ask nicely after all, and you were also quite eager yourself to have him.

He adjusted himself again under you, but this time, as you lifted and lowered yourself back onto him just enough for his tip to feel your heat, he let out the neediest sounding gasp, hands moving down to your hips, gripping the flesh. He was already twitching, and you sensed it was about time you started to ride him properly.

Jamie eagerly thrusted his hips upwards, burying himself to the hilt inside you. Under different circumstances, he probably would have taken his time. He had not done this in decades, so patience was not his strong suit at this point.

A guttural moan came from his throat as soon as he felt you clenching around him. He started to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm at first. Jamie leaned up, and you met him halfway, having your mouth captured in a passionate kiss. His hips never stuttered, driving into you with a pace that gradually quickened, soft but precise thrusts that hit just the right spot inside you, causing sweet cries of pleasure to be torn away from you.

You pushed your back straight, hands on his chest, keeping him down on the bed while he thrust up into you; he seemed to have an ace up his sleeve, because seeing from the best angle your breasts bouncing, and face twisting in pleasure, he moved one hand between your bodies and used his fingers to reach your clit. He rubbed it in quick circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

Jamie could feel your walls starting to flutter around him, your body tensing as your climax approached... but unfortunately so was his, and to his shame, he could not hold back, and he came before you did.

His climax hit him hard, suddenly and a little too early. [like his death]

His back arched, hands gripping your thighs in an attempt to secure you on him, nails digging into your flesh as rapid, pathetic gasps left his lips.

His tensed muscles began to relax after a while, and his eyes opened to look at you with a guilty pout, massaging the flesh he had so roughly handled. “That...” he panted, still recovering, “I shouldn’t have done that...”

You were catching your breath yourself and found the absolute disappointment in his eyes endearing.

He squinted and rolled you over, getting on top of you.

Jamie was not going to let you go to sleep without making you feel good, so he placed a kiss on your lips. Seeing him above made you sink into the bed; yes, he suited the spot under you better, but seeing him above did not disappoint.

He placed kisses down across your jaw, neck and shoulder, between your breasts and chest, down to your stomach. He got on his knees between your legs, hooking his arms under your thighs. He threw them over his shoulders while burying his face in your cunt. He did not seem to mind the fact that you were dripping with his release.

You had no idea what went through his mind, but you found that quite erotic.

He placed a soft kiss just above your mound, moustache tickling you slightly, his lips brushing against the skin. Then, without warning, he licked a long, slow stripe up your slit, his tongue delving between your folds to taste you. He was not patient still, and had you the possibility you would have loved to see him do it, licking his cum off of your cunt.

He groaned at the swipe of his own tongue, the sensation causing your hips to jerk instinctively, almost as if trying to escape him. Jamie gripped your thighs harder, groaning again, “no,” holding you still and exposed to him as he followed that first lick with a second, and then another.

Jamie focused on your clit, suckling and twirling his tongue over the sensitive spot. Then, with you already arching and writhing, he made another move. He slid two fingers inside you and started pumping in and out in time with the movements of his tongue. He curled them just right, not that you expected anything else of a cellist. If he could play that damned instrument for over an hour, you had no chance.

His fingers found your sweet spot just as fast as his cock had, and he began using that to his advantage, and you were definitely going to lose it before his trained fingers would.

He could feel your body tensing, your hips rocking against his face as your climax approached.

“That’s it, baby,” Jamie mumbled against your cunt. “Come for me. I know I’m hitting the right string.”

He rubbed your sweet spot, your thighs shaking as your orgasm crashed over you before you could even bark at him for using one of those stupid cello innuendos. You came too hard to think of complaining, thighs locking around his head, heat clenching around his fingers; he insisted, keeping the pace going, gradually slowing down as he guided you through your orgasm.

When you were done, he pulled himself up from between your legs, resting his chin on your knees, which he hugged with a dumb, sleepy grin plastered on his face. “... see, you liked it. I made you cum with my dirty talk.”

You were still catching your breath, and all you could do was roll your eyes at him, to which he chuckled and slid over next to you, kissing you lovingly and getting up to get dressed. You fell asleep almost right away, but you woke up briefly when he rejoined you in bed.

He had made sure to give you aftercare, but you were too deep into sleep to feel he had cleaned you and helped you back into a pair of clean knickers.

He had been your housemate ghost for long enough to know where you kept them, plus the rule of not coming into your room only applied when you were asleep, so he had explored it before.

All you felt was him spooning you, and when you stirred, he whispered into your ear. “Shh – you’re fine. You’re fine. It’s fine… you’re safe, I’m here. It’s alright, shh, I love you, go back to sleep.”

When you woke up, it was late into the morning and… Jamie was not next to you.

The whole last night had been so strange that you would not be surprised if you found out you dreamed it happened. The issue was, if that was indeed a dream, then it would be terrible to face him with the memory of what you saw in your dream in your mind. As you lie on the bed, on your back, looking at the ceiling, you suddenly caught the smell of food, then a sudden loud banging noise as if something had fallen. By the sound of the metallic click, you guessed it had to be a pan or something alike it.

With a groan, you pushed yourself up and got dressed for the day, the noise persisting. No more banging noise, but there was clinking and a frizzling sound at one point.

Once your clothes were on, you pushed the bedroom door open and walked to the living room, which was empty, and then into the kitchen. You let out an audible sigh. In front of you, Jamie and another four ghosts were arguing in front of the oven.

You rubbed your eyes, clearing your throat loudly. Alerted by the new sound, the five pairs of eyes turned to you. Jamie’s sulk turned into a grin, and he came over, urging you to sit at the table whilst the rest of his friends were left attempting to manoeuvre the stove on their own.

Your attention was mostly on them, since you really hoped they would not set your flat ablaze. Jamie thought you must be interested in what they were doing, so he cleared his throat, “Oh, they offered to make you breakfast, because you are always such an incredible host and let them come here and rehearse with me,” his grin was wide, cheeky.

You just sighed, but there was the start of a smile on your face, “I think you mean I tolerate it when you invite a whole orchestra into my flat.”

“Same thing, really.”

You chuckled as the ghosts came over and put a plate in front of you and one in front of Jamie, “He’s lying.” One of them said. “Lying like a bastard!” Another chirped in laughing, causing Jamie to pout. “He whined at us to make something because he did not want to get off the bed this morning when we came! He shooed us off the bastard!” All of them laughed, including you.

Jamie was sulking at them for outing him like that.

“We didn’t say no, miss. He told us he came clean with you, and we tried to talk him into doing it many weeks before. Now he did it, so we said, he earned a little treat, and how he got us cooking for him, the rascal!”

You turned to Jamie with a teasing look, but he looked away with his face slightly redder than before.

“Oh, is that so? You’ve been keeping your feelings a secret, Mr Cellist”

He grumbled, “I was going to tell you the truth… at one point.” “No, you weren’t.” “In any case, could we just focus on dinner? She must be starving after last night.” He added proudly, suggestively even.

You could not deny that you were pretty hungry, so you began to eat while Jamie’s friends left you to talk. Jamie mostly just watched you eat, clearing his throat.

“So what did you tell them happened last night?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

He blushed, visibly so. “…Not too much! I just mentioned a thing or two, I’m not that vulgar! Oh, not that look! I… I just told them last night… felt very alive.” He stared down at his plate in shame. “…being with you made me feel alive. I promise, no details were shared.”

You laughed, rubbing your eyes.

The ridiculousness of the situation was catching up to you after months, but it was a bit late for that, huh? You really were in love with a ghost and… made love to him too. You did not regret it; never in a million years would you change anything about it. In that moment, Nina’s words came to you, like a sort of silly prophecy that had just been fulfilled, ‘the right one is yet to come’. Looking now at Jamie’s grin, that innocent heartwarming smile… the way he excitedly dove into his breakfast… unknowing of everything.

But you understood it now.

Nina had done for Jamie what he had done for her decades ago. After all, even a ghost deserved a chance to move on.

“Rad, I like fire, fighting or electric types but honestly they're all awesome.” Adrian showed you his illustrious Pokedex and marveled at your own impressive collection. 

“Gotta catch them all right?” You said with a cackle, tipping your head back.

It made a few people turn around in the park and left you a little mortified after letting out your loud laugh. 

A lot of people had told you it was ugly over the years, annoying like Fran Drescher off the Nanny had snorted cocaine in the bathroom stall while operating a chainsaw.

But Adrian matched yours with one of his own insane laughs, loud and barking, green eyes glimmering. “I like your laugh, so cute and neat-o glasses!” 

Your cheeks grew red hot at the compliment, hand reflexively touching your oversized 70s butterfly frames. But there wasn't a hint of sarcasm.

With those words, you'd fallen in love with this nerdy stranger and didn't even know his name yet. It felt like you'd known him your whole life.

“Um thanks, I like yours too, the aviator style is very cool.” You replied shyly introducing yourself and offering a handshake. 

“I'm Adrian, can you show me where that candy is?” Adrian grinned, not letting go of your hand, he instead had you lead him to the spot. 

“Here it is!” You proclaimed and Adrian got down on his hands and knees again to thank you as his shiny finally evolved into an Infernape.

“My all time favorite!” Adrian explained, the two of you chatting through Evergreen park until it was time for you to head back. 

“Gavantula is mine. I love spiders.” You said, slightly shy to admit it.

“NO FREAKING WAYYYY?! I LOVE SPIDERS!” Adrian shouted, green eyes bugging out of his head.

“REALLY? YOU DON'T THINK IT'S GHOULISH?” You shouted back, eyes similarly widening and sparkling brightly.

From that day on, Adrian and you were fast friends, catching up most afternoons after work to go on Pokemon Go walks, attend the events in Evergreen and nearly every day he would visit you at your job. 

The Evergreen Card Bazaar was a wonderful place to work. Unlike other local card shops that were recently coming under attack from horrible scalpers or just plain robbed, ECB had a guardian angel that ensured its Pokemon cards were left unstolen or scalped. 

Vigilante. 

You knew it had to be your friend Adrian Chase, Vigilante had the same infernape keychain you’d gotten him from a gachapon hanging off his wallet. 

But there was just one issue.

He was utterly clueless that you had a major crush on him. And whenever you tried to flirt or ask Adrian out, he excused himself with a strange muppet-like voice and Naruto ran out of your store. 

However unbeknownst to you, Adrian did have a crush on you too, he was just terrible at expressing it.

Like cataclysmically bad.

“I love your new binder, it's so pretty!” Adrian ran his hand across the washi tape and sparkly stickers you'd added. 

“Thanks, I love yours too…” You reached out to touch his teal one, leaning right over making sure he could get a good look.

Today you made sure to wear that one push up bra that made the girls look even more fantastic, on full display with a low-cut top. Adrian was hook line and sinker, especially when you locked your elbows in.

“B-bo…Bombirdier! What a good bird type Pokemon huh?” Adrian began to laugh mechanically, tipping his head back and avoiding eye contact with your decolletage. 

That was a close one, he thought to himself it was getting past ogling to near drooling territory. No way to treat a treasured friend! 

Sure he liked to bond over sex with women with Chris, or at least did before Harcourt entered the scenario but that was bro stuff. 

In the same vein of Chris being his number one bro, you were his number one gal pal, bonding with you would be less…a friendship building exercise, more…something else. 

And that unknown something else terrified the shit out of Adrian. 

“Welp. It's getting late, I should really go!” He announced and with that he bolted as per usual. 

And ran right into your shopfront door.

Shattering the glass.

Fragments showered down on him like spiky drops of rain. 

“Damn you actually smashed the front door?” Chris winced when Adrian sadly told him what had unfolded. 

He still had little cuts but they were clearing up quickly from his healing factor. You offered him some sanrio themed band-aids and after helping sweep up Adrian jumped in the Sebring, crying to Bonnie Tyler's Eclipse of the Heart as he drove straight to Chris’ trailer.

“Why'd you run into it anyway?” Chris asked with a yawn. “See a criminal or your own shadow or something?” 

“Because I got super anxious that I was gonna pop a boner in front of her!” Adrian explained. 

“So she's hot?” Chris was now very interested in this story, leaning forward.

“Yes and she's rather pneumatic.” Adrian explained shyly, readjusting his glasses. 

He had to clean them off with a microfiber cloth as the lens fogged up recalling you pressing those pillowy majestic things brushing against him earlier. 

“Oh no I didn't know she was sick dude sorry to hear that.” Chris, the utter himbo that he was, sadly put a hand on his buddy's shoulder. 

“No P, I mean her boobs, they're big, bouncy and amazing, kinda like hot air balloons, but over all she's a gorgeous sculpture, wide hips, her butt is better than T Swift's…” The vodka was untying his tongue, letting slip how he really saw you. 

Adrian thought you were magnificent.

“Built for comfort, I get it.” Chris nodded knowingly. 

“Built for a throne more like!” Adrian snapped, ripping the bottle of vodka off Chris for another swig. 

“She's a queen! And I am a humble jester in her buxom court, wishing only to make her smile and laugh.” 

He wouldn't mind being your throne though if you'd allow it, maybe his face? Yeah you could crush his head with those thick thighs, or sit on his dick, massive tits bouncing away…fuck. 

Hold up, this was no way to think about a treasured friend! 

“Damn dude you're seriously down bad for her.” Chris giggled, firing up a toke. “Why not ask her out?” 

“Ugh did I just say all of that out loud?! And you know I hate marijuana, can't believe they legalized that shit.” Adrian frowned at the Devil's lettuce and Chris happily rescinded his offer, more for him.

“Don't worry bro, we're in the cone of BFF silence while I'm ripping cones. Just drink, kick back and relax my guy.” Chris reassured him.

“Okay, well I mean she's seriously beautiful inside and out though! I love her unique  laugh and she's really smart, owns her own business and is funny, we have a lot of the same hobbies…” Adrian rambled on for a while about all the qualities he loved about you that weren't superficial and Chris waited for him to finish.

“Like this big, or this big?” Chris stretched his hands out at his chest. “Tell me when to stop going.” 

“Around there.” Adrian eventually said, that seemed about right.

“Holy fuck.” Chris appraised down at his hands. “Nice.” 

“Yeah…” Adrian sighed. “She is really nice and kind with the brightest smile and dazzling eyes in the whole entire world.” 

“Also she has these majestic jugs that I want to put my face between and motorboat,” All inhibition was out of the way now that Chris gave the go ahead, “like I'm Roger Moore’s James Bond in 1977  

classic The Spy Who Loved Me, jet-skiing with the white Spirit Marine Wetbike to evade Karl Stromberg's henchmen!” Adrian was sort of losing his BFF at this stage, hyperfixating. 

“Showcasing the first-ever jet-ski to the public on film, years before personal watercraft was made available to the mainstream!” He finished brightly.

“I am way too high for whatever you just said.” Chris grimaced. “Should I buy a jet-ski though? Is that a good investment?” He was baked enough to take financial advice from Adrian at this stage. 

“I mean we're a bit landlocked in Evergreen, plus you'd need to get a license and you're flat broke but hell yeah I think that's a great investment P!” Adrian knew all about great returns, his beanie babies collection would definitely hit the market again. 

Thankfully Chris' bank thought it was a scammer trying to steal his card details. The terrible purchase was blocked and he lived to not be murdered by Harcourt for spending money on more frivolous bullshit another day.

Somehow after telling Chris his secret, coincidentally everyone at Checkmate knew that Adrian had a crush on you.

Super weird. 

Langston who sat next to him was the worst perpetrator, teasing him whenever Adrian’s alarm went off for your Pokemon Go walks. 

“Walking on Sunshine for your lil Sunshine huh Super Nerd?” He grinned at how embarrassed Adrian got.

“It's just a loud song that has the word walk in the lyrics! I didn't pick it for any other reason.” Adrian lied, glaring at his screen playing cool math games to try and calm down. “And I only named her that in my phone so I wouldn't get confused…” 

Rip Jagger swaggered on by with a rude snarky, “You should change it to Walking on Broken Glass by Annie Lennox, cause that's gonna be your heart when she figures out how lame you really are.” 

Judomaster as always loved finding out something new to poke him with, that fucking little guy…

“You guys go out on dates all the time though?” Adebayo brought it up at lunch. “Why not check in about the relationship?” 

“No, those are Pokemon Go walks and events, we only hold hands when it gets cold.” Adrian insisted. “Or if one of us could get lost.” 

Before anyone could get a word in edge wise, he quickly added, “Also she could get abducted, so if you think about it, it's actually a safety issue and makes sense for me to hold her hand the entire time.” 

He looked very satisfied with that insane logic puzzle of platonic hand holding, the rest of the table grimacing at one another not wanting to go first unpacking it.

But Rip Jagger really didn't give a fuck about Adrian Chase's feelings. “Don't you have that weird thing about touching human skin, you discount store Jeffrey Dahmer?” 

Adrian frowned daggers back, readjusting his 70s serial killer frames.“Human skin does feel gross! Generally, I squeeze her hand and it feels nice, plus her nails always have a pretty theme painted on them and she uses fragrant skin lotions.” 

At the moment it was the Lovisia Pokepeace hand cream collabs, he wondered if you had on the piplup and rowlet lemon puree again? 

“It rubs the lotion on the skin or else it gets the hose again…” John muttered and Rip snorted, sharing some of his spicy chips with him.

“You squeeze her hand?” Adebayo needed more clarification. 

“Tightly for SAFETY!” Adrian snapped, “please P you get it right?” He needed his best buddy who had been silent in the wings, while devouring a bowl of wings.

“Sounds like you have a big ol crush there dude.” Chris shrugged, BBQ sauce all over his face. 

“I don't want to ruin this P, she's so cool and I don't have many friends, let alone gal pals.” Adrian explained sadly, fiddling with his straw. 

The paper was getting all sludgy in his iced strawberry matcha but Adrian loved the sea turtles more so supposed it was the price to pay.

“Gal pals?” Harcourt scoffed at the term.

“YES HARCOURT, GAL PALS. IT'S WHEN YOU ANSWER MY FRIENDSHIP TEXTS FOR SHOPPING AND MATCHA!” Adrian exploded in a fiery rage, face cherry red.

“Yikes.” Adebayo sipped on her caramel frappe.

“I told you to stop texting me Chase. I hate matcha, it tastes like grass, shopping is boring and your taste in movies is subpar.” Harcourt replied calmly before having more of her black coffee.

Probably not as dark or bitter as her soul, who the hell doesn't like watching Legally Blonde or Clueless? Adrian thought to himself with a pout.

“Moving on…” John interjected, not wanting to find out who would win between Adrian or Emilia. 

“She enjoys my taste in movies! We have sleepovers all the time.” Adrian proclaimed. 

“You guys sleepover huh?” Chris made a rude gesture with his fingers but it was lost on Adrian.

The sleepovers were totally platonic, there was that one time you were silly and accidentally forgot pyjamas so Adrian helpfully loaned you some. You wore his old Firefly shirt, stretching it out so nicely, he wanted you to do that with all of his clothes…

As Adrian told everyone this outloud, they all were slackjawed by how oblivious this dude truly was. “So you’re telling me she turned up to your place for a sleepover and didn’t bring anything to wear…and you responded by giving her clothes?” Langston had to know the extent of Adrian’s lack of rizz. 

“Well duh, I’m a great host and friend!” Adrian rolled his eyes. 

“And this weekend, you’re going on a big trip together?” John asked. 

“Yes, we're also sharing a hotel room over the weekend at the Metropolis Pokemon convention.” Adrian replied. 

“Sharing a hotel room?!” Adebayo exclaimed, completely exasperated.

“It saves money. The hotel is pricey and Pokemon themed. They even had a couples discount.” He explained. 

“And you don't see how that's romantic?” Sasha asked with a sly grin.

“Uh couples just mean groups of two Bordeaux and I wouldn't do anything inappropriate! She's working a Pokemon card and merch vendor stall and I'm there to help and be her body guard.” Adrian was sick and tired of them not getting the big picture.

“Body guard at a Pokemen convention? What, in case she gets a paper cut?” Langston laughed.

“Actually, people are kinda crazy about Pokemon cards right now.” John agreed, “it's not a bad idea to have backup.” 

“Yeah see! I'm just a backup, a guy who carries heavy bags. Stop trying to make it out to be more please.” Adrian couldn't let himself get deluded about you. 

If he allowed that door to open, Adrian knew he couldn't be chill anymore around you, he'd text you above the daily limit of 100 messages, call you all the time and follow you around more than the Vigilante patrol checks to ensure you got home safe.

That would be total stalker behavior! And that was illegal!

“But Adrian, it sounds like this could be more between you…” Adebayo said sincerely. “Maybe talk to her about it?”

“Oh yeah because open honest communication is the answer here– get real!” Adrian laughed at her mockingly. “Look I don't know about you Ads but I don't live in a Hallmark movie and everyone calls me crazy and too quick to jump the gun with relationships.” 

“Hm he's not wrong.” John said.

“You guys always say I'm way too clingy, call and text all the time, think I'm friends straight away, so what if my feelings are all in my head and she doesn't consider it the same? I'm trying to be respectful.” He huffed, stuffing his mouth with the creme brulee tarts he got as a way of distraction.

But the way they jiggled on the plate, god it reminded him of your impressive rack…the last time he saw you they were in a low-cut Deff Leppard tank top. 

Fuck he wanted you to pour some of that sweet sugar on him.

Adrian wanted to play with your boobs like a sensory toy, gently grip and squeeze, they were just so lovely, plush and pillowy looking, his face would sit so nicely between them…

Oh he'd be such a good boy for you, his voluptuous, curvaceous, bountiful marshmallow queen. 

Wait. How could he think so lecherously about his sweet, bubbly, well-endowed friend like that?!

Adrian felt like crying and hitting his head against the table. “I'm a feminist!” He suddenly declared, doing the latter. 

“Who pissed in your drink?” Harcourt was over his outbursts. 

“Everything reminds me of her.” He sighed, staring forlorn over at John's pudding and Adebayo’s sundae of two vanilla scoops with cherries on them. 

“She's got massive jugs. Adrian's always going on about them whenever we hit the booze.” Chris clued them in, crudely motioning with his hands outward.

“Hey, that's private! Secrets told in the cone of BFF silence!” Adrian glared at Chris who had the audacity to merely shrug.

“I mean there's no hiding those things. He showed me pics.” Chris got his phone out and handed it around the table.

A photo of you standing with Adrian at a Pokemon event, you were dressed up in a Kaede the Sugarbug Gym Leader cosplay, arms linked with his, Adrian’s face a bright pink and deliriously happy. The source of his joy was obvious, your ample chest was pressed right at his forearm.

“You're a boob guy? Nice, Super nerd.” Langston approved. 

“I'm more of an ass man myself.” Chris nodded sagely.

“I'm not talking about this around our current company.” John held his hands up like a hostage.

“Coward. I like tits.” Sasha snarked.

“TNA both are great.” Harcourt shrugged.

“Agree, but if I'd have to pick, ass.” Adebayo said.

“Ass is great.” Rip nodded. 

“Okay fine, I'm actually more of a thigh guy.” John admitted sheepishly.

“I can really see that you know…” Harcourt mused, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.

They all started chatting around their reasoning leaving Adrian going back and forth like he was watching a tennis game. 

“You should invite your venus di milo over to the office before you head to Metropolis.” Harcourt said a suggestion, but her tone implied it was more of a direct order. 

So when it was your scheduled Pokemon Go walk that evening, Adrian felt his hand sweating bullets, kept firmly in his windbreaker pocket. The other had his phone on the look out for another Chimchar. The gang told him holding hands wasn’t a normal friendship thing. 

Adrian really didn’t want you to realise he was fucking weird and stop hanging out with him. 

“Adrian, are you feeling okay?” You asked, he looked awfully pale, brow furrowed. 

“Yes!” He insisted, trying not to look at your cute dimpled cheeks, sakura pink painted lips, or especially down at the fluffy collared cable knit sweater. 

Fuck, he glanced down again at your incredible rack. It was peak sweater weather and you somehow looked even sexier in winter clothes than summer. How was that fair?

“Want to see my new nails?” You offered him your hand, but Adrian stared from a distance. Usually he would take your hand and examine them closely up at his thick wired frames.

“Very nice!” He offered a half-smile at the sparkly pink set.

Along with the matching dusted pink leg warmers and a curve-hugging cream woollen skirt, you really were like a beautiful marshmallow queen sent from the fey realm. 

Great now he was checking out your lucious thick thighs like a total perv as well, stupid EconoGOAT. 

“Thanks! I got you something for winter. It's a super exclusive one.” You dug into your handbag and got out a long blue teal striped scarf. 

“Woah is that a choice scarf?” Adrian marveled at the soft wool. 

“Yeah, I thought you'd like the colors.” You said shyly, watching him wrap it around.

“I love it! Where did you get it? Imported?” Adrian asked, hoping it wasn't too expensive.

“Well it's actually one of a kind.” You admitted fiddling with the strap of your handbag, “I knitted it for you.” 

Adrian froze in place at that, eyes widening. “You made this?” 

“Yeah, I also made these leg warmers.” You got shy with how intensely he was staring. 

“For me?” Adrian still wasn't processing it properly. Surely there was some mistake here. 

“Of course, you're really important to me! Hope you like it.” You 

“I love it!” Adrian beamed, wow this was the nicest thing anyone had ever made for him. 

The only other handmade thing he got were the horrible scratchy Christmas sweaters his stupid mother made him wear every year.

He leant right in, trying to think of the right words, not wanting to come across too strong and ruin the friendship.

Woah, he was getting closer, maybe your feelings got across with the present, did Adrian sense the love that went into it? 

You smiled back at him hopefully until he continued with, “you're such a good gal pal.” Then a hand clapped impersonally on your shoulder like a consolation prize.

He meant it genuinely, but the term stung, tears threatening to swell.

You wanted to be so much more to him but Adrian seemed embarrassed to hold your hand today and was keeping his distance. 

Maybe he'd figured out your feelings at long last and didn't return them?

“Yeah that's me…your gal pal.” You laughed awkwardly, trying to not be upset but Adrian didn't pick up on your change in demeanor and laughed along. 

“My friends at work want to meet you, did you wanna swing by the office before going to Metropolis?” Adrian offered. 

“Oh sure! I’d love that.” You couldn't stay upset, just like Adrian your emotions were like a rollercoaster. Besides, you had been wanting to meet his friends for ages now. 

The next morning, Adrian picked you up and helped load your suitcases. Checkmate was a fancy office building, but nobody really wore a corporate suit. So you felt a little bit better for how you were dressed up. An entirely Sims 2 inspired outfit with a red knit dress and thigh high black leather boots and of course some pokemon badges and swing charms on your handbag, today was Primarina, Feebas and Milotics turn. 

“How are you guys getting to Metropolis?” Adebayo asked, showing you into the elevator. 

“We're taking the Sebring of course.” Adrian seemed affronted by the question, puffing out his chest, “it's super reliable. I service it myself.” 

“My stall and merchandise is all shipped over there ready for me to set up.” You explained.

“Wow an eagle! You’re so handsome.” Rather than introduce yourself to the gang, you immediately rushed over to the animal in the room. 

“That’s Eagly.” Chris replied bemused. 

“Does he like sour cream and onion chips?” You asked, getting a packet out of your bag. 

“He does they are his favorite, how did you know that?” Chris was floored when Eagly did a little excited dance and ate out of your palm. 

“I mean what else would be their favorite?” You asked back, and Adrian nodded wisely. 

With that introductions were made with the humans of the office and you got shown around the desks and different spaces of Checkmate. Adrian froze when you got to his desk, the screensaver. It was of Vigilante and Peacemaker…he forgot to change it! 

“That’s uh…” Adrian winced when you smiled at the monitor. 

“You and Chris in your fun costumes! So cool you fight crime.” You said non-plussed. 

“You know?” Adrian couldn’t believe it. 

With a sweet hum, you admired the cute trinkets at his desk, including a Slowpoke glasses stand you had gotten him. “Of course, you saved my store from robberies and those awful scalpers.” 

“Right, um and you’re fine with it?” Adrian fretted with his rubix cube. 

“Yep!” You replied cheerfully and then paused at a picture frame with two little Cinccinos holding hands, the photograph inside was of you and Adrian at a Pokemon Go event. 

Then you saw the Slowpoke glasses holder again and got an idea, taking off your glasses and putting on his spare glasses. 

“Hey check this out! Guess which one is me and which one is Adrian?” You slid them up your nose, giving them the Adrian special. 

“WE'RE LIKE TWINS!” You shouted, already in a wheezing laugh, hands slapping your knees. 

The office paused to stare at you two standing in the same pose. You started to cackle like a lunatic at the bewilderment on everyone's faces, pointing back and forth between you and Adrian, who joined you, laughing away like a maniac at the gag, he then swapped to wear your glasses. 

“Wow, that sure is something…” Harcourt mused under her breath. 

“Damn she’s perfect for him.” Adebayo agreed with a toothy grin. 

“Do you have a boyfriend or partner?” Rip asked you, loudly chomping away at some flaming hot cheetoes. Adrian snapped at him to shut up. 

“No I don’t, my bed is empty. Well not empty, I have all of the life-sized eeveelution plushies, Flareon is the best hugger.” You replied with an anxious giggle. 

“Oooh that makes sense!” Adrian nodded in total agreement, flashing you a princely smile that made your heart skip a few beats. “And don’t ask her such personal questions.” 

“We should probably get to Metropolis now to check in for our hotel.” You reminded him, unable to hide the blush that rose from Adrian sticking up for you. 

Saying goodbye to everyone by the Sebring, Adebayo and Harcourt had a conspiratorial air to them when they asked what you were going to wear for pyjamas. Showing your luggage, it was a modest flannel set, having learned your lesson from the last time you tried ‘forgetting’ your pjs. 

The drive to Metropolis was filled mostly with 90s and 00s pop music, animal facts and of course Pokemon quizzing between you both, making it go by like no time had passed. 

“Congratulations!” The concierge lady, Fran, greeted you both on check-in.

“Uh thanks, but what for?” Adrian asked. 

“For your honeymoon of course! Mr. Chase, you booked our couples deal in the honeymooners suite. And this must be Mrs. Chase, wow, aren't you two just the cutest! My grandkids also love Pokemon!” Fran gushed. 

“I just got that room for the discount…” Adrian frowned. “I didn't realize it meant romantic couples.” 

“Oh sorry for the mix-up! Anywho here's your keys and we can take your bags upstairs. Get settled in, there's a Jacuzzi in the bathroom.” Fran didn't have time for this, she was a busy woman, and shoved the key card into his hand.

The hotel was fancy, heading into the honeymoon suite Adrian inadvertently booked. You both marveled at the decor outside of general cutesie Pokemon plushies, the bed had silk red and white sheets, large heart pillows with I choose you! on them. 

A bottle of champagne and rose bouquet sat on the table with a box of luvdisc chocolates. Petals were on the bed suggestively, fluffy robes for two to wear.

“Wow…um…” You were more than a little lost for words. This really was a romantic room after all.

“There's seriously been some kind of mistake, I can call the front desk for another room!” Adrian panicked, dropping his bags and lunging for the hotel phone. 

But instead he tripped over the cord and smashed a hand on the remote by the nightstand. 

The unmistakable saxophone of George Michael’s Careless Whisper began to play from the sound system. 

I feel so unsure…

As I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor

As the music dies, something in your eyes…

Both of your eyes suddenly locked, an intense gaze caught in the drifting music, before Adrian blushed profusely and chickened out.  

“Shit, I wondered why they asked me what 80s love ballad I liked best, I thought it was supposed to be like a security question or something…” Adrian fumbled around trying to switch it off. 

Instead he only succeeded in finding the volume turning it up. “How does this fucking stupid thing work?!” 

TONIGHT THE MUSIC SEEMS SO LOUD~

Slamming another button, the lights went lower, setting an even more romantic mood, as they glowed red with hearts across the ceiling.

“Yes hello, how do I turn the music off? Also the lights are going all funny. And I think I booked the wrong room…uh okay yes I'll hold.” 

“It's okay I like this room Adrian, let's keep it.” You laid down on the bed. 

“But there isn't a cot like I requested for me to sleep on.” Adrian tensed as you settled a hand on your hip, gazing at him. 

“This is a big bed, let's just share it.” You insisted, taking his hand and motioning for him to relax.

“O-okay.” Adrian sighed, “I guess we'll only be here for sleep anyway. 

“Maybe this is the button to switch it off?” You wondered, hitting a big red one on the remote. Then the bed began to shake.

Yelping as the vibration caught you off guard, you nearly tumbled from the bed but Adrian caught you. 

We could have been so good together…

We could have lived this dance forever…

Staring up at him, you were both so close, noses nearly touching. 

But now, who's gonna dance with me?

Please stay…

His arm had pinned yours down into the mattress, making you shudder but then Adrian quickly leapt back and grabbed the remote to turn it off. The music and rotating disco ball of hearts stopped as well. 

“So the bed vibrates…” You stated lightly with a giggle, trying to clear the air.

“Yeah such a dumb feature, and like why is there a big heart shaped mirror directly in front of the bed? So stupid…” Adrian frowned, then upon realising what the mirror was for his jaw hung open like a carp into a small o. 

“I'm gonna go take a shower before we head to the convention.” He dashed into the bathroom and you began to worry when Adrian was gone for over half an hour.

"Are you okay?" Knocking on the door all you got was a muffled yelp that he was fine. After he got out, you decided to take one too and were surprised that there was still warm water.

"Y-yeah, I take cold showers..t-totally like all the t-time..." Adrian didn't sound overly convincing, shivering even down the elevator.

The Metropolis Pokemon Convention was one of the largest in years and you had been gearing up to prepare your stall, ready to go. 

Steve Lombard was not a Pokemon regular. In fact, he was repulsed by the whole concept. It was for total nerds, just sitting around a table wasting money, not like watching sports or betting on sports. That was different. “Why the hell am I here reporting on whatever this nerd crap is? I'm a sports columnist!” 

Jimmy Olsen, was a fan of Pokemon and especially enjoyed the cute cosplayers. Many of the ladies' numbers were already in his pocket. “Come on Steve, it's just a bit of fun! Besides, Pokemon is competitive so if you really think about it…” 

“Next time I'm getting assigned to a poker tournament then.” Steve rolled his eyes, surveying the hall with a scowl. 

That was until he happened upon your stall. “Well hello there…” Steve straightened his collar up, on the prowl. You were a beautiful diamond in the rough here and he wasn't the kind of guy to not shoot his shot.

“Where are you going?” Jimmy tagged behind him, taking photographs of the stage. A few cosplayers sadly bid him farewell.

“I think I spy an exclusive one on one interview!” Steve grinned, slicking back his hair. 

“Hey there gorgeous, I'm Steve Lombard, reporter for the Daily Planet. Might've heard of it?” He saddled right up and showed off his media badge.

“Oh wow, yes that's a major paper!” Your eyes widened at how official it looked.

“Yeah, sure is. Wow you're stacked, uh, I mean your stacked stall is really impressive. I'd love to take you out to dinner and discuss your local business.” Steve nearly tripped himself up there, admiring your beauty.

“I can't believe you want to plug my business!” You replied brightly.

“Oh sweetheart, I'd love nothing more…” Steve grinned and Jimmy grimaced. 

Adrian frowned, noticing the eyeline going on from Steve. You weren't clued into when guys were clearly ogling you, seeing the best in everyone. It was one of the major reasons why Adrian loved you so much.

But also why he was here to protect you.

Turning to a seething Adrian you were none the wiser, “Did you hear that Adrian? I'd love to, thank you Steve. That'd be so amazing for my store!” You were so giddy, clapping your hands together. 

“Shall we say around 7, drinks at my hotel room?” Steve replied, eyeing you up and down lecherously.

“Okay, where's your hotel? Is it close to ours?” You asked innocently.

“Wait a second, why not a public space, say like a restaurant?” Adrian snapped, arms folded. He really didn't like this guy and his slimy vibe.

“Sure great idea, we can get dinner on the company credit card then go up for drinks. You like Thai food?” Steve shrugged, undeterred.

“I love Thai food!” You nodded.

“Fantastic.” Steve grinned.

“See you then, Adrian also loves Thai food so it's a great choice. Do you like it as well?” You turned to Jimmy who snickered as Steve paled. 

“Uh I meant a private dinner to get the scoop…” Steve floundered.

“Oh sorry but I'm visiting Metropolis with my friend and don't want to put him out.” You smiled up at Adrian who looked thoroughly relieved.

“Just your friend huh?” Steve surmised with a cocky grin. “So still a chance then. Take my card and give me a call when you're free. I'll be in Evergreen for the major league game.” 

“Alrighty, talk to you then Mr. Lombard!” You beamed, over the moon. 

“I'd say please call me Steve but that sounded very nice from your lips.” Steve chuckled, Jimmy dragging him away before a harassment suit could be filed.

“What a nice man.” You hummed away obliviously.

“Can I see that card?” Adrian asked, brows knitted in an uncharacteristic frown.

“Sure thing,” handing it over, you were appalled when he shredded it up. “hey what was that for?!” 

“He was obviously flirting with you.” Adrian snapped with a huff.

“He was? Well what does that matter to you, it's not like I'm dating anyone.” You snapped back, startling him.

“I'm just your stupid gal pal after all.” The words spilt out, and so did a few tears. 

When he tried to comfort you with a hand, you knocked it back. “I can look after myself, why don't you leave me alone for a while and go around the convention.” 

“...okay.” Adrian didn't know what else to say. You were that upset at being his gal pal? 

Was he really truly this awful to have as a friend? Clingy, annoying, now he'd ruined something important for your livelihood out of petty jealousy. 

Sounded like you really wanted to date that sleazy Steve dude too. Adrian was sad Charlie Browning it through the convention, not even rad Pokemon cards or awesome merch could cheer him up.

“Hey, it's Napoleon Dynamite from earlier!” Steve laughed. 

Begrudgingly, Adrian decided to swallow his pride and asked, “could I get another business card to pass on to her?” 

“Sure, let that hottie know I'm available whenever.” Steve eagerly fished another card out of his wallet. 

“Yeah, thanks…” Adrian mumbled, shuffling off to go circle back to you.

But someone stopped him just in time, the plucky red haired guy from earlier.

“You shouldn't give her that card. He's a total jerk and clearly you're interested so how about you give her this one instead and let her know how you feel?” Jimmy suggested, swapping the business card.

“Clark Kent?” Adrian read out, sounded like a nobody.

“He's a real Pokemon nerd. And in a committed relationship, all around a great guy. He'll get a story, I'll take pictures. She'll get her business promoted. Now try and go get your girl.” Jimmy really didn't want to spell it out anymore and Adrian finally understood.

Meanwhile you were dealing with the public, most of them amazing and just genuinely into the hobby like you were. Then you encountered the annoying kind of customer, a total know it all.

He had the look of a scalper or wannabe influencer, loudly recording anyone and everything on his phone obnoxiously.

“Hey chat, check out this booth!” The man declared, waving around wildly and touching every single one of the charms, plushies and not putting any of them back properly.

“Woah I totally need this card, can I give you a hundred for it?” He pointed at a rare gen card, acting as though you didn't know the stuff.

“This one is generally worth two hundred but I'm happy to trade or…” You replied, showing him some other cards.

“Come on! I'm offering a hundred right now in cash and you'll get the exposure of being on my VOD!” He whined. “It's so not worth two!” 

“It is worth more but I accept trades, if you have a similar rated card…” You attempted to reason with him but that didn't appear to be an option. 

Now he was making fun of you on his stupid stream, incentivizing followers to go harass your store.

“Hey motherfucker. You're a twitcher?” A sharp venomous voice called out and Adrian was back, arms crossly folded.

“It's called a streamer old man and yeah I have like 10k followers…” The guy scoffed.

“No you misunderstand me, see if you keep harassing her they're going to call you a twitcher. Because that's all you're gonna be able to do when I break every bone in your body. Twitch.” Adrian's eyes went serial killer wide, menacingly enough to send the asshole running.

“Thanks Adrian.” You said shyly, feeling a little bad for yelling at him before.

“I'm sorry for tearing up that card. Here's a new one. It's for this dude Clark Kent though, he's into Pokemon. But if you really wanted to go on that date with Steve…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

“Do you want me to go?” You asked.

“It's your choice, I respect whoever you wish to date or not date.” Adrian said immediately, “but do I want you to? No, not really.” He admitted, staring down at his squeaky clean new balances. 

“Why not?” You probed him further. 

“B-because, he was a jerk. I don't think he was actually admiring your store or smart business sense…I mean does he even know that one of your favorite animals is the owl monkey?”

“They're the only nocturnal monkeys and have monochromatic vision! Plus these tiny little ears which is why their genus name is Aotus…” You agreed excitedly.

“Earless! Aww so cute.” Adrian interjected with a toothy grin.

“Were you maybe jealous then?” You suggested.

“Wha– no! Pfft that'd be super toxic of me and make me a super lame friend.” His voice was going into strange muppet mode again, fiddling with an elastic band around his wrist. 

“Right, okay nevermind then.” You sighed. 

“Maybe I was a little jealous. A lot jealous.” Adrian said, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Really?” That made your heart soar as Adrian shyly nodded, putting down a back in five sign, he took your hand to go take a proper look at the convention.

“I'm getting a phone call, sorry.” Adrian determined from the loud Barbie Girl lyrics buzzing out of his back pocket.

“Oh yeah Ads she's here with me, why do you want to talk to her?” He frowned at the phone. “Screw me I guess, here.” Handing you the phone, Adrian waddled off to inspect some Piplup plushies.

“Hello?” 

“Hey girl, how's the convention going?” Adebayo asked.

“It's going really great.” You said a little confused. 

“Harcourt and I packed something special in your luggage. You should wear it if you like it!” 

“Huh?” But they didn't elaborate, hanging up.

When you both got back to the hotel, it was still a bit awkward between you two. Ordering room service was nice, the package deal was ramen and you'd both stocked up on your favorite snacks to share. 

“Let's watch another Cage flick!” Adrian suggested, turning on the TV. “Oooh they have Vampire's Kiss on here. He ate a real cockroach for that you know…” 

“Or we could do…something else?” You suggested, batting your eyes up at him.

“Like what?” Adrian asked with a befuddled frown.

“Listen to some music?” You stole the remote and pressed play on one you had in mind.  

“C-cool. Yeah we can do that.” Adrian squeaked as you sat back into the crook of his forearm. 

“This is my top 80s love ballad.” You announced as Joan Jett's Do You Wanna Touch Me started filling the bedroom. “What do you think?” 

“Killer song choice…” Adrian slunk back against the pillows as you tried to shuffle in closer. 

“I should go get my jammies on and put my retainer in!” He leapt from the bed. Man that was close, you probably didn't realize it but that song was pretty suggestive.

A minor setback in your plan but you had anticipated this. Besides Adebayo and Harcourt had given you a hail Mary.

How they knew your measurements was kinda spooky though.

“Hey Adrian, there's a bunch of new limited stickers that were given to me for the convention. Want first dibs on some?” You sang out to him.

“Oh that'd be awe–” He began, strolling in still brushing his teeth, then Adrian took in your pajamas, which constituted a lacy silk negligee and matching shorts, “...some.” Toothpaste dribbled down his chin onto his old Evergreen High mathlete shirt.

“Sorry, you're already getting changed in your jammies, I'm not looking I swear!” Adrian clapped hands over his eyes shut, slightly peeking at your cleavage through the cracks of his fingers. 

Fuck your amazing boobs were in teal with white polka dots, and just sheer enough to see the outline of your nipples, hard from the cold night air. Wrapped up in a bow that he could untie with his teeth…ugh he was the worst! 

It’s just clothes Adrian, he kept repeating to himself. 

“You can look!” You called out as Adrian ducked back into the bathroom. “I'm all done changing.” 

Awkwardly he waddled back out. “Maybe you should wear the robe, it's kinda chilly.” He suggested, holding it out for you, eyes still shut. 

“No thanks, I'm comfy. Now sit with me!” You told him sweetly, but death gripped his arm to pull Adrian down next to you.

“I put some of the body ones on, they're love balls and meant to smell like strawberry shortcake. Can you check for me?” 

You'd put them right on your decolletage. This was surely a horny dream that Adrian was going to wake up from again and have to clean the sheets. 

But instead of waking up, the dream continued with you firmly shoving his face into your cleavage. 

“They uh smell like strawberry shortcake wow that's…cool. Yep I'm feeling quite refreshed from that scent. Thank you my kind lady, however, I must now bid you adieu!” Adrian leapt to his feet and tried to flee, holding his Pokemon binder over his crotch suspiciously. 

“Adrian, I obviously put these on my tits because I want you to touch them.” 

“B-but I'm not certified in giving mammograms.” Adrian stuttered, hands up like he was being taken hostage.

“No, I mean listen to the song I literally put on! I want you to touch me, as in I like you more than a friend!” In the words of Avril Lavigne you really couldn't make this anymore obvious. 

Not leaving anything more to chance you flung yourself at him, crashing your lips onto his. Adrian returned it, hands desperate, pawing at your waist as if he had been wanting to do this ever since he’d met you. 

“Oh.” Adrian malfunctioned for a couple moments after the kiss, face scrunching up until rebooting with a bright toothy grin. “What a coincidence, I like you a lot more than a platonic friend too!” He exclaimed, a puzzle finally solved dazzling through his green eyes.

“Thank goodness, that was going to be incredibly awkward if you didn't. In fact I think I might've died from the cringe.” You instantly relaxed, falling into his arms for a well needed hug.

“Do you want to bond with me then?” Adrian wondered, kissing your hair.

“Bond…like with sex?” You assumed, recalling the term from when he told you about his former escapades once.

“Yeah.” Adrian nodded like a bobble head. “But not friendship bonding, boyfriend girlfriend bonding.” He added tentatively.

“I'd like that for sure.” You replied, “I'd love to be your girlfriend.” 

“Killer, because I'm getting serious blue great poke balls over here ever since you shoved my face into your tits!” Adrian laughed and you joined him in a breathless kiss, more giggling than passionate.

Adrian's hands went straight onto his hips in a flash, pushing his sweatpants down and at full mast.

“Better help you out then!” You grinned.

Adrian moaned as you undid the bow from the front.

“Oh foxy mama, fuck yes, wow you're so hot…” He bit down on his lip when your breasts came tumbling out, tugging down his teal boxer shorts.

“Foxy mama?” You giggled, eyes widening at the nice curve of him springing out.

“Did I stutter?” Adrian grinned, hands already greedily kneading your breasts like he was a cat making biscuits. 

“Your tits are so bouncy…” Adrian sighed contentedly. “Like two big water balloons but I would never throw them around.” He ensured you knew that, kissing them gently. 

“Or more like stress balls, ohh fuck they feel so soft and gooood…” He groaned, rubbing his face against them. “If I was on shag carpet right now, that'd be the ultimate sensory overload,” Adrian hummed, digging through his wallet and  rolling a condom on. 

You didn't need to hear anymore, shoving him off the bed and onto the carpet. 

“How's this, your dream coming true?” You asked from above with a playful smirk, straddling him.

“I might honestly cum.” Adrian warned you with a wince as you ground your hips against his. 

“Mmm…I like the sound of that.” You whispered into the shell of his ear before shoving his face into your tits and lowering yourself down.

The relentless pace you set near knocked the wind out of him. 

“How's that?” You asked in a sultry whisper, hands splayed on his chest, enjoying curls of his chest hair. 

Adrian didn't have the proper words to approach how amazing it felt.

You were a vision of beauty, bouncing away, shag carpet giving him a gentle rug burn on his ass, Adrian was in pure heaven right now, completely stimming. 

“Feels good?” You giggled teasingly, wow you'd never had Adrian at a loss for words before.

All he could do was nod, panting, “feels amazing, fuck you're so good at this…” Adrian grunted, writhing underneath you. 

The contrast of textures, your soft curves and harsh carpet was totally overwhelming. Then there were his hands, you'd taken them to keep ahold of your tits, Adrian felt drunk off your pussy, mouth agape and moaning, “yeah fuck me baby, fuck me hard just like that!” 

That spurred you on to go faster for him, sinking up and down with a breathtaking rhythm. 

“Fuck you're so beautiful, ohh I'm the luckiest guy in the whole entire world right now!” He couldn't even really buck his hips back, legs spread, you were riding him so damn well.

“Yeah, you like taking it sweet thing?” You smirked. 

“L-love it, ohh I fucking love you!” Adrian burst out and confessed, looking mortified until you grinned. 

“Oh my freaking goodness no way! I love you too!” You exclaimed in pure joy. The two of you grinned and giggled like dorks for a short while until you continued to move. 

“Can't uhh h-hold on, fuck wait I'll seriously bust like super fast…” Adrian desperately whined, head titled back in total ecstasy. His glasses were completely useless and fogged up, slipping off his nose. 

“That's okay, cum inside for me like a good boy!” You replied brightly, hands threading through his hair and then tugged roughly to bring him up for a kiss.

He didn't last long from that, letting out a guttural shout, throat catching as he released thick and hot into the latex. You stole his lips again, enjoying the whimpering pleading moans vibrating on your tongue.

“Holy fuck, I don't think I've ever nutted that hard before…” Glasses sliding clean from his nose, Adrian was delirious and awestruck when you rolled off him. 

“I uh sorry, what can I do to get you there?” Adrian asked once he was able to string a thought together. 

Laying back on the silk sheets you hummed appraisingly at him. “Don't know, got any great ideas in there?” You twirled a lock of hair around your finger suggestively.

Adrian frowned for a second in deep thought before an idea struck like a lightning bolt. “I'm really good at eating pussy!” He exclaimed excitedly, crawling hands and knees on the mattress to join you. 

“Ooh yay let's do that!” You replied just as excited, the two of you bouncing on the bed in glee together for a second. 

“Killer! Get comfy, I'm about to take you on the Chase express, all stations to cumsville!” Adrian laughed like a goofball, looking a little sheepish until you joined in.

“Choo-choo!” You laughed back just as goofily. “Lucky I bought my ticket!” 

“Yeah, time for me, the train conductor, to stamp it with my tongue!” Adrian played along, sloppily kissing your inner thighs.

“Oooh can't wait for you to drive me, locomotion…” You sighed, but that stirred Adrian back up.

“Well actually, see the train engineer is in charge of operating the train. Pulling the locomotive controls, monitoring speed, but while the engineer may be in physical control of the train, truly the conductor calls the shots.” Adrian was kinda losing the sexy fantasy and starting to describe to you the roles of railway employees, but his heart was in the right place.

“Okay mister conductor, conduct me then please?” You reminded him why he was between your legs right now.

“Oh right!” Adrian snapped out of it and delved right in, slotting his mouth over your core. 

Tight loving circles swathed with his tongue at your clit had you aching for more, gripping his curly hair taut.

It didn't take long to figure out his claims were correct, you were reeling from his five oclock shadow grazing your inner thighs, bridge of his nose and glasses bumping just right at your clit. 

Adrian was lapping every cry from your lips and moaning, vibrating while drinking in your core, relishing the release you gave him, his name bounding off the hotel walls. 

“Can you…turn around for me? Maybe uh get on all fours?” Adrian asked, whetting his lips to taste you gain when he came up for air.

“Sure I can do that,” you eagerly got in position, pillows under your stomach and elbows, buzzing with anticipation at him taking control.

Then you remembered. The mirror.  

Adrian clearly hadn’t forgotten, transfixed with it, as he entered you. “Oh fuck look how well we're bonded right now, that's so fucking good…” He grunted, eyes locked with the reflection of you two. “Love being connected like this,” his hand went down to lovingly caress where you were joined. 

“You're so tight for me, taking my cock so fucking well, like you were made for it, look at that, fuck,” his voice is practically purring against your ear, tongue tracing the shell and teeth nibbling the lobe. 

“Come on, don't be shy, look.” Adrian cupped your jaw, tilting it upward to face the mirror. “You're so fucking hot, look at what you're doing to me…” 

“It's a little embarrassing…” You whined, but took in the lust ridden focus written across Adrian's expression. 

“No it's not, you're beautiful,” he pressed a line of kisses up and down your neck, “I love you, you're perfect.” 

His hands are everywhere clutching at your hips, waist and breasts, anywhere he can find purchase to thrust deeper, hit that spot that makes you shout his name louder.

“We're like pairing mates for life now right? Sorry if it’s toxic, but I kinda want you all to myself forever…” Adrian rested his head on your shoulder and you felt a dampness.

But it wasn't droplets of sweat.

He was softly crying. 

“Y-yes we are Adrian, I'm yours! For life and forever.” You reassured him, giving his hand a tender squeeze.

“Oh that's fucking awesome sauce, I'm always gonna be yours babydoll! This cock is now officially reserved for you only!” Adrian grinned widely, wiping the tears from his face before snapping his hips forward again. 

“L-lucky me…fuck you're so good at this Adrian!” Encouraging him earned you a resounding chorus of choked moans from you both. 

Crossing your arms behind your back, Adrian set an unrelenting pace, jackhammering his hips, all the while watching himself in the mirror make you fall completely undone. “Yeah that's it, take me,” He repeated in a fervent whisper.

“Adrian, I can't, I'm going to cum…” You whined, bucking your hips back for even more of that sweet friction.

“That’s okay cum for me like a good girl!” Adrian smiled against your shoulder blade, cheekily using your line from earlier. “I wanna see your cutie patootie o-face!” He gripped your chin again and tilted it upward so your eyes joined to watch the reflection. 

"Ahh fuck, I-I'm coming for you Adrian!" You screamed for him, a release began, at first a light fluttering in your walls. Then a pleasured wave hit white hot, squeezing his cock so tightly that Adrian sobbed into his own orgasm, chasing yours. 

The rest of the night was spent basking in the warmth of your bodies finally intertwined together, giggling about how long it took to realise you both felt the same way.

With a determination to not lose any more time, outside of making a brief appearance to the convention the next morning, there was a spectacular marathon of lovemaking to be had.

Which eventuated in housekeeping needing to let Fran downstairs at concierge know that your suite was now officially the Honeymoon suite and do not disturb. 

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────

The Colonel and you wed, and at last, a few weeks after the ceremony, the questions began.

Your love for the other was evident, unlike most marriages that occurred for convenience alone. Yours was based on feelings, too. Profound and sincere, and the courting had been as natural as could be. Your sentiments grew, and when he proposal came, everyone knew your answer would be positive. The Colonel was a fine gentleman with a good name, a pleasing fortune and thoroughly liked by the community, thus making him the best bachelor.

At first, only some indiscreet remark from Sir John Middleton and Mrs Jennings, who joined Brandon's estate for a pleasant visit. Unsurprisingly, Mrs Jennings was a woman with little tact. During the evening, she mentioned her opinion quite loudly and impolitely.

That you had to have started trying for a child. You were a couple with promising prospects and good wealth; therefore, there was no question about it.

The Colonel's reaction was prompt in an attempt to protect your intimacy. He was aware of how such questions made him feel, let alone you, who were the main target of them, and so he positioned himself in your defence.

"I appreciate your concern regarding our marriage, but this matter we are still discussing. We have only just recently married, and although we are well aware of the customs, we believe some things have to come first." The Colonel would speak in an attempt to appease the waters. Mrs Jennings was a force of nature when it came to discourtesies and gossip, and despite being closely acquainted with the family, that did not spare you the questioning.

"Discussing! Oh, Good Heavens no! Colonel! Too much discussion and you'll find yourself unable to produce an offspring! With this fair lady you are married to, and you are still slacking!"

A hearty laughter came from both John Middleton and Mrs Jennings as she continued in her manifesto.

Much to your and Colonel Brandon's visible discomfort, but it was apparently not so visible to the woman or to Mr John Middleton, who seconded her in her opinion.

"You, darling, need to make the Colonel rid himself of these inhibitions! Oh, look at him, he is as innocent as a man can be!" Mrs Jennings blurted at you, aided by John.

"I beg to differ! No man's mind is guiltless when he is married to such a fair lady!"

"Oh, John!"

And again that tactless laughter from the two, taking your uncomfortable silence and avoidance of the subject as reticence towards each other rather than an intent to keep bedroom matters private.

The Colonel gave you an apologetic look, and you took his hand and held it to assure him that he had no reason to feel blameworthy for these two's manners. They were both well-known for behaving in such a way, but they had good hearts and only lacked the understanding of how uncomfortable some people could be with these interrogations.

But they were not the only ones who inquired about your plans regarding having a child. As soon as you married, all your acquaintances began to treat this subject as if it were the next most crucial thing to occur in the whole of Britain, and whenever a close friend visited, they brought up this matter.

The next to ask questions were the Dashwoods, specifically the young Marianne and her mother, despite poor Elinor's attempts to set them straight and tell them such questions are frivolous. After the Dashwood family came the Palmers. Albeit, only Mrs Palmer, because it was unlike Mr Palmer to engage himself in such talk, and he kept to the side, concerned with the state of politics and the nation rather than with the silly matter of children.

For a rude man as Mr Palmer pretended to be, he sensed the awkwardness of the situation when his wife began bombarding you with questions regarding your intimacy and involved himself momentarily to change the topic to the recent ball announced and the way in which he felt the House of Lords was beginning to act unjustly. All pretext to give you and the Colonel a breather from these questions, mostly because he had been himself in that situation and, taking kindly to Brandon, wanted to spare him the talk.

But as days went by and then weeks, the questions continued, and the two of you, albeit only recently married, had to converse about it. You decided that the Colonel indeed desired a child but did not wish to insist on his wishes upon you, and in return, you agreed that the thought of an offspring was a joyous one, and so you could begin to try for one.

The Colonel was not a man to shy away from intimacy. The one aspect he did insist upon was that if you were to try for a child, it had to be within the safety of his estate, so you could focus on the act of lovemaking and not be concerned with exterior issues. He had before engaged in love with you outside the estate, even with the risk of promiscuity. When it came to trying for a child, the matter was different, and he intended to carry out the efforts in a space that was both comfortable and safe for you.

After all, you would be the one who had to allow him to love you repeatedly, and later on, you would have to carry the child. There was talk about how the mood of the mother at the moment of conception correlated to the character of the child, and so the Colonel did his best to ensure that each time you tried for the child, it was when you felt your best and nothing disrupted you. It became a very sensual activity and more profound than many; your hearts went into it in a way that overcame a lot of the kind of intercourse you had when the thought of procreation had not been on your mind.

"Are you comfortable, my dearest? I should not insist if you find yourself in no disposition for this."

The Colonel watched as you lay in your shared bed with only your nightgown covering your frame. He had personally assisted you when you ordered the nightwear from a seamstress and insisted on having the materials bought himself. He never shied away from paying a little more as long as that meant you would have the finest dress. Even if it was for the night, and so for his eyes alone. He had the best cotton and linen voiles acquired and sent to make them your nightwear.

After what had happened to the first woman he loved, he refused to treat you any less than best.

"You ask this every night, and each time my response remains the same. I wish for nothing more than to hold you in my arms."

"I cannot be certain unless I inquire each time."

The man came over and sat on the edge of the bed, taking your hand and giving it a soft, reverent kiss, before his head lifted and his eyes met yours. He then crawled over you, slowly, giving you time to adjust to a more comfortable position on the bed underneath his broad frame that caged you safely underneath his own.

"Most gentlemen wish for a son, do you, Colonel?"

Your hand traced along his chest to his shoulder, then across his arm, comforting yourself with the firmness of his strength as he found himself above you. His large hands planted themselves on each side of you for support; however, one left its spot to lift your nightgown enough to provide him room to join your bodies.

"Ah, I do not find myself particularly concerned with this, my dearest. If, through love, the heavens give us a son, it would be most promising for him, as men attain more prospects in life. That would not alter the unfaltering love I should hold for the child. Be it a son or a daughter. I only fear that if she is to be born a girl, her life will be more troubling at the hands of men with unscrupulous intentions."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss on your lips, so sweet and so delicate that as you melted into it, he slid inside you with ease. Your hands both held onto his broad back for protection, and his lips curled in the gentlest smile as he began to rock his hips tenderly.

Your kiss lasted long and was profound and loving, his arms, body lowering itself upon yours as he continued to even his body supported both on you and his own arms, and spare you any inelegant weight of his on yourself.

His hips continued to rock into you, his thrusts temperate but deep and angled for conception. You held onto him and exchanged praises and words of love as he returned with the passion of a man still courting, and not one already married. At times, once a woman was secured, the man would stop his restless love for her, but the Colonel never ceased his praises and affections.

He continued the pace, his temperate thrusts becoming a little faster yet still controlled and dominant, but even he could not last forever. As he persisted, the pace not only quickened but he became sloppier until, with a contained grunt that he muffled into your chest, he released himself inside of you.

You gathered him into your embrace, feeling his body shudder as he attempted to regain his breath. To aid him, you kissed his temple and praised him lovingly, which caused the man to resume his thrusts, softer at first, but determined.

Even though he was no longer in his prime youth when he could have perhaps regained his erection quite immediately, he was virile nonetheless, and it took him only a little while for his strengths to return and for his desire to love you to return.

"I confess to you my dearest of the guilty image which provokes me on at this very moment," he gasped sharply, his hips jerking forward as he thrust into you with more and more urgency. "The thought of you bearing my child has plagued my mind ever since the moment you had accepted the proposition, and oh my sweet love, how I ache and pray for you to become expectant with the fruit of our passion."

The man continued a second time, until he again filled your aching womanhood with his release, and he insisted for a third time until his very body trembled from exhaustion and your womanhood had milked him of his seed. He demanded that you do not end the night without at least one release of your own, which he had done onto you with your hips lifted and a pillow slid under your lower back to make certain no drop of his semen had gone to waste.

When at last his body was too weak to give way to another round, and you too felt too full to take another go, you fell asleep together with his body shielding yours and embracing you as if you could disappear from his side had he not done so. So was his love for you, protective and caring, and rooted in his desire to provide you with the security you deserved.

And so your attempts went on, night after night, until Mrs Jennings and Sir Middleton visited and the question returned. This time, you planned the visit and had invited all your close friends. Not just those discourteous two were there, but so were the Dashwoods and the Palmers, all gathered for what the Colonel announced would be a lovely picnic at one of his family's estates.

As everyone turned their attention to you with the uncomfortable question, only Mr Palmer averted his eyes to avoid the awkwardness, the Colonel exchanged a look of complicity with you. His arm wrapped protectively around your frame as he declared to the group, with pride swelling in his chest.

Sinclair Bryant studied the menu like it was a document from the future—dense, intimidating, and filled with words that seemed to shift meanings under pressure. The restaurant was elegant, all soft lighting and polished glassware, the kind of place Natalie would have loved. He pushed the thought aside—along with the monthly reminder of her alimony—and focused instead on the woman across from him. You.

God, you were stunning. Not just in the physical sense (though that, too—obviously), but in the way you looked at him. Like you were already dissecting him with precision, already deciding what parts of him were worth exploring.

You didn’t seem the type to waste time.

Sinclair cleared his throat, eyes still on the menu but brain short-circuiting. “What do you think of the sea bass?” he asked, trying to sound casual. “Apparently it’s flown in daily from the coast, which seems both extravagant and oddly specific. I mean, how far is the coast, really? Do we need a plane? Couldn’t we just get—?”

Something brushed against his leg.

He paused. Looked down. And saw your foot—bare, toes painted a dark red—sliding slowly up his calf under the tablecloth.

His mouth opened slightly. Oh.

You smiled at him sweetly from across the table like you hadn’t just lit his nervous system on fire.

Sinclair blinked, heart skipping a beat. Well. Okay, then. You were bolder than he expected.

Then again, you had hinted at this kind of teasing through your online messages. A well-placed double entendre here, a wicked little emoji there. And now, here you were, foot trailing higher.

God, he was rambling again. In his head, at least.

His hazel eyes—golden-brown in this lighting—flicked up to meet yours. You looked composed. Amused, even. Like you knew exactly what you were doing. And you did.

He cleared his throat, tried to focus. “You, ah... seem very comfortable with public... footsie.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Would you rather I used my hands?”

Jesus Christ.

Sinclair shifted in his seat, acutely aware of how fast his trousers were tightening. This was… unexpected. It had been months. Months since Natalie. Since anyone. And now he was seated in a fancy restaurant, heart pounding, cock twitching, while the beautiful woman he met online was stroking his inner thigh with her foot like she owned him.

“I—uh—well, I mean—no objections,” he murmured, voice deepening into that baritone that always seemed to get more gravelly when he was aroused. “It’s just—new. All of this. You’re…” He laughed softly, eyes dancing between amusement and heat. “You're making it hard to focus on anything other than the architecture under this table.”

You raised an eyebrow, slow and dangerous. “I thought you liked to predict the future, Mr. Stock analyst.”

Sinclair chuckled, a flush creeping up his neck. “I do. I just wasn’t expecting the future to show up wearing a red dress and no shame.”

You took a sip of your wine, lips glistening, foot pressing just a little firmer between his legs.

He exhaled, voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t… been with anyone since Natalie.”

The smile you gave him was soft. Understanding. But then your foot slid just a fraction higher, and you leaned forward, whispering, “Then let me be the one to remind you how good it feels to forget.”

Sinclair groaned under his breath, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

Forget Natalie. Forget the awkwardness. Forget the world.

God help him, he was already yours.

He stared down at the menu again, fidgeting slightly with the edge of his napkin, then glanced up at you with something bordering on genuine embarrassment.

“Would it be terribly unsexy,” he began, voice low, thoughtful, “and possibly very offensive… if I asked if we could finish dinner first?”

Your brows lifted slightly in surprise, a slow grin tugging at your lips.

“I mean—don’t get me wrong,” he added quickly, baritone rushing now, “you’re—this—everything you’re doing is—good God, you’re stunning—but I’m also kind of starving, and they say you shouldn’t make major decisions on an empty stomach, especially ones involving legwork under the table…”

You laughed, soft and warm, sliding your foot gently back to your own side. “Sinclair,” you said, still smiling as you rested your chin in your hand, “you are absolutely adorable.”

He blinked. “I am?”

You nodded, eyes twinkling. “Your ex-wife must be an idiot.”

That made Sinclair pause. He tilted his head, hazel eyes softening, clearly not used to receiving compliments he believed. “You really think that?”

“I know that,” you said, matter-of-fact, reaching for your wine again. “I’m sitting across from the most charming man in this restaurant, and he’s worried about ordering dinner before I seduce him. That’s not just adorable—that’s rare.”

He gave a small, bashful smile, then straightened in his seat like he’d just remembered something very important. He lifted a hand quickly, catching the waiter’s eye.

“Right—yes—dinner. Let’s, uh, secure that first.” He cleared his throat as the waiter approached, then turned toward the poor man like this meal was the most serious transaction he’d conducted all month. “I’ll have the sea bass, please. Grilled, not fried. With the citrus-herb sauce. And a side of… what was it? The—ah—roasted fingerlings?”

“Excellent choice, sir,” the waiter replied, scribbling quickly.

Sinclair looked back at you, face flushed, lips twitching. “I’ll need energy later, I think.”

You raised an eyebrow slowly. “Oh? Planning ahead now, are we?”

His blush deepened, but he didn’t look away this time. “Stock analyst, remember? Predicting spikes is my specialty.”

And with that, you couldn’t help but smile wider. Maybe he was shy. Maybe he was nervous. But underneath it all, Sinclair Bryant was absolutely worth unraveling.

A few hours later, the two of you were at Sinclair’s house. It was exactly what you’d expected: modern, polished, tastefully expensive, with shelves lined with first editions and a meticulously organized record collection that practically screamed, I spend weekends alphabetizing Mahler. The lighting was dim—warm, low—and despite his nerves, Sinclair had poured you both drinks with only a minor spill.

But now he wasn’t pouring anything.

Now, Sinclair Bryant was flat on his back on a navy blue duvet, wrists tied above his head with his own silk tie—charcoal grey, sleek, and very, very effective. His shirt was unbuttoned, slightly rumpled from your earlier efforts, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. His hazel eyes were wide behind his flushed cheeks, hair mussed in a way that probably scandalized his inner librarian, and his cock—long, flushed, leaking—was twitching against his belly.

And you were on your knees between his legs, dragging your tongue along the base of him like you were savoring dessert.

“G-God,” Sinclair gasped, voice already ragged, that lovely baritone breaking deliciously. “This—this is very—ah—thorough.”

You hummed in response, mouth warm around the head of his cock, your tongue teasing the underside just to watch his thighs tense. He was sensitive. Very sensitive. And delightfully responsive.

“Oh—oh, Christ—” he whimpered, hips jerking slightly before he remembered himself. “S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to—just—wasn’t expecting—mmh—God—you’re really—”

You pulled off slowly, dragging your lips down his shaft, then licking a stripe back up. His cock jumped in response, and he let out the softest, most overwhelmed little whine.

“You talk a lot,” you murmured, smirking up at him. “But you taste better than you speak.”

Sinclair made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. “That’s… wildly unfair—though admittedly flattering—ah—Jesus, I—” He twisted his wrists instinctively, forgetting the silk, and tugged against the knot with a helpless moan. “Oh, that’s really tight—”

“Good,” you said, letting your fingers glide up his thighs as your mouth returned to his cock. “You don’t get to touch.”

“Wasn’t—ah! Wasn’t planning on it,” he stammered, breath hitching. “Just… nervous reflex. God, your mouth—it’s—Christ, you’re good at this, aren’t you?”

You hummed around him again, the vibration pulling another gasp from his chest.

Sinclair was falling apart. Not in a dramatic way. No, he was unraveling with all the awkward charm of a man who’d spent too long repressing his needs, who hadn’t realized how badly he wanted to be handled. Controlled. Worshiped. He was flushed and flustered and gasping, trying to form full sentences while your tongue licked him like a man overdue for indulgence.

“You’re gonna make me—God—I didn’t think I’d—so fast—” He squeezed his eyes shut, voice trembling. “I swear I’m not usually—this fast—”

You didn’t stop. You wanted him desperate. Wanted him to come fast and messy and helpless, bound in his own tie with your name falling off his lips like prayer.

“I—please,” he whimpered. “Can I—can I come? Please—please—”

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “Yes.”

And that was all it took. Sinclair came with a cry that was almost startled, hips jerking helplessly as his cock pulsed in your mouth, thick and hot down your throat. He moaned your name, voice cracking, body straining against the silk holding him in place.

You swallowed every drop. And when he finally collapsed back into the pillows, boneless and panting, you licked your lips and sat up slowly, meeting his dazed, hazel-eyed gaze.

He blinked at you, stunned. Then: “I… I think I saw colors.”

You laughed softly. “Just wait ‘til round two, Clair.”

He groaned. “Oh no. There’s a round two?”

You leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Darling,” you whispered against his cheek, “we’re only just getting started.”

It took Sinclair a few minutes to recover. He lay there, wrists still bound, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as the aftershocks of his orgasm slowly began to fade. His skin was flushed, lips parted, the tie tight across his forearms and his hair in charming disarray. You could see the effort it took for him to blink himself back into focus—he looked like a man who’d just been struck by divine revelation and was still filing the paperwork.

But then you swung one leg over his waist, and he froze. You didn’t even touch him—not yet. Just sat above him, straddling his ribs in nothing but that wicked little smile, your bare core glistening just inches from his flushed stomach. His hazel eyes locked onto you, dilated and wild, and when you dragged your fingers between your folds and began to touch yourself—slow and deliberate, right there on his chest—he made the softest, most devastated sound you’d ever heard.

“Oh God,” he whimpered, hips twitching. “You’re—oh my God—you’re doing that on me—”

You hummed softly, your other hand bracing on his shoulder. “Can’t help it. You’re warm. And soft. And tied up so nicely.”

Sinclair tried to form words. “I—I think—this violates some kind of—of physics law—some—some bodily autonomy clause—”

You rubbed your clit with slow, slick circles, watching his cock twitch back to life between his thighs. He was still flushed, his baritone voice already turning ragged again, and the way he looked at you—entranced, overwhelmed, absolutely yours—only spurred you on.

“I want to touch you,” he moaned. “Please—please let me touch you—I can’t—this is—it’s—ghhnn.”

You slid forward just enough to let your slickness brush the base of his shaft, and Sinclair bucked beneath you with a choked cry. He was hard again, already. Barely ten minutes had passed. But seeing you touch yourself like that—using his body like furniture—had snapped something primal in him.

“I want to fuck you,” he gasped, almost scandalized by his own words. “Please, please—I’ll be good—I’ll do anything—just—God, get on top of me, or let me—let me put you on your knees—something, I’ll beg if I have to—”

You leaned forward, mouth close to his, your lips just grazing his jaw. “You are begging, sweetheart.”

He whimpered. Loudly.

“I need you,” he whispered, voice cracked and breaking. “I want to feel you, inside, around me—please let me fuck you, I don’t care how—ride me, ruin me, just—just do it.”

You kissed him, slow and filthy, tasting the desperation on his tongue. Then, finally—mercifully—you reached between your bodies, guiding his cock to your entrance.

Sinclair shuddered beneath you. “Oh no—oh God—yes—yes, please—”

You sank down onto him slowly, and he let out the most exquisite sound—a broken groan that vibrated from the depths of his chest, baritone and helpless, like his soul had just left his body and asked for a second round.

He was already yours. Now you were going to prove it.

You rode him slowly—cruelly slowly—your hips circling in lazy, deliberate motions as you took him inch by inch, savoring every breathless sound that spilled from Sinclair’s lips. He was flushed and twitching beneath you, baritone voice breaking with each moan, wrists still pinned above his head, eyes glassy with want.

“P-Please,” he gasped, arching beneath you, his cock pulsing inside you as you refused to speed up. “God, I can’t—I can’t take it, you’re driving me mad—”

You leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth. “I know,” you murmured sweetly. “That’s the point.”

He let out a whimpering laugh, part frustration, part arousal. “You are… an unholy menace.”

“And you like it.”

“I love it,” he moaned. “But I swear to God, if you don’t let me—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because somehow—Sinclair Bryant, fumbling, flushed, overstimulated Sinclair—managed to get loose.

With a sharp twist and a surge of energy you didn’t think him capable of, he broke the knot holding his wrists, grabbed your hips, and flipped you. One moment you were in control, the next your back was on the mattress, his body caging yours, cock still inside you, eyes wide and desperate and—somehow—very, very focused.

“Wha—” you began, dazed, breathless.

“I warned you,” Sinclair muttered, that baritone rasping now with need. “I begged. You didn’t listen. And now…”

He thrust into you hard.

You cried out, your nails digging into the sheets as he set a punishing rhythm, finally fucking you the way he’d wanted from the beginning. His face hovered just above yours, flushed and wild, eyes locked to yours, his breath hot and ragged against your cheek.

“God, you feel—” he gasped, hips snapping into yours with a newfound force. “So fucking good—Jesus—I didn’t even know I could move like this—”

You tried to speak—tried to tease—but all that came out was a broken moan.

“Not so cocky now, are you?” he breathed, his voice thick with triumph and lust. “You made me beg. Now I get to decide how fast. How deep. How hard.”

He kissed you—sloppy, frantic—and then sat back on his knees, grabbed your thighs, and drove into you harder. You keened, head thrown back, the pleasure cresting sharp and sudden through your core.

“You’re going to come for me like this,” Sinclair panted. “And then I’m going to flip you over, and I’m going to take you from behind. Because—” he moaned, shuddering slightly, “—because Natalie never let me do that. She thought it was—what did she say—‘undignified.’”

His hands slid under your thighs, angling your hips just so, and he groaned at the new depth. “God, she has no idea what she missed.”

You cried out as he leaned forward, mouth brushing your ear, voice gone low and sinful.

“But you,” he whispered, “you’re going to let me. You’re going to beg for it.”

Then—true to his word—he pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach, and hauled your hips up until your knees hit the bed, ass high in the air. You barely had time to brace yourself before he was inside you again, deeper, rougher, his breath catching like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“Oh fuck,” he gasped. “Oh fuck—this—this is the best thing I’ve ever felt—”

You sobbed into the pillow, overwhelmed, clutching the sheets as his hips slapped against you, hard and fast.

“I’m never—never—letting you go,” he groaned. “Not after this. Not after knowing I can have you like this.”

You moaned his name, voice breaking—and that did it.

He grabbed your hair, leaned over your back, and whispered, “Come for me. Now. That’s an order.”

And when you did—clenching tight, pulsing around him—he followed you over the edge, spilling deep inside you with a choked cry that was all teeth and desperation.

Sinclair collapsed over you, panting, dazed, the weight of him grounding you as your breath returned in slow, stunned waves.

After a long moment, his voice—still breathless—murmured near your ear: “I… I think I might be in love with you.”

You laughed softly into the sheets, still trembling. “Well. That’s a hell of a way to say it.”

“Wasn’t quite the plan,” he admitted, nuzzling your neck. “But I’m improvising.”

If there was one thing you were sure about, it was that Sinclair loved to be your good boy. He never specified it in words. His actions implied it. He had a keen eye for details, for facts. Sinclair knew a lot of things, spoke about them, and there was no exception when it came to you. After you got together, you became Sinclair's study target.

The field of research he desired to master best.

It was fascinating to see this man with his fancy workplace as a stock analyst squint with very profound interest at you while you were looking through the tea section at the store, or planning to read a book. He had you memorised faster than you thought, to the point you were adamant Sinclair Bryant knew you better than you knew yourself. He knew your preferred genre of books and music; he knew your favourite food and even the ideal temperature when you felt best.

So when it came to these things, Sinclair was a person who had to be in control, not necessarily because he actively made that choice, but because his overwhelming confidence and intelligence would put him in a leading spot. The fact that Sinclair had these positions in his social life and his career did not change who he really was. At heart, this man was a sweet Golden Retriever who would do anything to be in your company when he got some free time.

Extra points if food was involved.

Extra points if you allowed him to speak while giving him attention.

That was his dominant trait. Sinclair Bryant craved speaking. He wanted others to hear; he loved sharing his knowledge with everyone willing to listen, and it was his favourite activity to tell you all about various things. You were the one he always loved to talk to.

Something else that was peculiar about Sinclair was that his authority came naturally only outside of the comfort of your home, because when you two were alone indoors, he was the least dominant man you knew.

One kiss was enough to silence him when he went on a tangent. One string of praises whispered against his lips, and he was willing to give you anything you wanted.

You knew those weak spots of his better than anyone and enjoyed playing around with them whenever given the chance.

Lazy weekend together.

Sinclair had a very different understanding of the word lazy. To you, that meant not getting out of bed and accepting only his company. He, on the other hand, had already sent off some invitations to friends and family the day before.

Oh, Sinclair.

That was the least lazy, lazy day you've experienced in a while. You were up and about all day to try to entertain Sinclair and the guests, although in all fairness, Sinclair was doing most of the job by himself. But even so, it was exhausting, far too exhausting, and when the guests finally made their way home, you were already craving the comfort of your pillow and maybe a hot shower.

Sinclair, on the other hand, was as energetic as ever. Just like the puppy he was, ready for his evening walk. He came up behind you, arms wrapped around your waist as he pulled you back into his chest, head resting on top of yours. The man's chin was resting comfortably atop your hair, huffing.

"They were lovely, weren't they?"

"Lovely. Yes." You replied, rubbing your cheek sleepily. "Not what I imagined today'd be like, but you look like you had a great time."

Sinclair let go of your body softly, spinning you around to face him, his hands resting on your hips, his curious eyes studying you. It was that sort of look he gave you when he found something in your behaviour that he had not seen before, or rather, when he sensed you were hiding something from him. During such times, Sinclair's famous verbosity would cease abruptly, and he would be focused solely on understanding what was different about you in that moment.

"Sinclair?"

The man's eyes switched their target from your own eyes to your lips, swallowing back a knot that formed in his throat. As you looked at him closely, you felt like his expression was similar to a faint trace of guilt mixed among the other untraceable emotions he withheld.

"Sinclair?"

"I overdid it, I think. You don't seem happy. You look more tired than yesterday. Today was for you to relax and have fun. Did you have fun?"

Sinclair sounded almost afraid to ask that, his hands reaching to take yours, squeezing them lightly and avoiding your gaze. You couldn't resist him; he was so self-aware and visibly upset when he realised he did something you didn't like, that you quickly pulled him into a hug, kissing his cheek. Sinclair had one expectation of you, and that was no lies. He preferred the truth.

If you disliked something or were annoyed with him, he would have loved it if you told him directly instead of hiding it. Sinclair could tell when you hid something, even if it was something minor, so doing it would always make him anxious that there was more you were keeping from him or that you had a good reason for doing it. He couldn't understand why you wouldn't just tell him if you didn't like something.

It was common sense, right? If you told him about it, then he would know not to repeat it. Why would you ever worry that he got upset?

"Sinclair, I-"

You remembered this request of his for honesty and sighed.

"Oh, love, fine. The truth is, when I said I wanted a lazy weekend, love, I meant more like just the two of us. I pictured us not getting out of bed. Maybe only to get snacks when we run out. When other people are around, it stops being 'lazy', that's it."

"I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry, I promise I'll know and be a good boy next time. It won't happen again."

Sinclair whined, pathetically, as you held him down. Your hand was on his tummy, keeping him pressed into the mattress with as much force as you could muster while using your other hand and mouth to make a mess out of him. Your mouth bobbed back and forth, copious amounts of saliva dripping down his erection as he tried to push his hips up into your mouth, squirming like a madman.

"Please, I'll never do it again, ah, darling!"

You loved to see him squirm that way, so submissive and willing to do anything to make you happy. Your mouth released his cock, spitting down on it, stroking him with your hand as you stared up at him. He was stiff and throbbing against your palms, thrusting upwards into it.

"You'll make a mess first, then you'll be a good boy for me and apologise properly. I need to see actions, not just words, you know that, Sinclair."

The mention of his name in that tone of control made him whine and squirm, struggling to keep himself contained. You made his life even more challenging by going down on him again. The tip of your tongue teased around the head of his cock, which made your already sensitive man become a squirming mess.

He was a good boy, so much so that he knew hands were off-limits so instead of trying to grab your hair to lead the pace as he felt an urge to do, he instead grabbed the sheets and pulled at them with one arm, the other drapped over his face to muffle his whines and to bite himself to try lengthen how long he could last.

"Hands off your face, Sinclair."

You warned, and he obeyed quickly, his other hand also clutching at the sheets, his hips jerking up with more eagerness, despite your best efforts to hold him still. He was a sight, and you loved it. Your mouth worked on him until you sensed his impending orgasm, which was not hard to tell apart because his already pathetic whines turned needier and quicker and more desperate.

"Good boy, making such a mess of yourself, tut-tut. Who is going to clean this up?"

You took your mouth off him, stroking his length through his begging and pleading until the hot strings of his cum stained not your throat as it would typically happen, but his own belly. The liquid dripped down his skin, slowly, while his chest rose and fell with rapid, uneven motions as he did his best to catch his breath.

You ignored the mess and cralwed up, letting his saliva-coated cock rest as it was his turn to apologise for having been a bad boy.

"Sinclair?"

Sinclair was barely conscious of what was going on, his mind a fluffy haze after the orgasm you gave him, but the mention of his name did wonders. He opened his eyes and stared up at you with an innocent look, nodding.

"You know you have to be a good boy, do something for me. Can you do that, darling?"

He nodded again, rapidly. Sinclair tried to lift himself up on his elbows to begin serving you, but you stopped him. This day was supposed to be a slothful day, but it turned out to be the opposite of it, so much so that you were not going to be lazy about this next one.

Sinclair watched you curiously, his breath more even now as you crawled closer and closer, straddling him. He saw it coming, swallowed hard with his eyes wide with wonder and enthusiasm. This was his punishment for misbehaving? The thing he had to serve you with? He would do that anytime.

You straddled Sinclair's face, cunt against his mouth, and your hand in his hair. You grabbed a handful of it, not hard but just enough to keep him steady as you began to grind against his tongue, his nose nudging into your clit with each motion.

Sinclair's hands hooked around your thighs, encouraging you to put more weight down on his face because he felt that you were going easy on him. He was a good boy; it was his task to eat you out, and he would do just that. You did not have to spare him.

He wanted to do this for you.

You were hesitant to do so, but Sinclair was adamant since he was squishing your thighs demandingly, so you gave in, letting him be buried between your thighs. Your hand continued lingering in his hair, firm but not painful. Your slick dripped against Sinclair's tongue, who was lapping eagerly at everything he could reach, making soft, pleased sounds that reverberated against your slit.

"That's a good boy, you love making me happy. You love doing all I ask you, hm? Think you can make me cum so I forgive you for being naughty today?"

Sinclair didn't waste a breath - he couldn't or else he would've suffocated eating you out. He continued what he was doing, and you guided him to follow a pace that made you helpless, moving against his mouth and using it to push yourself towards an orgasm.

That orgasm was not short of coming, and Sinclair felt it right against his mouth, his eyes wide from the astonishment he sensed. You were so perfect above him, your cunt clenching around his tongue, your hips jerking forward to try making the pleasure last a moment longer, and the way you intentionally brushed your clit against his nose.

He melted.

When you were at last off his face, you lay down by his side, resting for a bit. He rolled on his side to watch you, licking his lips and waiting for you to tell him if he did well and, most importantly, if you forgave him for misunderstanding what a lazy day was.

You leaned over, pecked his lips, and pulled him in an embrace, resting your head atop his.

A – Aftercare

He means well. He really does. Sinclair assumes a glass of water and a quiz about your favorite philosopher count as aftercare. But if you look the slightest bit vulnerable, he panics, clutches you, and wraps his long limbs around you like a blanket. “Are you cold? Do you want tea? I’ll go get—no, stay, I mean—I’ll stay. Unless you want me to leave. Wait, are you crying or just glowing? I can’t tell.” He fumbles, but he stays.

B – Body Part (Favorite)

Yours? Your hands. The way they move when you speak, the way they grip his hair when he’s between your thighs. He stares at them like they’re a stock ticker. “You have beautifully assertive fingers,” he says, dead serious. His? His mouth. Not for vanity, but because he talks with it. Moans with it. Learns with it. And when he’s quiet for once… it means you’ve absolutely broken him.

C – Cum

Inside. Always. Not because he’s dominant, but because the idea of you carrying something of his short-circuits his brain. He groans, holds you tightly, and says, “I—I wasn’t supposed to—but it’s you, I couldn’t—God, I hope you’re not mad—” He gets very flustered about it. And you love that.

D – Dirty Talk

He tries. Starts off academic: “Your body responds with Pavlovian precision when I—oh! There, again.” But when he’s too turned on, it devolves into breathy praise and honest surprise. “Jesus Christ—how do you even—where did you learn—oh my God.” When you tell him to shut up, he only gets louder.

E – Experience

Technically? Plenty. Emotionally? Limited. He’s slept with Natalie, socialites and interns, but only ever truly felt anything when it’s you. He stammers, flushes, asks mid-thrust if you’re comfortable, and kisses you like you’re a new idea he doesn’t quite understand yet.

F – Favorite Position

Spooning. Not because it’s kinky—but because it’s safe. He likes holding you close, nuzzling your neck, murmuring sweet nonsense as he rocks into you. Also: face-sitting. It makes him dizzy, overwhelmed, and delighted. “Yes. Yes, crush me.”

G – Groaning

Unrestrained. No decorum. He moans like a man who’s been shown color for the first time. Gasps when you touch him, sobs when he finishes, whines when you pull away. “That was—statistically improbable. And so unfair.”

H – Hair

Chest? Light. Pubes? Trimmed, but slightly chaotic. He once tried waxing and screamed.

“You what? You waxed where?!”

“I wanted to impress you!”

I – Intimacy

He overthinks it. Studies your eyelashes mid-kiss, overanalyzes your breath patterns. But when you finally kiss him like you mean it—when he realizes you want him—he melts. Completely and utterly.

“Don’t move. Just—stay. I… I like this.”

J – Jacking Off

Constant. Discreet. Embarrassing. He does it while reading—not porn, novels. Sometimes financial newspapers. “I don’t know what happened—I was reading about mergers and acquisitions and thinking of you and now I’ve ruined my bathrobe.”

K – Kinks

- Praise kink (give it and he glows)

- Being teased (you on top, riding him slowly while he begs)

- Soft domination (“Do you want to be used like a good boy?” “YES. YES, MA’AM.”)

- Begging (from either of you, really)

- Overstimulation (“Oh my God, I came already—wait, you’re not done—ohh God—”)

L – Location

- He’s awkward in public but very into novelty.

- Against the bookshelf (he reorganizes after)

- Office desk (post-market close)

- In a bubble bath with a book open beside him, getting steadily soggier “I didn’t expect this. Not during The Wealth of Nations, at least.”

M – Marking

Blushes when you do it. Goes wild for it.

“Is that a bite mark?”

“Yes.”